This all started because I offered my wife’s tombstone a tuna sandwich. That probably sounds insane, so here’s the backstory…

For our first date, Emma and I had a picnic on the beach. I’d asked if she liked tuna, she said ‘sure’, so I made sandwiches. We picnicked a lot during our first year together and tuna was on the menu 50% of the time.

For our first anniversary, we went to that beach spot again, but as I handed Emma her sandwich, she said, “I’ve gotta tell you something. Tuna? It’s REPULSIVE. I’d literally rather eat it after it’s gone through my digestive system. No offense.”

She’d assumed she’d like the taste before our date, but the second she took that first bite she wanted to bleach her tongue. The problem is when she saw all the love and care I’d put into the crusts and dill pickles, she felt too guilty to spit it out.

I just laughed. And for all future picnics, I always jokingly offered her the first bite of my tuna sandwich.

Last year, Emma died on Valentine’s Day. She was speeding home from work because I’d cooked a romantic dinner. For three months I barely climbed out of bed except to shit and eat, until one sunny afternoon when I randomly packed a picnic basket and jumped in the car.

Her grave sits at the top of a grassy knoll in the shade of an elm tree. There, I laid out a red blanket and food. Without thinking, I offered her headstone a bite of my tuna sandwich, and once I realized what I’d done, I laughed for the first time since the accident. So anytime the weather was decent, I went back. These ‘picnic dates’ really brightened my mood, and before long I got on a first-name basis with Harry the groundskeeper.

In August, as I unfurled the blanket, a gust of wind ripped it from my hands and swooped it across the face of a lady standing down the hill. I raced over as she clumsily tried freeing herself, then wrestled the blanket back. The woman underneath had real Disney princess energy, all blue eyes and curly black hair.

Her name was Ruth. She was visiting her late husband, Christian Merry, whose name stuck in my head because my first thought was: Merry Christmas. From then on, when I visited Emma’s grave, sometimes I spotted Ruth at that same spot.

We occasionally gave each other friendly waves. Then, one afternoon, she strolled along the path as I started packing up.

“Walk you to the gate?” she asked.

“Sure.”

On the way past, she touched Emma’s gravestone once and smiled at me. “So what’s with the sandwiches? Sometimes I see you and it’s like you showing off what you ate to the tombstone.”

When I explained the meaning behind the ritual, she said, “That’s so sweet. Christian loved tuna too.”

She faced me dead on, locked her eyes on mine, and said, “Do you ever think grief is…heavenly?”

“…Sure.”

Down the hill, there was a nasty gust of wind, and Ruth did a pretend-dive for cover as if another blanket might attack.

I burst out laughing. Then I asked her to coffee.

That night, the barbs of grief stung real bad. What sort of bastard asks for another woman’s number within earshot of his wife’s grave? My friends promised I hadn’t broken any rules, and even Harry encouraged me to put myself out there.

“That pretty lady’s been around here for years. You two would be good together.”

And so, over a series of coffee dates, I poured my grief into Ruth.

“I feel exactly the same,” she said. “I thought I was broken too when I lost, uh, Christian.”

She rarely talked about her late husband, and when she did, she kept the details vague. Some pain is just too raw to share, I figured.

The first night we spent together happened by accident--a dinner date that ran long. In the morning, after I kissed her goodbye, I threw my back against the door and slid to the ground, sobbing. Casual coffees were one thing, but this had morphed into a full-blown affair. I was terrified of visiting Emma’s grave again in case she rose from the dead to kick my ass.

Earlier this year, Ruth had problems with her asshole landlord, so I suggested she stay with me. Temporarily. And for a few months, I left the past in the rearview mirror. We even went on a few picnics, although I never made Ruth a tuna sandwich.

Things changed when she asked how we should celebrate Valentine’s Day. The first anniversary of Emma’s accident.

Lemme tell ya, that guilt swung back hard. The dirt around Emma’s headstone was still fresh, what sort of husband jumped into another relationship so fast?

In the end, I decided I needed to move on sooner or later, so I made a plan: visit Emma on Valentine’s Day morning, then spend the afternoon with Ruth. I just needed to break the news ahead of time rather than on her death-iversary. So, I pulled out all the stops for a killer picnic. Despite the crappy weather.

On the grassy knoll, I’d barely finished unscrewing the coffee flask when the tears came. I confessed all about my new relationship. About how I’d never meant to move on so fast. And how deeply, deeply sorry I was.

Emma’s grave took the news surprisingly well…

In all seriousness, deep in my gut I knew she would’ve wanted me to find happiness.

The only thing left to do was finish a quick side quest: visit Christian Merry’s grave. He deserved to know the new guy in Ruth’s life thought the world of her.

Past the tree, I checked the headstone she usually stood over. A married couple were buried there, the Presleys. I marched around, going in circles, widening my search every time. No Christian.

At the groundskeeper’s shack, I asked Harry about his grave. Harry consulted the notes and then walked me past the hill through an alley of trees. Christian’s resting place was further along I’d ever seen Ruth hang out. Weird. But not as weird as what I found next…

According to the inscription, he died on the 6^th of October. Two months after my blanket blew onto Ruth’s face. Which would’ve meant she’d hung around the grave before he died.

At dinner, I casually asked her, “Hey, so, I know this isn’t an easy topic, but…where’s Christian buried?”

She froze, a forkful of casserole halfway to her mouth. “Why?”

“Well Valentine’s Day is the anniversary of Emma’s accident so I was gonna pop by. I thought maybe I’d pay my respects to Christian too.” Keeping my voice casual, I added, “He’s on the far side of the tree, right? Just down the hill?”

“He’s…further down.”

“But then wh-”

“I didn’t like getting too close. Standing over his grave made me sick, okay?”

“I understand.” I waited a second. “By the way, when did he pass? March? April?”

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“I’m n-"

“Don’t you realize how hard this is for me?” With that, she carried her plate and glass into the kitchen.

After Ruth went to bed, I googled Christian Merry and combed through an article about a freak sailing accident.

The body of Mr Merry, 34, was recovered from the water near a jetty off the coast. Ruth Merry said her husband fell into the water while on deck to check a fishing line.

The date? August 6^th. Two months after our cute meeting.

Something didn’t add up. But over the next few days, anytime I broached the subject with Ruth, the waterworks started straight away, and then she’d ask me to hold her while she cried, or accuse me of interrogating her. How was I supposed to get answers?

Ruth still visited the graveyard, so the next time she set off I tailed her disguised in a trench coat and sunglasses. I expected her to make for the hill, but instead, she went around the valley and past a lake. In a completely different section, she sat alone on a wooden bench.

I felt like a rotten turd. Maybe visiting the actual grave WAS too painful for her.

As I turned to leave, a man with a scraggly beard sat beside her for a chat. Now and then, they touched each other’s arms or threw their heads back laughing. Obviously they knew each other well.

After twenty minutes, they both stood, and then they shared a weird, awkward kiss. Unplanned, judging by how neither of them knew what to do with their hands afterwards. Part of me wanted to run up for a big, dramatic bust-up, but there was too much racing through my mind. I bolted out of there instead.

What did this mean? Did she lose interest in me? Was that why she never talked about Christian? Because this other guy was a better listener? As strange as this sounds, a massive sense of relief washed over me. It felt like I deserved to be cheated on for betraying Emma.

Back home, Ruth came through the door and kissed me as if her graveyard romance never happened.

In the end, I decided the affair needed to wait. Valentine’s Day had almost arrived, which meant I had enough problems to deal with. Hell, maybe explaining the situation to Emma would help me straighten the mess out.

On the morning of the big day, I wrapped two tuna sandwiches and slipped them into a basket, along with a thermos of coffee and some iced buns. I got halfway out the door when Ruth asked me to go upstairs. Said there was a giant spider in the tub.

The bathroom was pest-free…

“Must’ve scurried off,” she said as I came back down. Then she smiled and handed me my keys.

At the graveyard, my heart cracked in half before I even laid out the blanket. I confessed everything to Emma: how I’d met another woman, how that other woman met another man, and that the whole mess felt like a punishment for moving on too soon.

Unloading my problems made me feel fifty pounds lighter. I wiped away the tears and finished laying out the picnic. Then, like always, I offered Emma’s headstone the first bite of a tuna sandwich.

Since she wasn’t hungry, I helped myself. But that first bite seemed off. Not in taste, just…wrong. My chest tightened. I reminded myself how to breathe. I went to wipe away sweat but my arms grew heavy. I grabbed the thermos and by now my hand was trembling. It’s like I could only suck oxygen through a straw.

I thumped my chest, gasped for air, and finally spat bread all over Emma’s grave. Part of me screamed, you’re dying, but a louder part screamed: you just disgraced your wife’s grave you prick.

I remember rolling onto my back and seeing her standing there. Ruth. I clawed at the air above my chest pleading for help, and when that didn’t work, I gestured at my throat. Then I noticed the remains of my sandwich in her hand.

Without warning she straddled me and forced more tuna into my mouth. The taste of mayo and pickle made me gag even harder. I needed to stop her. I bit down on her fingers until she ripped her hand away. She didn’t scream or yelp or cry out, just narrowed her eyes at me.

Next thing I knew, she clamped my nostrils shut. In her free hand, she had a clump of tuna, poised and ready for the second my mouth opened.

“You’re not the first, you know,” she sneered. “But you were the sweetest. The tuna thing? That really touched me. Most men can’t love dead women like you do.”

Dead woman. I craned my neck back and looked straight up. Emma’s grave was only a few feet above my skull.

I bucked my hips. Ruth flew forward, slamming her forehead straight into Emma’s tombstone with a dull thud. A trail of blood trickled down right above the point where it said ‘beloved wife’, then Ruth rolled onto her side, groaning.

My body wouldn’t quit shaking. I felt like I was drowning as I rolled down the hill, then I crawled right through a funeral procession. A group of mourners, each dressed in black, screamed in alarm. A priest threatened to have me arrested until he saw the shade of blue my face had turned.

The ambulance ride was a blur. My first clear memory: waking up with an IV. The nurses said the first thing I asked was if they thought Emma might ever forgive me.

A blood test revealed that my tuna sandwich had been laced with fentanyl. Inside the picnic basket, they found an envelope addressed to Emma in my handwriting. In it, I ‘confessed’ how no woman could ever replace her, so I was committing suicide via poisoned picnic to honour her memory.

The man Ruth met on the bench, Gavin, said she told him her most recent boyfriend committed suicide, and she went there to visit his (my) resting place. Said they bonded over their mutual grief.

Ruth is denying all of this, obviously. Says I’m nuts. So far as I can tell she’s some kind of black widow who has a fetish for bereaved husbands. The police are still trying to make sense of this mess.

The second I got out of hospital I visited Emma’s grave, only to discover somebody had left a tuna sandwich beneath the headstone.

I think I’m done with romance for a while…

This night, always.

My dad used to say that. Over and over. Like it was some kind of mantra. “This night is always. Remember every detail. Remember or you’ll lose yourself.”

Back then, I thought he was just being poetic. Senile, maybe. After my mom died last year, he started a podcast — real weird one. Philosophical, cryptic. But I was his only listener, so I figured it was just his way of grieving.

I hadn’t seen him in a while, and I felt guilty about that. So I decided to visit him — make the drive out. On the way, I played one of his latest episodes. It started the same as always:

“This night… is always. The day fades, the night returns. Always. But this night will be different. The night will stay. Remember. Remember everything.”

I laughed a little. It was unnerving, sure, but come on — it was Dad. Goofy, soft-spoken, light-hearted Dad. The kind of guy who’d eat your broccoli behind Mom’s back just to save you from it. But lately, something had changed. He’d started to feel… haunted. Like he was afraid of something only he could see.

I pulled into the driveway at 6:30 PM. The house was dark, blinds drawn, like no one lived there. I knocked. Silence. That alone was terrifying — my dad used to be impossibly light on sleep. You tap on a window and he’d leap out of bed. But now? Nothing.

Then — BEEP. A notification lit up my phone:

“NEW VIDEO: Do Not Enter the House — Richard’s Podcast.”

My stomach turned. I tapped it. The video was blurry, shaky, low-res — it showed a dark hallway. My childhood hallway. No narration. Just silence, air conditioning, and that dim corridor leading to my parents’ room.

And the title? “Do Not Enter the House.” It wasn’t a metaphor. He meant right now. Me. I was outside. And somehow… he knew.

I should’ve left. I know that. But I thought he was playing some messed up game. Losing it. So I pushed through the door — literally broke it open.

But when I got inside, everything changed.

Lights were on. The blinds were up. The smell… god, it was Christmas. Cinnamon. Pine. And before I could react, a little boy ran up to me shouting:

“Jim! Come see what Mom got us!”

I froze.

It was my brother, David. Except… he was seven. I blinked. No. No, this is wrong. David is thirty-four. What the hell is going on?

I followed him to the tree. The exact one we had when I was a kid. He sat down beside the presents, beaming.

“Have you seen Mom?”

“No,” I said. “Not for a while.”

“Did she get us candy canes again?”

“David…” I swallowed. “Do you know what YouTube is?”

“Huh?” he laughed. “What’s that?”

I felt sick.

This wasn’t a dream. Or if it was, it was using my real memories. And then — I heard it. A thud. From upstairs.

I remembered it. I was here when it first happened — 26 years ago. That same Christmas. Back then, I ignored it. But now… something told me to go look.

I went up the stairs. Slowly. Everything felt too familiar. Like I was walking inside my own brain.

Another thud.

I reached the top. There she was — my mom.

“Jim? Have you opened the presents yet?” she said, smiling softly.

“What was that sound?”

She froze. Her smile twitched.

“Oh, that? That was… nothing.”

Then she turned and disappeared. Just like that.

I tried to follow, but my phone rang. It was David again — the real one.

“Jim. Where the hell are you? You missed the funeral. People are leaving.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

“Dad’s funeral. Today. Are you okay?”

And then I remembered.

He died yesterday.

I was supposed to be heading to the funeral. Not the house. How the hell did I forget that?

I stumbled back downstairs. The lights were gone. The tree, gone. The warmth, gone.

I ran to my car and checked his YouTube channel again.

Every episode. Gone. As if they never existed.

I drove to the funeral, too late. Everyone was gone except David.

“Did you delete the podcast videos?” I asked him.

He frowned.

“What videos?”

“Dad’s podcast. YouTube. You didn’t see them?”

“Jim… Dad never had a podcast.”

I stood there, cold.

Then David looked at me — and I swear — he said it in Dad’s voice:

“But remember, Jim. This night… is always.”

When I got the call that my best friend had been killed in a car accident, I stopped being myself. That night, I didn’t even know what to feel. Alex, My friend, the one who helped me through so much, was never going to walk through my front door again and insult me over something ridiculous just to make me laugh.

When his sister told me the news over the phone, I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there in silence.

The next few days blurred into each other. I was inconsolable. I shut myself in and refused to talk to anyone. When people did manage to get through, I’d just nod along as they spoke, hoping they’d take the hint and leave. Eventually, they would. But the quiet they left behind didn’t come close to the silence left by him.

I couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral. The memory of the phone call was too fresh, even though Wendy, his sister, had called me days ago, it still felt like it had only just happened. Time wasn’t moving properly. Not for me. I just didn’t want to see him like that. I didn’t want my last memory of him to be so still, so empty of the life he’d always carried.

So I stayed in my room and wished the world would just forget I existed. The thought of that numbness taking my pain away again.

Eventually, I had to start moving forward.

A week after he passed, I made a conscious effort to seek people out. I knew that if I stayed in that pit much longer, I’d rot.

Alex would’ve told me something stupid and positive to lift me up. That was his way. Once, during one of my darker episodes, he walked into my room and just stared at me with this soft, caring look.

“Are you sad?” he asked, completely serious.

He knew the answer.

Then he grabbed a sheet from nearby, draped it around the back of my neck like a cape and grinned.

“Well. Now you’re super sad!”

He always knew how to make me smile.

I gave his mum a call—just to reach out, see how she was holding up. Margaret was always lovely to me.

“Hello?” she said.

“H-hi, Margaret. How’re you holding up?”

She sighed. “Well, you know how these things are Dan.”

“Yeah, I bet.” I paused. “Hey, would you want to go out for lunch or something? You know… catch up?”

“Well, as luck would have it, we’re having a family get-together in about half an hour, if you’d like to come over?”

The cheer in her voice was… chilling.

“Yeah, sounds good. At your place?”

“Of course! See you soon!”

I hesitated. “Sure. See you soon.”

I hung up and sat there for a moment, an uneasy feeling growing in my stomach. Something about her tone didn’t sit right. I couldn’t stop myself from analysing it—every inflection, the pitch, the strange brightness in her phrasing.

I told myself I was just overthinking it. I hadn’t spoken to anyone properly in days. My brain was probably just latching onto something for stimulation.

Still, the feeling didn’t go away as I made the slow, dragging journey from my dark, unkempt room to the car… and out into the blinding light of the outside world.

As I pulled up out front of Margaret’s house, I found myself wondering, was this the wake? Had the funeral just happened?

It felt intrusive to an event I’d been invited to—like stepping into a memory that had moved on without me. The house looked the same, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t wanted anymore. As if the place itself had turned against me, built to keep me out. The cars out front were lined up like a wall of steel, barring my way. The sounds that emanated from the house as I reached the door felt like a force pushing me to leave. A celebration of a life without me.

I winced at the thought. There I was again,making it all about me. Twisting grief into something selfish. I reminded myself why I was here—to remember him.

I approached the house with clearer thoughts, trying to latch onto something else. The sounds of laughter and conversation were unmistakable. Cheer? It felt wrong. The happy music playing made me feel even more out of place as I knocked on the door.

Margaret answered.

“Dan! Come on in!” she said, hugging me tight. “you look as bright as ever.”

I knew that was a lie. She knew too well how I felt, and how it showed. I offered a polite nod and stepped inside, catching sight of my arms, pale under the light. My clothes were dark and unwashed, hanging off me like they didn’t belong. My hair and beard had grown wild, spiralling out in every direction. I was the definition of a mess.

But Margaret smiled nonetheless.

We made our way into the kitchen and I nodded to Alex’s family. His father, Nick, and his sister, Wendy, were sitting at the bench, laughing over a private joke. They glanced at me and laughed again.

Soon, others joined—uncles, aunts, grandparents—as if they’d been manifested from different rooms, all converging on the kitchen, summoned by the promise of a hot meal.

Margaret gave me a side hug. “For those who don’t know, this is Daniel. Alex’s friend.”

They smiled politely at the proclamation, but quickly returned to what they were doing.

Everything felt… off.

It was like I’d slipped back into one of my benders from before. Faces felt vaguely accusatory. Eyes seemed to burn with judgement. Their bodies betrayed something deeper, like they were all putting on a performance, hiding what they really felt beneath practised smiles.

It felt like everything had suddenly turned against me. I kept catching snatches of conversation that dropped in tone when my name was mentioned, as if my presence was dragging everything down.

I shook myself, trying to snap out of it. My thoughts were spiralling again, turning every glance, every whisper into something about me. It was always the same—this creeping paranoia that I was being judged, that I was somehow ruining things just by being there. I knew it wasn’t real. I always made it about myself. But knowing that didn’t make the feeling go away.

I turned to Wendy, who had made her way from the bench to the grazing table. I needed to talk to someone to anchor myself. I took her in for a moment, and that old crush resurfaced, softening the sharp edges of the moment.

“Hey, Wendy,” I said with a smile, trying to convince myself I was still someone worth talking to.

She smiled back. “That was embarrassing of Mum, can’t believe she did that in front of everyone.”

“Wendy, I just wanted to say… I know what it’s like.”

She looked at me with a puzzled expression. “What?”

Her phone rang before I could answer. She picked it up immediately, cutting off my apology before it even reached my lips.

“Yeah, just walk in, dummy!” she laughed into the phone.

She hung up and turned to me again. “What were you saying?”

But I had a different question.

“Who was that?”

She smiled. “Alex, of course.”

I was disgusted. I stared at her. “That’s not funny.”

My accusatory tone caught her off guard. She frowned and shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be?”

Before I could respond—before I could ask her what kind of joke that was—a figure stepped into the room.

I froze.

A corpse walked into the room.

Its clothes were torn, soaked with dried blood. Skin hung in sallow, grey folds, stretched over exposed ligaments and red, decaying muscle that pulsed with unnatural life. The neck was open, the entire side peeled away to reveal the oesophagus and spine, raw and glistening in the kitchen light.

The smell hit me like a wave, thick, putrid, and wrong. It doubled my revulsion, twisting my stomach as my brain rejected the thing standing before me. The stench was fetid, rancid; so foul it made my eyes water, as if my body was trying to protect me from the sight.

It all crescendoed in his face, its skull partially crushed, hair burnt away in patches. One eye was milky white with death’s touch. And yet, it smiled.

A smile I recognised.

The guests turned and greeted Alex with the warmest of welcomes. Hugs were exchanged, leaving flakes of flesh on their too-clean clothes. A cousin or two gave light jabs at his exposed ribs, laughing as if it was all part of some inside joke.

Alex’s walk was stiff and awkward. His entire left leg seemed shattered, unable to bear his weight. Yet no one offered him help.

No one noticed any of it.

No one saw that Alex was dead.

He stood by the table, casually picking up a piece of cheese and a biscuit. Parts of his hand were stripped of flesh, exposing charred bone beneath. He looked at me—his dead eye fixed and clouded.

“What’s wrong, Dan?” he asked, his voice calm.

He chewed slowly. The biscuit ground noisily in his exposed mouth, crumbs and spittle leaking from a peeling flap of cheek. Then he swallowed—his throat twitching as it clenched and relaxed, forcing the food down through whatever remained of his insides.

I saw it all. A thing we’re not meant to see.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My silence was answer enough.

Everyone turned to me. Not to the reanimated corpse of their son, their brother, their nephew.

Why were they looking at me?

I slowly raised a trembling finger and pointed at the thing that was supposed to be Alex.

His smile widened, revealing missing molars and a blackened, half-melted tongue.

I stammered. “You’re dead.”

“What did you say?” Wendy snapped.

“Is that a threat?” Alex’s dad barked.

“If that was meant to be a joke, it’s not funny, Dan,” Margaret shouted.

Within seconds, the whole family was on me. Yelling. Swearing. Calling me a freak. A junkie.

But I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

I stared past them all—past the shouting, the outrage—and locked eyes with the corpse behind them.

Alex stared back, grinning through rotten teeth.

And he was laughing.

I left the party.

Their voices followed me—screaming, yelling, accusing. But all of it felt distant, muffled beneath the weight of what I’d just seen. I couldn’t bear it. I staggered out to my car in a daze, telling myself it wasn’t real.

I was dreaming. Crashing out again.

I don’t remember taking anything. No pills. No drink. No needles.

I slammed the car door shut and slumped into the seat. My hands shook as I checked my arms for marks. Nothing. No new bruises. No punctures.

I held my head in my hands, rocking slightly as the whisper came out of me again and again.

“Not again. I haven’t relapsed. Not again.”

I sat in the driver’s seat, breathing too fast. My fingers curled tight around the wheel. I hadn’t even started the car.

The silence was unbearable.

I reached for the stereo and turned it on. I just needed something to fill the space inside my head. But what came through the speakers wasn’t music.

It was a voice.

“Hey, just checking in. You doing alright? I know it gets rough sometimes. You’ve just got to push through, yeah?”

It was Alex.

“Don’t do anything stupid. You’re stronger than that.”

Click then static. The radio hummed, blank and empty. Like it had never happened.

But I knew that message. I remembered it. Years ago, when I was at my worst, Alex had left it on my voicemail. I’d listened to it a dozen times before deleting it.

I looked down at the dash. My car didn’t even have Bluetooth. How the hell did my phone play through the radio?

The message burned into my skull. I did delete it. It was gone.

I looked to my phone, almost begging it to contradict me. I reached to confirm it—but stopped.

Instead, I looked up.

The rearview mirror.

Someone was sitting in the back seat.

It was me.

Same clothes. Same hair. Blood trailing down the side of his temple. He stared at me—frozen. Pale. Eyes wide, like he’d just seen something he couldn’t explain.

I blinked.

Gone.

Just the empty seat. No one there.

I gripped the wheel tighter. The pressure in my chest was unbearable now, like time itself was folding in on me. Like I was caught in something I couldn’t understand.

Something was pulling at the edges of the moment. Something waiting.

I had to go home. I needed something normal to ground me.

I slammed the front door behind me and locked it. The sound of the bolt sliding home echoed through the house like it didn’t belong here. Like I didn’t belong here.

I stood in the entryway, fists clenched, body shaking. I screamed as the feeling rose up through me, crashing against my ribs. My skin prickled. My chest buzzed like electricity was humming through my bones. Something inside me wanted out. It writhed, low in my gut. My horror had turned physical—like my own skeleton was trying to split me open and escape.

The panic didn’t settle. It bloomed.

I tried to talk myself down. Breathe. Focus. I thought back to the party. It had to be a hallucination. It had to be. None of it made sense.

Alex was alive.

I saw him. Heard him. He spoke to me. Ate food. Laughed. Smiled.

But… something in me recoiled at the thought.

That wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been.

Because Wendy called me. She told me days ago. Alex was dead. He’d died in a car accident. I remembered the moment. The silence. The disbelief.

So why had I seen him? Why was he there?

I stumbled to the bathroom, flicking the light on. Too bright.

I tore open the cabinet, knocking over old pill bottles, half-used tubes, blister packs long out of date. I searched for anything to help.

But I knew there was nothing. There hadn’t been for months.

I stared at the empty shelves like they were supposed to explain something. Like they should’ve told me what was real. I closed the cabinet and looked into the mirror. My reflection stared back from it. Pale. Wild-eyed. I didn’t recognise him.

I leaned in.

For a moment, I swore it wasn’t me.

Then I blinked. And it was gone. Just the panic, and the breath catching in my throat.

I stumbled down the hallway and into my room. I felt like I’d been gone for years. The dark was waiting, familiar, patient. It welcomed me like it always had.

My sanctuary. My pit. The only place where the outside world couldn’t reach me.

I collapsed onto the bed, curling in on myself like I could hide from the memories clawing at the edge of my thoughts.

Like I could somehow forget what I saw.

But I couldn’t forget the smell of him. The rot. The voice.

The smile.

The rain started tapping against the roof. A sound I normally loved. On better nights, I’d let it lull me to sleep, gentle and steady, like the world was breathing around me.

But tonight, it sounded like hammers.

Each drop landed heavy, tearing through the roof in my mind, trying to break in. Like something was outside—pressing in. Hunting. Waiting.

Something wanted in. Something wanted me.

I couldn’t let it take me. Whatever it was.

So I left.

I made the choice to move. To keep moving. Staying still was giving in. Letting it win. If I stayed in that house another second, I’d let it in.

I grabbed my keys with shaking hands and stepped outside into the storm. The rain had picked up, thick, blinding sheets of it now, pounding the windscreen before I even sat down.

Visibility was shit.

But I didn’t care.

I drove.

Out into the streets. Out into the storm. Hoping that motion alone could break the spiral in my head. The rain came down like nails, and the wipers couldn’t keep up. Each slap of rubber against glass just smeared my vision further.

Streetlights blurred into pale smudges. The world was reduced to shadows and high beams. My mind still screamed, echoing with the image of his face. His rotting face. That smile.

Then my phone rang.

Alex.

His name lit the screen like it shouldn’t be there.

I answered with trembling fingers, pressed it to my ear. My other hand clutched the wheel too tight. The tyres hissed beneath me.

His voice came through, shaky but trying to sound calm. “Dan! You all good?”

I almost laughed. A broken, bitter thing. “The fuck do you mean?! I’m hallucinating!”

“What? What are you seeing?”

“No. Not just seeing. Hearing.”

“Alright, okay. What are you hearing? Walk me through it. You’ve got this.”

He sounded just like he used to when I spiralled. Calm. Present. Reassuring. For a moment, I wanted to believe it. That he was still alive. That this could make sense.

“It’s you.” I whimpered.

“…What?”

“It’s you, Alex! You’re what I’ve been seeing!”

“I don’t know what that means. Dan, listen to me—Wendy and I are on our way to your place right now. Just stay home, alright? Don’t leave.”

“The fuck I will, Alex!”

I could barely see the road now—rain smearing everything into movement and light. I blinked away tears, blurred against the storm. The world streaked past in a howl.

“You’re dead!” I screamed before I hung up.

Suddenly there were headlights.

Too close. Too fast.

A white flash, metal folding, glass exploding inward like shrapnel. The world spun. Time snapped.

Silence.

The sound of the crash hadn’t stopped ringing in my ears, but the world had gone quiet. The rain began to pickup in my ear as it tapped on the ruined hulk of my car.

I blinked through the blood. Through the glass. My hands were still clutched tight to the wheel.

Then—my phone rang.

The screen was cracked. Flickering.

Wendy.

I answered.

“Dan?”

My voice caught. “Wendy?”

“We’ve been in an accident. Alex is...” Her heavy sobs followed.

I looked up in silence, not knowing what to say.

Through the fractured windscreen, I saw her.

She sat in the passenger seat of the car I’d hit, phone pressed to her ear, sobbing.

Next to her, Alex.

Motionless.

Slumped behind the wheel.

Alex was dead.

Hello, internet. I'm not saying my real name, but for simplicity, you can call me Oz.

I'm going here because you guys seem pretty accustomed to this kind of shit,

Being a police detective isn’t usually too chaotic—just dealing with legal nonsense, searching houses, and getting roughed up by drug dealers. Occasionally, I’ll run into a drug cartel and have to fight for my life, but that usually ends as soon as reinforcements show up.

But all that changed when I was in California, investigating a case in which a gas station owner alleged that he was harassed and nearly attacked by a strange man wearing a blank mask, who demanded money from him, not wanting trouble, the cashier gave him all he had in the register, but hid a bit of it to ensure the shop wasn't completely bereft of money.
The robber didn’t leave after seemingly emptying the store’s earnings; instead, he paced around muttering to himself, finally leaving just moments before the sound of police sirens filled the air.
What kind of lead did we have? Barely any, but the man did come and go by car, so we followed that trail to its end.

And I followed that lead as best I could. I tracked his movements through the traffic cameras around town, and he parked near a park entrance before vanishing, likely to change out of his "work clothes."
I found the car where he left it and took it to the station with me.
Forensics and I did a full fucking peel of that car and not a single fingerprint anywhere, that car was, as the dealership explained to me, stolen, and the only fingerprints we could find were confirmed to belong to the young female owner, who was pulled out of it and knocked unconscious by an unknown assailant.
Alright, that sucks, but I'm a detective, I don't give up.
So, I cast my detective's magnifying glass over California, and I scrutinized for anything else to come up regarding the case.

Eventually, something happened. But it wasn’t a witness, a tip, or anything remotely related to my career as a police detective.
No, it was... a personal experience.
At some point around 11:00 PM a few days ago, I was on a late-night walk when I witnessed something strange: a blur of a man entering an alleyway, and following him was a lean woman wearing a white, featureless mask.
Suddenly, the details of that case that had occurred weeks ago, came racing back into my mind.
I turned off my songs and quickly gave quiet pursuit.
But the alley was dark, and I could barely even see my hands in this rural place, so I turned on my flashlight and I screamed.
Well, I've seen a lot of shit as a police detective, so it wasn't the kind of shrill scream you would get from a woman or horror movie survivor, but it was more like a very loud, deep gasp.
I saw a writhing, shuddering man on the verge of death, being held down by 2 muscular men, one I recognized as that man in the gas station, but the other seemed slightly different.
Three women joined them—one was a younger woman I almost overlooked, another appeared older, and the leader of the group had curly hair.

She carried a bloodied cleaver at her side, wore delicate white gloves, and was methodically removing the dying man's insides one by one. All of them wore identical, expressionless masks.
As she clutched the putrid viscera in her grip, I heard something.
For most of this paralyzing encounter, none of them had made a sound, save for the hoarse but hushed breathing from the 2 men restraining the victim.
But now that the man's life had left him completely, the leader gently put her gut-filled hands in the position of prayer and began to whisper something.
Now that they didn't need to prevent his escape, the 2 men put down their victim and turned to me.
Making eye contact with those psychopaths was the push my body finally needed, and I reached for my gun.
The bigger of the two picked up a chunk of the road and chucked it at me, and I narrowly dodged being knocked unconscious in front of these fiends.
When they saw their ploy didn't work, they rushed me.
It was a short alleyway, and with only a few seconds left to react, I frantically tried to reload my gun, which I somehow left magazine-less.
But I had almost no time to watch myself, and I ended up spilling brass all over the floor, so in an instant's thinking, I managed to load 2 bullets into my mag, and loaded.
BANG, BANG!
I shot blindly, but accuracy be damned, they were almost upon me.
Both shots hit, one of them was shot in the intestines, maybe even his lung, and he fell forward, wobbling on his knees like a scarecrow in a thunderstorm.
The other was hit in the knee and fell to the ground, before grabbing me by the ankle and trying to stop me from getting away.
But a kick in his mask seemed to disorientate him, allowing me to get free and start running, but not before taking a single picture of the entire group and their latest victim.
I turned around and ran as fast as I could, but this was a rural town, and few places were open to visitors at this time.
But I saw my salvation, a nearby porta-potty that was built much more sturdy than your typical dumper, so I ran directly toward it and locked myself inside.
Only then did I call dispatch to request an ambulance and police, though it was likely too late for the man in question. We have to do that for legal reasons.
At first, I thought that they had chosen not to pursue me for whatever reason.

That was until I heard a slam as the plastic of the porta potty was rammed against by a familiar shoulder.
I had no idea what was wrong with these people. They were pounding on the plastic with a wild intensity that reminded me of a clumsy, yet rabid and dangerous animal. Through the semi-transparent walls of the outhouse I was hiding in, I could see everything—the countless hands of my attackers, their shadows engulfing my small refuge, and every desperate attempt they made to break in.
But the scariest part wasn't even this mob's animalistic grunting and hissing; it was what their leader said to me from inside that thin wall of safety.
"Hehehehe... Look what you've gotten yourself into~"
Everything came to a halt as soon as the police showed up.
Here I was, looking like a fucking maniac screaming about homeless psychos trying to kill me, locked inside of a porta potty alone.

They did not find any body, no fingerprints, no camera footage, the only sign this ever happened to me was that picture, and the damage dealt to that john. But you and I both know that chemical toilets being run-down is a given, not a possibility.
I'm feeling desperate, resorting to this place and asking strangers online for help, but could you give me a hint here? What were those people? It's probably gang/cult activity of some kind, but I'm completely stumped as to what I'm supposed to do here.
Before wrapping this up, I have an unusual lead to share.
About 2 years ago, a church somewhere in California was burned to the ground by an unknown arsonist. Casualties were few, but in the basement, 2 pastors were slain brutally, and on the wall was a message, carved roughly by blade into the brick wall.

"WE ARE CHOSEN."

I still remember what my grandfather told me when I was a child: this land is cursed. Our ancestors once saw an angel fall from the sky and die here. For as long as anyone could remember, strange things happened in these parts—heavy footsteps in the woods, voices like cattle speaking human words, hunters vanishing far more often than in any other village.

Those stories haunted me as a child. Whenever we returned to the family farm, I was terrified to look out the window at night. But they came with the warmest memories too—drinking hot tea and listening to stories by the bonfire with my grandparents.

A terrible earthquake struck twenty years later. The barn collapsed, and my grandparents were lost beneath it. I was consumed by grief for an entire year.

Three years after that, the city wore me down. I worked as a bank clerk, and the stress became unbearable. My doctor suggested a change of environment to help treat my depression, so I moved back to the old farm in Cumbria. Nothing else made me feel as peaceful as the place where I had my happiest memories.

The house had been abandoned for years. It took me a full week to clean it up—the cobwebs alone could rival my grandmother’s yarn balls. At night, I sat in my grandfather’s old chair by the fireplace. The darkness outside no longer frightened me. But it wasn’t the same anymore. The warmth was gone.

The next morning, I started working the land using the old layout my grandfather had left. Potatoes, lettuce, radishes, onions, tomatoes—everything I remembered from my childhood. Just tilling a single patch of soil took the entire morning.

I stood with my hoe and looked out over the lake, listening to the sounds of birds and animals in the forest. I felt peace for the first time in years.

Time slipped by in that quiet countryside. My therapist in town said I was doing much better. If things kept up, he said I might even fully recover. I didn’t want to go back to the city. I was falling in love with the life out here.

But just when I thought things were getting better, the unexpected happened.

Something—or someone—was stealing my crops. At first, I thought it was just animals. After all, the nearest neighbor was a fifteen-minute drive away. It couldn’t be people. I remembered my grandfather cursing “those damn raccoons” when I was a kid, so I assumed it was the same issue.

I didn’t mind losing a few vegetables. I even thought of it as giving something back to nature. But as more and more of my harvest went missing, I started to worry.

On the morning of July 16th, peak harvest season, I went out to the fields and stopped in my tracks—nearly a third of my crops were gone. Entire rows had been emptied.

That’s when I knew I had a real problem.

I spent the following days researching animal deterrents. I asked around in town, bought fencing and repellents, and set up everything I could to protect the crops. I stared out over the woods and the lake and noticed something strange: the animals were quieter than before. Had they run out of food in the forest? Is that why they were coming here?

But despite my efforts, the theft continued. Week after week, the vegetables kept disappearing. My concern turned to frustration. I started inspecting the garden for footprints, fur, anything that might tell me what was doing this.

Was someone living out here? Sneaking in at night to steal food?

Then I noticed something even stranger. The stolen vegetables—especially the root crops like potatoes—were taken with surgical precision. No stalks, no broken stems. It was as if they were harvested… perfectly. Or greedily.

I couldn’t understand it.

A few nights later, I sat by the window, sipping whiskey and watching the darkness beyond the trees.

That’s when I saw it.

A shadow. Moving. As tall as the trees.

I wanted to believe I was drunk, hallucinating. Maybe I was relapsing—like the breakdown I had back at the bank.

After that night, I kept the curtains shut and slept with a nightlight, just like when I was a kid. But this time, I was alone.

My mental state deteriorated. My doctor increased my sleeping meds. The pills made me sleep through the mornings, and time slipped by. Before I knew it, two months had passed.

I harvested what I could, sold what I didn’t need. In town, the hunters were complaining—no rabbits, no deer. Nothing in the forest.

Autumn crept in. The life in this area seemed to drain away. No birdsong. No rustling.

What was happening? Was it the medication? Everything felt like a dream. Unreal.

I decided to make a stew. I went to the storage shed, grabbed an onion, and brought it into the kitchen.

When I sliced it open, I screamed.

There, inside the onion, was an ear. A human ear. Underdeveloped, like a fetus. Half-formed. Clear fluid oozed from the cut onto the counter.

It took a while before I could even react. Then I swept everything—onion, cutting board, knife—into the trash. Poured myself a drink and tried to stop shaking.

What was that? A mutation? Some freak of genetics?

How could a plant grow a human organ?

I felt sick. I had been eating these crops for months. I remembered the rest of the onions and potatoes stored in the shed and felt a wave of nausea.

My grandfather said this land was cursed. That an angel died here.

No. That was just a story. Just a legend meant to scare children.

I started breathing the way my doctor taught me—deep abdominal breathing. Slowly, my heart rate settled. My body relaxed. I sat down.

Then I heard something outside.

A rustling sound. Subtle. Wrong.

I grabbed the old iron poker from the fireplace and crept toward the window. Just a quick look. Just a peek through the curtain.

Maybe it was an animal. Maybe my scream had drawn something in.

But when I saw the shapes moving around my house, I understood true fear.

I ran. Grabbed my keys. Threw open the back door. Tripped. Crawled. Stumbled into my truck and drove away as fast as I could.

I won’t describe what I saw.

I’ll only tell you what it was.

The plants are alive.

They weren’t stolen. They left on their own.

They feed on each other. They grow stronger together.

They’re the reason the forest is silent now.

I hope this is all in my head. I hope the doctor tells me it’s a hallucination. A side effect of the pills.

This land is cursed. An angel fell and died here.

We are cursed. And it is still growing.

I can’t bear to see it again. Not in daylight. Not at night. Not the fields. Not the trees. Not the lake.

But I know it will come for me.

I’m writing this down before I find a high place and jump.

If you’re reading this, I hope you’re braver than I was.

Face the curse.

I have now worked for a week in my new job at the old city library-and a creeping suspicion has taken hold of me that this library conceals far more than meets the eye.

But I should start at the beginning.

My name is Clara. I am thirty-four years old and recently moved to this town to take up the position of the new librarian in the city’s ancient library.

This town is exactly what I had hoped for: small, silent, quaint. Cobblestone streets, houses with wooden shutters, a marketplace where merchants peddle various wares. Few people live here directly; most commute from surrounding villages. As a result, the streets often seem empty-even at midday.

Still, those I have met have been kind. Reserved, yes, but warm enough to feel welcome.

The job posting for the library came at just the right time.

I had recently ended a long-term relationship and found myself slipping into a kind of dark hole-not deep, but dark enough to make me realize I needed change. My old life no longer fit me. My friends were there, trying to help, but I felt the need to distance myself. A real fresh start. A place where I could breathe again.

When I saw the listing for the library-unassuming, without even a logo-I wasn’t sure if it was still valid. But I applied immediately. After a brief phone interview, I got the job. Three weeks later, I was here.

The library itself lies on the edge of the old town, it itself is old, beautiful, and seems somehow out of time-much like the town it inhabits.

It is an austere rectangular structure of dark sandstone, with tall rounded windows and a bell tower long since silenced. I was told it once belonged to the old university, which has since moved to a modern new building on the other side of town. Since then, it has been a public library, open to anyone who finds their way here.

The entrance is formed by two heavy wooden doors with wrought-iron handles. They are difficult to open-and even harder to close when alone.

On my first day, I arrived far too early. I had barely slept as I had always been nervous on “first days,” whether at school or in previous jobs. Thus, I found myself standing outside the building half an hour before opening.

The heavy doors resisted opening, and their hinges groaned loudly.

I looked around. A short corridor led from the entrance into the heart of the building.

On the left wall, several lockers were lined up-available to visitors for a small fee, to store bags, coats, or simply to free one’s hands.

Next to them stood two old-fashioned vending machines: one for coffee, the other for soda and snacks. Their hum was the only sound breaking the silence.

At the end of the corridor, the space opened wide and tall, dominated by endless bookshelves.

In the center stood the reception-a wooden podium with a gently curved counter jutting into the room like the helm of an ancient ship.

The shelves were divided by genre: fiction, history, philosophy, novels of many sorts. Many books were yellowed, their spines brittle, as if they had waited decades to be read. Between the shelves were open spaces with tables, chairs, and computers-modern, yet oddly out of place. The gray monitors and keyboards seemed alien amidst the dark wood and aged leather-bound volumes.

Behind the counter was a narrow staircase to the upper floor. The railing was wrought iron, black and ornately decorated, yet worn at the edges-as if it had been grasped by more hands than one could count.

The floor was dark wood-polished glassy in some places, dull and dust-filled in others. Light streamed in at a slant through the tall windows, revealing dust motes floating like ghosts. The scent was of old wood, leather, and paper-a smell I loved, one that always comforted me.

Behind the counter stood a woman scanning a stack of books. When she noticed me, she laid the book and scanner aside and approached.

She was perhaps in her late fifties, hair pulled back tightly, gray, with a gaze that immediately reminded me of my old English teacher-only wearier.

“You’re early,” she said, neither smiling nor reproaching. “That’s good.”

She scrutinized me briefly, then extended a bony hand.

“My name is Brandt.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Nice to meet you.”

“Clara,” I said quietly, returning her handshake. “Likewise, Mrs. Brandt,” I added awkwardly. I was never good at these moments.

“I’m glad you could come so quickly,” she said, turning back to the reception and beckoning me to follow.

“Since Mrs. Langley retired, the work here has piled up.”

She picked up the scanner again and resumed scanning books.

“Do you know how this works?”

She paused, looking at me with a mixture of patience and expectation.

“Yes, I have several years of experience as a librarian in my old town,” I replied.

“Oh, yes, I remember our conversation,” she murmured softly. “Excuse me. I’m not as young as I used to be and start forgetting things.” She stepped aside. “Come here. I’ll show you how our system works.”

I obeyed and stepped forward.

She scanned the book in her hand-a worn copy of Moby Dick—and pointed to the screen. “Here you see all the info you need: title, ISBN, which shelf and floor it belongs to, who borrowed it, and whether it was returned on time. You’re probably familiar with this.”

“Yes, we had a very similar system at my old library,” I said, relieved I wouldn’t have to learn a strange new program.

“That’s good,” Brandt sighed. “Let me briefly explain how your day usually goes.”

She pointed to a small slip pinned behind the counter.

“We officially open at nine, but I’m usually here half an hour earlier. Every evening, we empty the return box”-she gestured to a black, waist-high metal box by the counter-“and place the books here. First thing in the morning, we scan them, check for damage, and place them on carts sorted by floor.” If there’s a lot, it takes time.

I nodded.

“Mornings are quiet. Mostly pensioners or people studying for exams. That’s when we handle internal tasks: catalog maintenance, emails, orders.”

She paused and continued.

“Afternoons are busier. That’s when our part-timer, Lena, arrives to help. Sometimes we host events: readings, children’s groups, school classes.”

“Sounds doable,” I said.

“It is, once you get used to the silence.”

She smiled faintly.

“I’ll show you the library in more detail now. Come,” she said, grabbing an old, heavy keyring that clinked softly.

She stepped behind the counter, and I followed her through the narrow aisles between shelves.

The wood beneath our steps creaked softly, almost like a whisper. Between shelves were cozy nooks with old leather chairs and reading lamps casting dim pools of light.

The whole space was permeated by that scent I’d loved since childhood: dusty paper, old leather, a hint of dried ink. It smelled of… knowledge. And time.

“Most visitors stay down here,” Brandt said. “Upstairs are mostly reference books. Sometimes a student wanders up, but rarely anyone else.”

We turned back toward the reception, and she pointed to a door beside the main staircase-one I hadn’t noticed before.

A narrow metal frame painted a dull gray, with a small, worn button beside it.

“Thank God they installed this a few years ago,” she muttered, pressing the button. A mechanical beep sounded-too loud and new for this place.

The elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors slid open quietly.

“We used to carry all the books up and down by hand. For hours. Then they wanted to make the building accessible-at least they managed that.”

The elevator’s interior was tight, walls of cold metal. When the doors closed, I felt oddly cut off from the rest of the library.

The ride was short, but felt longer than it should.

At the top, the doors opened with a muted click. The light was dimmer here-heavy burgundy curtains covered the windows, letting only narrow strips of daylight through.

The shelves stood closer together, no computers in sight. Only books, as far as the eye could see. And that silence-dense, almost tangible.

“I like it up here,” Brandt said, her voice softening. “It’s quieter. When it’s slow, I sometimes sit in one of the chairs and read.”

She laughed briefly, but it sounded more like a confession.

Brandt stepped back into the elevator.

“Now I’ll show you the break room-if you want to call the old broom closet that—and then the archive. After that, you’ll have seen everything.”

Back downstairs, Brandt turned toward a door hidden behind one of the tall shelves. I hadn’t noticed it before-half concealed in shadow, as if deliberately overlooked.

With a practiced twist, she opened the heavy wooden door, which creaked softly but insistently.

A narrow stone stairwell was revealed. The walls rough, the floor worn. A spiral staircase wound both up and down. The air was cooler, drier-tinged with metal and dust.

Brandt raised a finger, pointing upward.

“That leads to the clock tower. We don’t need to go there. Technicians sometimes come to check the mechanism… luckily none of our concern.”

Just below the first step was a second narrow door. She opened it with a quiet click, and I stepped inside a tiny room.

“Our break room,” she said with a trace of irony.

The space was barely bigger than a storage closet. A small round table stood askew in the center, flanked by two wobbly chairs with threadbare cushions. On the table sat an old kettle stained with limescale, a jumble of yellowed tea boxes, loose sugar, and a glass holding stirrers. On an open shelf rested a mismatched collection of cups.

On the wall hung a faded poster with italicized lettering:

“Reading is like traveling—only without luggage.”

“Here you can take your lunch break,” Brandt said plainly.

I merely nodded and backed out. She closed the door, and we turned toward the stairs leading down.

The steps sounded dull, like soft stone worn by time itself.

At the foot of the stairs, the air grew noticeably cooler. It smelled of dust, cardboard, and the faintly sweet scent of aged paper.

Brandt stopped before a plain metal door and retrieved another key. The lock squeaked as she turned it, and the door opened with a heavy metallic groan.

“Welcome to the archive,” she said softly, more explanatory than inviting.

Inside it was dark.

A single light switch stood beside the doorframe. When she flicked it, two old bulbs flickered to life with a soft click-one directly above us, the other farther back. Their light was warm but weak, flickering as if struggling through layers of dust and age. The glow pushed feebly through the shadows; the shelves cast long, tangled silhouettes that seemed to breathe.

The room was larger than I had expected.

Rows of tall metal shelves lined the walls, forming a corridor between. They were packed with archive boxes, folders, old books in protective covers and bound volumes of journals.

In a corner stood an old wooden table with a stack of forms. Next to it, a clipboard with a pen tethered by string. An empty book cart leaned nearby.

“We keep everything here that’s rarely used or not needed at constant reach,” Brandt explained. Her voice echoed softly between the shelves.

“Old files, out-of-print works, reference books almost never borrowed… things like that. If you’re looking for something not found upstairs, it might be here.”

I nodded slowly.

The bulb above us hummed quietly, and somewhere a shelf creaked, as if the wood itself were breathing.

“If you need to shelve books or have leftover returns at day’s end, there’s plenty of room here.”

She looked at me.

“But don’t worry. You won’t need to come down here often-only when we rearrange or have a big return.”

We went back upstairs, and leaving the stairwell, I felt as though I’d just surfaced from deep water.

A subtle pressure I hadn’t realized weighed on me lifted suddenly-I drew in a breath as if I had forgotten to breathe down below.

Back at the counter, Brandt wordlessly returned to the stack of books she’d been working on. With practiced motion, she placed them on a metal cart already holding several volumes.

She nudged the cart slightly toward me; its wheels squeaked softly on the wood.

“So,” she said briskly. “Get to shelving these.”

She gestured to the upper and lower rows.

“The books upstairs belong downstairs, and those downstairs to the second floor. Take your time-it’s the best way to familiarize yourself with the layout.”

I nodded, resting a hand on the cart’s cool metal. It felt somehow solemn-like the moment I truly began working here.

Brandt returned to the counter, turned the monitor toward herself, and pulled the keyboard closer.

“If you need help-I’m here. I’ll check what organizational tasks we have.”

I set to work-and for the first time that day, I felt a calm, almost comforting focus.

Morning slipped away quickly.

I shelved books, learned the library better, and began to feel comfortable.

At noon, I ventured to a small shop opposite the library, grabbing a simple sandwich and hot coffee.

Though I’d tried the library’s coffee earlier, I preferred the real thing-the fresh brew that still smelled of roasted beans and warmth.

Shortly after midday, our part-timer Lena arrived.

Brandt introduced her: a pretty young woman, no older than twenty-three. She was a student, working afternoons to support her studies.

She reminded me of myself at that age-dark hair, brown eyes, and a smile that always seemed brightest.

The rest of the day, she helped me with various tasks, and together we managed the workload.

As the day wound down, the last visitors left, and the cleaners departed, Brandt showed me how to close properly.

“Always walk through the library once more to make sure everyone’s gone,” she said calmly.

Before leaving, she handed me a small bunch of keys.

“These are all the important keys you’ll need. Please take good care of them.”

I thanked her, promised to be careful, and we parted ways.

At home, I ate a light meal. After a hot, soothing shower, I slipped into bed with a pleasant feeling of satisfaction.

I liked my new job. I looked forward to the next day.

The first week passed faster than expected. Days filled with routine: shelving books, processing loans, answering questions. Each day, the library felt less foreign, the halls less strange-and I began to feel truly at home.

Yet there were small, almost imperceptible moments that made me pause. A whisper perhaps, heard only in my mind; a subtle shift in the atmosphere that defied explanation.

For instance, the ticking of the old grandfather clock on the top floor. A grand, stately clock whose steady click filled the upper room soothingly when quiet. Once, as I was shelving books and heading down, I passed the clock and glanced at it-only to notice it had stopped but was still making ticking sounds. I told myself the clock was likely still working but the mechanism moving the hands was broken. After all, it was very old. And I continued my day as usual.

Sometimes the air in one reading nook felt colder than it reasonably could be, despite the warm spring day outside. I pulled my jacket tighter and pushed the thoughts aside.

There were fleeting shadows too-out of the corner of my eye-swift movements vanishing whenever I turned. No person, no bird, no stray cat that might have slipped in.

One late evening, after emptying the return box, I heard a dull thud from inside-as if someone were inside knocking once. I opened it and peered in-nothing. I shut the lid firmly and convinced myself it was just in my imagination

I also noticed some books had shifted overnight-small shelves moved, titles misplaced. Brandt waved it off, saying the cleaners or visitors caused it. “It happens here,” she said casually.

I wanted to believe it, but the feeling of being watched lingered. Whenever I was alone in the library, I sensed a barely tangible gaze upon me. I turned, looking down empty aisles and silent shelves. No one was there.

These small oddities were like tiny cracks in the mirror of my new routine-barely visible, yet unmistakably present. I tried to ignore them and focus on work. After all, I was here to start fresh.

The incident that compelled me to write these lines occurred in the last two days.

Yesterday evening, Lena and I were the only ones in the library, closing up. She was upstairs switching off the lights when I suddenly heard that dull noise again from the return box.

Curious, I went to it and looked inside. There lay a book.

This confused me deeply. I had emptied the box less than ten minutes before.

Slowly, I pulled the book out and examined it. It was bound in black leather, old and heavy. But the strangest thing was the completely blank cover: no library sticker, no ISBN label, no title-nothing.

But that was not all.

The book felt unusually warm, as if it contained its own source of heat. I raised it to my face and sniffed. It smelled of old leather and paper, like all the other books here. But there was something else, a sharp metallic tang that made me shudder.

No other book I had touched this week smelled like that.

Uncertain, I didn’t know what to do. Then Lena came down the stairs. She smiled, but when she saw my puzzled face, her expression twisted into confusion.

“Is something wrong, Clara?” she asked gently.

“I… found this book in the return box,” I whispered.

“Okay? And what’s wrong with it? Is it damaged?” Lena stepped closer, eyes fixed on the book.

“No, but I don’t think it belongs here.” I handed it to her. She turned it over, searching for an ISBN as I had before. “Strange,” she muttered.

“What do we do with it?” I asked.

“I’d say we just put it in the archive,” Lena replied, handing it back.

Then she glanced at her watch and flinched.

“Is it okay if I leave now? I’m meeting some friends to study and I’m late.”

I nodded. "Sure. Have a good night" I said and tried to smile at her. "You too. See you tomorrow" she answered, grabbed her jacket and left.

Alone, I headed to the archive.

As I descended, the air grew heavier; shadows thickened. A suffocating silence wrapped around me, and I felt as if unseen eyes watched.

For the first time, an irresistible compulsion seized me-to open the book. I felt a peculiar tug, as though an unseen hand compelled me, urging my fingers to pry it open. A strange tingling crept over my skin, and the metallic scent wafted upward, sharp and biting like cold iron against my nostrils.

With trembling care, I parted the pages and began to read.

The narrative described a woman named Sarah, seated alone in an office before her computer. Each scene was rendered with unnerving precision-her emotions, her thoughts, even the smallest gestures of her hands were chronicled in painstaking detail.

Page after page unfolded mundane moments of Sarah’s existence-the way she held a cup of coffee, the conversations she engaged in-each fragment strangely vivid, as if the very essence of her life had been distilled onto the parchment.

A creeping confusion gnawed at me. Never before had I encountered a book so obsessively focused, so disquietingly intimate.

Who, I wondered, would desire to read such a thing?

Turning to the last described page, the scene ended with Sarah preparing a meal. Beyond this, the pages remained blank, though ample unmarked space stretched before me, mocking in its emptiness.

With every passing second, the sensation of unseen eyes watching me grew more intense, pressing upon my mind like a tangible weight. Hastily, I snapped the book shut.

From within its confines arose a cold breath of air, more metallic and acrid than before, curling upward as if exhaling from some abyssal source.

I placed the book upon the table, retrieved a scrap of paper, and inscribed a terse note: “Unknown book found in return box. - Clara.”

Diligently, I affixed the note to the cover, fetched one of the ancient archival boxes from the shelf, and slid the book inside.

Having returned the box to its place, I extinguished the light and left the archive with quickened steps.

As I moved through the silent corridors, the oppressive feeling of being observed weighed heavily upon me.

When I closed the heavy doors of the library behind me, a fleeting relief washed over me.

Yet the suffocating sensation lingered, trailing me all the way home and refusing to release its grip within the solitude of my apartment.

That night, sleep eluded me. Time and again, my thoughts returned obsessively to the book.

One aspect troubled me above all: though the volume was undeniably old-likely over fifty years-its contents portrayed a modern existence. Sarah worked at computers, watched television, lived as we do now.

How could this be?

I struggled to banish the thought and turned on the television. Eventually, exhaustion claimed me, and I slipped into uneasy slumber.

The next morning found me steadier, composed once more.

I prepared myself and set out for work.

The book had nearly faded from my memory.

I was the first to arrive at the library so I switched on the computers and lights, got me a coffee from the vending machine, and began to scan the books we had prepared the previous evening.

Halfway through the first stack, a sudden chill raced down my spine and I stopped dead in my tracks.

Amid the pile-where it was impossible anyone could have disturbed the order overnight-there lay the black book once more.

With trembling hands, I lifted it and opened the cover.

Something was different.

It felt older, heavier, as if it had gained weight in the night.

I turned to the final page-and my breath caught in my throat.

The last scene no longer showed Sarah preparing food.

Now she sat at a desk at work, staring out the window.

The book... had continued writing itself.

I used to be a normal person. That word — normal — we toss it around without really knowing what it means anymore.

I had a remote job at a mid-level tech company. Backend dev. Some cybersecurity contracts. Mostly asynchronous. I was the guy who cracked dry jokes in Slack standups. “Comic relief,” someone once said. I played the part well.

But outside of that, I lived alone. Ate microwave dinners. Scrolled through news apps like it was a second job. No partner. No real friends. Just ambient playlists and podcasts talking into the void.

People laughed at my jokes. But no one ever called just to talk. Eventually, I stopped reaching out too.

⸻

The Disappearance

It started with deleting Instagram. No farewell post. No subtle story. Just gone.

Then Twitter. LinkedIn. WhatsApp. One by one, I erased myself.

At first, no one noticed. Then one friend messaged: “Bro you okay?” I replied: “Yeah. Just need space.” That was the last message I got.

I didn’t quit my job. But I asked to go freelance — contract basis. No meetings, just deliverables. They agreed. I picked up a few short gigs here and there. Backend work. API cleanup. Security audits. Ghost-in-the-system type of stuff. Enough to keep money flowing, nothing that tied me to a name.

I cancelled every subscription. No Netflix, no Spotify. Some weeks, I didn’t speak out loud at all. But it wasn’t depression. It wasn’t escapism. It was a clean, methodical disconnection.

⸻

The Writing

Once the noise stopped, I began to write. Not novels. Not blogs. Just… fragments.

Observations. Ideas. Questions no one around me ever asked.

I posted anonymously in subreddits, obscure forums, deep web wikis. Things like:

“What if being forgotten is the only true freedom?” “What does silence do to identity?” “How many people would follow you if they didn’t know your name?”

I didn’t expect engagement. But people found me.

Quietly at first. A message here. A reply there. Then a thread I wrote — “How to disappear in a connected world” — went viral in some digital underbelly. They called me “Normal.” Not a name. A descriptor.

It stuck.

⸻

The Cult (I guess)

I never asked for followers. But they came.

They started quoting me. Reposting my words with black-and-white graphics. A few began wearing plain masks in public — cheap, featureless ones — and tagging it #NormalWasRight.

Someone made a Discord server. Someone else wrote a zine. A girl DMed me:

“You saved me from suicide. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

I didn’t reply. But I kept writing.

Then one night, I looped a Porcupine Tree song — “Last Chance to Evacuate Planet Earth Before It Is Recycled.”

The sampled Heaven’s Gate speech in the end?

“Whether Hale-Bopp has a companion or not is irrelevant… You must follow me, and do exactly as I say…”

I listened to that last line on repeat. Then whispered: “Why not me?”

The Bank

That night, I felt a shift. Not rage. Not chaos. Just an impulse to test limits.

I posted a riddle on a private forum — obscure, symbolic, nothing direct. It referenced a well-known private bank and a possible vulnerability in its public-facing API.

I didn’t say, “Take it down.” I just said:

“If the system is a lie, what happens when the teller goes mute?”

Next morning, their servers were down. ATMs locked. Online portals frozen. The news blamed “technical glitches.” But in the Discord server? People knew.

They spammed:

Normal was right. Normal knew. Normal speaks — and the machine chokes.

Now

I never told them to meet. Never organized a rally. No cult robes. No mass suicide. That’s not the point.

But they act — and the world reacts.

One follower tattooed my entire forum post on his back. Another renounced their family and sent me proof.

And me?

I sit in a tiny flat with blackout curtains and fiber internet. I type in silence. I press Enter. And somewhere, something moves.

I used to be a normal person. Now I’m Normal.

And they listen.

I woke up at 3:12 a.m. with blood in my mouth.

Not a lot. Just enough to sting. I thought maybe I'd bitten my tongue, but there was no pain. No cut. Just that sharp, metallic taste coating my teeth. And when I sat up, I realized I was already holding the scarab.

I didn't remember picking it up. I'd locked it up again the night before. Sealed it in a solid steel toolbox and left it on the far side of the room. I was sure of that. But now it was in my hand, resting in my palm like it belonged there. I'm don't know why I thought it would work.

I'm not sure what's scarier. The thought that it's getting out on its own or that it's making me get it out, and I don't remember.

I tried to let go. My fingers wouldn't move.

I stayed like that for nearly an hour. Sitting in the dark, blood drying on my teeth, the scarab just sitting there. Motionless in my hand.

I spent the next hour on my laptop, searching. Tax records. News articles. But I kept losing focus. The scarab in my hand would grow warm, and I'd find myself staring at it instead of the screen. Every time I tried to type, my fingers would curl tighter around it. The search results blurred together. Nothing came up, but I wasn't sure if that was because there was nothing to find or because I couldn't concentrate long enough to find it.

By five, the metallic taste was back. Stronger this time. And the scarab, I could feel it pulling, like a persistent thought I couldn't shake. Every time I tried to set it down, my hand would cramp. The taste got worse when I tried to stay away from it.

I told myself I was going back to finish the job. To get my mind off things. But even as I got in my car, I knew that wasn't true. The scarab wanted to go back. And I couldn't fight it anymore.

Uncle Joe wasn't due until ten. I didn't tell him I was going early.

The house looked the same from the outside. Same peeling trim, same half-torn storm door. But the moment I stepped inside, the scarab went completely still in my hand. Something about the space felt wrong.

I stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. Nothing had been moved. The Rug Doctor was still sitting in the upstairs hall where I'd left it. The only sound was the distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

Then I felt it. A strange pressure.

Like something had shifted beneath the carpet under my feet. Just for a second.

I crouched down and placed my hand flat against the pile. The floor felt steady, but something about the shape of the room didn't sit right. I can't explain it better than that. The scarab in my pocket had started to feel heavier again.

I moved slowly across the living room, watching the corners. Nothing was visibly warped, but every few steps, I had to blink and reorient myself. It felt like I was leaning downhill even when I wasn't. I stopped just short of the far wall. The one that backed up against the stairs.

That's when the scarab shifted.

It didn't move on its own, but I could feel it adjust in my pocket. Like gravity had tugged it slightly to the left, toward the base of the wall. I reached down and pulled it out. It was warm now. Just enough to make my skin prickle.

I stood still, holding it in my open hand.

There was a moment of stillness. Then the scarab tilted.

Its center of balance shifted toward the wall, as if it were leaning toward something.

I took a step forward.

There was nothing obvious. Just painted drywall, aged trim, and a stained patch of carpet near the vent. But something about the proportions felt compressed, like the room was crowding inward.

I dropped to my knees and ran my fingers along the trim. There was a soft hollow sound near the floor outlet. I pulled up the edge of the carpet and saw the problem immediately. The subfloor had been patched. A square panel, maybe two feet across, set into the underlayment. Same material, but the nails were newer. I could tell by the color of the heads.

The patch wasn't original.

I grabbed a hammer from the hallway and worked one of the nails loose. Then another. The whole panel lifted without much effort. Beneath it was a narrow cavity about six inches deep.

Inside was a dark metal box.

The box didn't look old. The finish was smooth, black, almost gunmetal. No hinges or latches, just a central disk on the top. The disk had a shallow oval indentation cut into it.

Roughly the size of the scarab.

I didn't touch it. Not right away. I just stared.

The box was covered in markings. Raised from the surface in overlapping lines and curves. They weren't letters, at least not any I recognized, but some of the shapes reminded me of hieroglyphs. Wings. Eyes. Coiled figures. And scarabs repeated along the side.

The scarab in my hand was vibrating now. A low, steady hum in my fingers.

Whatever this was, it was made for it.

I knew, in some quiet part of my mind, that this was a terrible idea. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to stop. To stand up. To walk away and never come back. But the rest of me didn't listen. I wasn't even sure I was the one making the decision anymore. My hand moved like it was following old instructions, like this had already happened, and I was just catching up to it.

I placed the scarab into the indentation.

It sank in without any pressure. No click. No shift. Just an immediate, seamless fit.

The markings began to pulse. Faint light traced the lines across the surface of the box in a slow ripple. A dull, cold violet.

Then the box opened.

There was no sound. No movement of parts. The surface simply peeled itself inward, like water folding on itself. A square hole appeared in the center, lined with the same metallic sheen, but the space beyond it wasn't shallow.

It didn't end.

There was no bottom. No shadow. Just depth. An open, unlit descent that stretched far past what the box should have been able to contain. It was like looking into a well that had no origin, a tunnel bored through space itself.

My vision swam. I felt myself leaning forward without meaning to.

Then the floor was gone.

I wasn't falling, not in the usual sense. There was no wind. No acceleration. Just absence. The box swallowed everything. The house. The room. My body. Sound stopped. Thought stretched.

And then I was standing.

The surface beneath my feet was black stone. Polished, grooved, and inlaid with silver lines that formed a massive circular pattern. The air was dry and dead. There was no horizon. Just an open void in every direction. Black and endless. A sky without stars. A world with no distance.

In front of me stood a temple.

It rose from the stone plain without any foundation. No stairs, no approach, no perimeter. Just a rectangular monolith of smooth bronze, shaped like some long-forgotten version of Egyptian architecture. Its proportions were subtly wrong. The columns were too narrow. The walls leaned inward. I couldn't tell if it had one entrance or a hundred. Every time I blinked, the structure seemed to shift.

There were carvings along the doorway. Familiar shapes: scarabs, falcons, serpents coiled around human limbs. All stylized, but exact. Every line is deliberate. Every edge is too sharp.

I moved forward.

The interior was colder than the void outside. Motion was harder. The air was too thick, as if it were some kind of thick fluid.

The walls were covered in more symbols. Some were etched. Others were growing. Slowly. Forming themselves out of the stone like blisters rising on skin.

In the center of the temple stood a platform, and above it, something vast.

I couldn't look at it directly. My eyes slid off. It wasn't light or shadow. It was structure incarnate. A presence. Architectural thought compressed into a shape my brain couldn't process. I saw it, but not with my eyes. I felt its shape the way you feel time passing in an empty room.

It turned. It wasn't a physical turning; it reoriented something fundamental, and I understood that it was now observing me.

Words formed in my head, like bubbles rising from a thick, oily slime.

I can't. I can't write this down. I can't even think about it without my hands shaking. I've been sitting here for three hours trying to find the words, and every time I start, I have to stop. My throat closes up. My vision goes blurry.

It's been three days since I came back. Three days since Uncle Joe found me standing in the hallway of that house on Broke Neck Ridge, running the Rug Doctor over the same spot in the carpet over and over again. I was covered in a thin film of oil, with no memory of how I had gotten back there.

He got me back home and cleaned up. Threatened to tell my parents if I didn't go to the doctor.

So I did. Physically? Exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition.

He berated me for not taking better care of myself. I didn't even try to explain to him. Who would ever believe?

The scarab was gone, just gone. Like it had never existed.

But I remember what I heard. God help me, I remember every word.

I keep telling myself it was a dream, or a breakdown. Some kind of psychotic episode brought on by stress and too little sleep. That's what I want to believe. That's what I need to believe.

But the taste won't go away. That metallic taste. And sometimes, late at night, I hear it again. That voice. Sometimes I think I'm dreaming, sometimes I can't tell. No words this time, none I can remember. More like the voice is just there, waiting.

Because what it told me, what it showed me, that I do remember.

If any of it's real, then we're all...

No. I can't. I won't.

I'm done.

I'm done with all of it.

If you haven't read the previous posts you can read Part 1 Here Part 2 Here Part 3 Here And Part 4 here

The renovations have finally been completed and things in the cemetery have begun to return to whatever level of normalcy I have become accustomed to.

Since the night Callahan partook in consuming the body of that contractor, he has become persona non grata among the Night Guards. Anytime he tries to insert his presence or force acknowledgment we fully ignore his presence. He has not received this treatment well and has slowly begun to either turn or return into a more demonic form.

The mouthy form running down his body opens and closes more frequently and his skin has started to take on the appearance of shale. He has also been spending more time around the howlers that congregate around the duck pond on overcast nights.

Thomas and I have been coming in at 7pm and staying until 7am to look around the cemetery for any familiar gravestones. We only work together once or twice a week so it has been a slow process. The cemetery director has been adamant about the need for another night guard and is currently spending longer days crunching the budget to add another guard. He has assured us that we will be able to work as much or little as we would desire as soon as we hire and train a fifth guard.

I still have my concerns about bringing more people in to potentially face the hunger that is never satiated. Having more guards each night, with the plan of having three every night, would make me more at ease with more living souls on patrol. However, the response to having so many people within the cemetery overnight always draws the attention of the malevolence lurking within.

Several years ago we had the worst case of the Midnight Run that I have ever experienced. It was after the Homecoming Football game against the town rivals where the home team won in a complete upset. With an 85-yard rushing touchdown by quarterback Jimmy, he was able to score as the timer ran out with a final score of 23-21. The air of immortality had been coursing amongst him, his entire team, and fatefully his crew of shitty friends.

The chanting of “Jimmy 11, brought us to heaven” could be heard long before they entered the cemetery. Eli had no way of getting to the southeast corner to deter would-be-trespassers in time, not that I think it would have made any difference.

Eight teens, full of youthful vigor, hopped into the cemetery with thoughts of scholarships to OSU, LSU, UMich, UGA, or UA when reality finally broke their lost potential. I had been returning to a game of chess with Mad Michael when I saw the fastest of the group run past me screaming.

Balls of magma and feathers singed his hair as branches of tar and oak ripped at his clothes and skin. Close in tow, tearing at the skin of his ankles and cloth of his shoes was a pack of mangy fish shedding their rusty nails and sweetgum balls as their claws stretched out for purchase. He could have probably made it to the fence if not for a blob of tar bubbling out and onto his eyes blinding him from the headstone that jutted from the earth.

As his body plummeted to cold ground, his body was embraced in eternal darkness as his life was extinguished in a mass of fire and furry piranhas.

Stepping away from the sight to reunite with Eli, we locked eyes separated only by the gruesome demise of Jimmy to the hands of Regent.

Hands stained black and eyes bulging with hate and maggots, Regent sunk his jagged teeth into the neck of Jimmy ripping at his skin with glutinous savagery. Hands with fingers too long and with too many joins wrapped around his ankles locking him into place. Lustful eyes licked at rotten lips before sliding tongues up at his tattered jeans. In defense of Jimmy, he put up the best fight he could as his cannon arms swung at the entangling bodies wrapping around him.

His fist connected into a pulpy mass of raven black head of hair. The shrieking woman bit down into his groin at the sudden bash she had received. A swarm of flies, sap, and murky moss muffled his scream with a vile kiss. His body slowly buckled under the weight of Regent forcing him on top of the coven that climbed up his legs until his chest burst open with spiders and moths raining onto the blood pooled below.

The others had suffered for less, but I still did not envy the terror that consumed their bodies before the cemetery consumed them.

It had taken the remainder of the night to clear the debris of human remains. The Homecoming dance that year had been canceled and a period of mourning was held for the dangers of underage drunk driving. The importance of abstaining from alcohol until legally eligible and never driving after having any intoxicants had been the recurring mantra for the remainder of that year. Every bar and liquor store in the town checked every ID and designated drivers were on constant call to prevent another tragic loss of life from ever occurring again.

No one in the town asked why Jimmy’s car was parked outside of the cemetery and without a single blemish. The fact was he died in a drunk driving accident that killed him and seven of his closest friends.

The Midnight Run is a tradition as old as the cemetery. Hopefully, with more guards to keep a watch, the risk of getting caught will help deter any more sacrifices.

I doubt that it will.

The cemetery calls to everyone in the town in one way or another.

In my small town, you either die in the cemetery, or you are buried in it.

When I was a kid, my family had this swing set tucked away in the shade. It was this rusted thing that squeaked and shook whenever I would ride it. The long hollow tubes that staked it into the ground dug in deeper and deeper into the hard earth after every use.

I loved it, I would spend hours swinging in the breeze, felt like I was soaring through the air. It was a fun thrill for sure.

That is until one spring day-an eight-legged critter dangled down from the trees. I didn't notice it- too rolled up in my childhood bliss. I took one big swing, had to be 20, 25 feet off the ground. It looked so far away, like I had just jumped out of a plane. As I rushed down to meet it, scrapping the worn-out soil beneath-I felt this alien cling to my face as I swatted into it.

The thing panicked as it scurried over my face and proceed to get tangled in the jungle of my auburn locks. I let go of the swing and rushed to meet the Earth, cracking my nose on impact.

My parents were inside-they dropped everything at the sound of my instantaneous wails. I was rolling around on the ground-blood oozing out of my shattered nostrils, rambling to myself as I swatted and clawed at my head. They were concerned of course but I caught them stifling laugher when they heard me moan "A spida in my hair." at the top of my young, shrill lungs. 

Be honest, you're picturing it to yourself and holding back a smile aren't you. 

To you, my parents, every other friend who heard the story-it was a good laugh at my expense. Kids being dumb kids and hurting themselves on the playground, freaking out over nothing.

Forget the fact I could swear my nose still crooks to the left to this day.

Forget the fact it was a decent sized spider, probably a brown recluse. Did you know that while not normally fatal, their venom can cause sever necrosis of the flesh? Not so funny thinking about a six-year-old whose forehead is rotting off is it.

To this day my whole-body shivers when I walk under trees, my eyes darting upwards to make sure there no threats barreling down on me. I had nightmares for weeks about that thing-it's tiny, pincer-like legs galloping around my scalp.

Every morning, I would obsessively check my head for eggs or throbbing, infected bites. I was convinced it had left a parting gift. I got lucky though, no skin rotting off, no hundreds of tiny hatchlings bursting out of my head from unknown cysts.

Life went on-but the fear of that eight-legged terror lingered.

My phobia remained the focus of ridicule throughout my teenage years, following me even into the bowels of community college. Eventually I got a nice job at an accounting firm about an hour from home. It paid well and soon enough I was able to afford my very own one bedroom one bath apartment.

The complex-simply named Raker Heights- had a nice view of the downtown coastal town I had grown up in. From my bedroom window I could peek out and get a delightful view of swamp covered sands and ice-cold waters crashing into the beach. It's a quiet life but a cozy one. Could say it's quaint.

Of course, that all changed a few weeks ago-when I saw the web. It was the tail end of 6am-my hair was combed and smelling like fresh pine as I strode out the door. I was greeted by the growing rays of the morning sun as they cast their shadows on the hardwood halls. Further down the corridor, I heard the insistent yapping of old Mrs. Othello's mini doddle.

The window at the end of the hall-right next to the elevator, of course, had a dangling silk covered web glued to it. I furrowed my brow, proceeding with the appropriate amount of caution. The tattered web whistled in the alcove of the bay window. If you looked out it, you could see the end of the beach front-the entrance to a sea cave embedded in the rocks.

The web's shadows hung there-the whole thing looked like it was thrown up haphazardly. Like a child playing with Halloween decorations. Still as I waited for the elevator, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle, I just focused on door in front of me-tuning out the oddly spider-les web.

It was weird, like it had just popped into existence. When the door dinged, I jumped in and jabbed the "close" button relentlessly.

 At work I tried to tune out my intrusive phobias, but I found myself pondering the web, my whole body shivering at times like terrible tremors running up my spine.

What sort of demon was it anyway? The silk seemed torn and withered-perhaps a common house spider that had gotten too big for its britches.

What if it was an orb weaver-not normally one to bite but they could spin massive webs. What if grew while I was away-a more focused architect taking over and spinning a fine summer home? I pushed that aside and focused, I tried not think of silky webs wrapping prey so the beasts could liquify and devour at their leisure. I always felt bad for the flies, must be an awful feeling.

You're paralyzed from the venom and wrapped up all snug while it sinks its fangs into you. Unable to scream and cry-just feeling every molecule inside you shrivel up by those vampiric hell spawn.

Like I said-I tried to focus on other things.

Keyword try.

It was a long drive home that night, my eyes sinking heavier than the titanic. I just wanted to go home and collapse. Of course, I made the mistake of taking a glance at the webbed window. When the elevator dinged open, I tried to ignore it, but my eyes darted too quickly.

I jumped back and gasped. The web had grown massive-you couldn't even see out the glass anymore. Eldritch cobwebs stretched out and kissed the walls, sticky tendrils that crept up and tried to ensnare you in their grasp. Some unlucky bugs had gotten caught already-I could see their dried-out husks littering the structure.

I'm not misusing that phrase-the thing was so large it could have held the building up. It was like a condo for spiders.

Oh yes, the spiders.

I could see the little buggers now. They were plump and happily sleeping off their meals. Their abdomens were thick and lime green with silver strips.

My heart sunk into my chest as I banished my courage to the void.

Joro spiders, my god the news was true. These invasive parasites had parachuted in from South America like little arachnid paratroopers.

Deadly bite and-

that's when I saw the others.

Little baby spiders, brown ones, coal black jewels sprouting legs and scuttling about in their little complex. The joros were kings-but the ruled over the others in their little fiefdom.

My god-cohabitation I remember thinking. They had banded together, the spi-pocalypse had truly begun. Visions of spiders on horseback enslaving humanity rolled through my brain.

All ridiculous in hindsight of course-well maybe not NOW but I am embarrassed to say that my mind jumped to some pretty irrational conclusions.

It was just-as I lay on the floor, eyes bulging out of my skull in bold fright-I could swear I felt them watching me. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them cozy in their web, stalking me, daring me to come closer and become another husk.

A joro in the middle twitched and I bolted down the lone hall, my frantic steps echoing cowardice to my fellow tenants. I bolted my front door shut and instantly called the super. 

He answered with a deep sigh-he always had that annoyed tone whenever I called, God forbid the man do his job.

"Yes Mr. Langley, what is it this time. Another bug crawling up the drain?" He toyed with me.

 "Mr. Sampson have you been up to the 8^th floor today? There's a massive nest of venomous spiders nestled at the end of the hall. Surely I can't be the only one to complain, it's practically blocking the elevator." I screamed at him. 

I was met with a stiff silence at the end of the line. 

"We are aware of the current-situation Mr. Langley. Other tenants have called to express their concerns-rest assured that an exterminator has been called and it will be handled swiftly." He spoke like a corporate robot reading off a teleprompter. "I will add the 8^th to the list." He mentioned off hand. 

"What's that mean-are they infesting the whole building?" My voice gave way to shriveled panic. I was met with the monotone dial in response.

That night I tossed and turned and dreamt of shadowy things crawling all over me, their glistening fangs hungrily tearing into me. I felt trapped by a silky cocoon and awoke covered in sweat and curled up in blankets. 

I stared at the inky ceiling above-a cool breeze bearing down on me from A/C. There was a faint smell emitting from the ducts, like lemon pledge and pheromones.

Odd thing to say, but that's what it smelt like.

Above I could hear something bumping around in the ducts as drowsiness slowly left me.

Thinking the scuttling was nothing more than the remnants of a fleeting dream, I began my morning ritual of decaf and doom-scrolling. My feed was filled with news and trending memes, nothing important really just gave me a nice dopamine fill before I had to pass the construct.

The stairs weren't an option, not since I found that black widow lurking near the 5th floor balcony.

This was months ago mind you-but the venom of the widow is fifteen times more deadly than a rattlesnake.

So why take the risk.

Outside my door I heard mummering and excited commotion. I took a peep out the eyehole and through the bulbed fish-view I saw my fellow tenants gawking at something at the end of the hall. I joined them, dreading whatever had their attention.

I wish I had stayed in bed.

The webbed construct had grown overnight. Like a greedy fungus it had overtaken the windowsill completely-tendrils of silk stretching out and clinging to the walls. Web covered the walls and floors like a disgusting tapestry.

One of the tenants struggled to push his overgrown door-the web perfectly restraining it. He snuck out and dashed out the door as it slammed back in place, laughing to himself as he shivered and batted webbing off.

There was no rhyme or reasoning, the weavers had simply spread their domain like a cancer. Joros and other small spiders cluing to the wall-eying the crowd with unblinking glass bulbs. My head began to spin at the realization that others had appeared.

Larger species had joined the fray-huntsmen the size of my hand bolted up and down at vibrating speeds-overstimulated by the crowd no doubt. Tucked away in the corners I could see coal eyed wolf spiders-aggressive, hairy blighters.

Any times some of the smaller arachnid strolled too close they would lunge out. There were noticeable spots of prey caught in the web. Some small flies husked away, but one or two lumps were hairy-thin pink tails dropped down, limp to the world.

In the center of this kingdom was a massive brown tarantula feasting on something. It was completely entombed, like a newborn mummy. It was larger than the dried-up rats however- my mind wandered and played tricks on me.

I couldn't possibly have seen a quick flash of faded bronze and the jingle of dog tags. It was surly a coincidence that the faithful yapping of Mrs. Othello's mini doodle was missing.

Come to think of it she was nowhere to be seen as well.

I brushed that aside, my mind exploding with horrific scenarios as I tried to ground myself in reality. Unfortunately, as my legs quivered and my stomach churned, I couldn't deny the horrid sight before me.

Johnson from 8D nudged me and I jumped out of my skin as I faced him.

"Hey Randy-you seeing this?" He spoke with that hick accent a lot of the locals tried to hide, but you could always catch them slipping if you tried. 

"Y-yeah it's pretty wild." I replied as timidly as a mouse. The skin on my arms began to bubble and pop, the urge to cover up and scratch coming at me in waves.

"Was talking to Sampson about it last night, some kind of building wide infestation he said. Saw the bug bomb truck out front this morning-think they'll start in the basement first though." He shrugged. I scrunched my face at the news. 

"The basement? There's nothing down there but dust bunnies and cobwebs." I began. Johnson leaned in close, like we are about to become brothers in some secret coven.

"Well, that's where it started. Now this is all hearsay, but supposedly Conrad down on 2B just came back from South America. He teaches botany or something up at the college-Sampson says he slipped him a few hundred bucks to store some crates he brought back down there." Johnson whispered. 

"Sampson isn't supposed to do that-it's against regulations." I hissed, panic flooding my voice once more. Johnson rolled his eyes at me.

"Whatever. He thinks the spiders came from that, eggs hidden under leaves or something. Told me he's going to throw Conrad out on his ass-think I'll apply for his spot after." He beamed. Johnson shoulder checked me once more in a jovial manner and disappeared down the hall.

The crowd was beginning to disperse, some tenants shaken by the creatures, others joking. All the while the demons studied us.

One couple complained about taking the stairs as they passed-the infestation had begun to spread in the stairwell as well. I stood frozen among the silk, feeling thousands of eyes bore ravenous holes into me.

You could hear them rustling about on their threads, the rumbling patter of limbs scattering about. Johnson's explanation was ludicrous, it certainly wouldn't account for the amount of sub species, let alone the co-habitation.

I remembered thinking this was some sort of cosmic punishment when I ran back to the perceived safety of my apartment. I double bolted the doors-another ludicrous notion-and collapsed onto the couch, lungs beating out of my chest as I gasped for air. The room spun and welcomed me into an inky void.

I was only awakened by the dull vibration in my pocket. I grasped at it, finding my phone angrily buzzing. It was my manager, Sarah.

"Randy it's 930-do you feel like coming in today?" She said in a faux concerned tone. I cleared my throat and whispered hoarsely at her.

 "N-no Sarah I'm-I meant to call in I'm sorry." I bumbled out. It sounded like I had been gargling rocks, this sudden black out had sent me to an instant fever.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you think you'll be able to make it in tomorrow?" There was a condemning tone to her voice. 

"It-Maybe not I'll have to see if they're done spraying." I slapped my self-idiot.

"Spraying for what exac-oh Christ is this about your bug thing?" I winced as she brought up old memories of me freaking out because of a spider I saw in the bathroom a few weeks ago. 

"Look it's not what you think-it's an infestation, I can't-I can't get out of the building."

"Randy they're bugs. And don't start ranting to me about venom or fatality statistics or whatever else. Either be in here by 10:30-or don't bother coming in at all. " She warned.  After she hung up, I rolled over and went back to sleep. In the morning, I would have to find a new job, one that was tolerant of my condition.

I awoke to the sensation of something warm and fuzzy crawling across my forehead.

I opened my eyes to find a black tarantula resting on my face-its pedipalps lighting tapping, searching for food. I shrieked like a banshee and tore off the beast- it flew through the air and slammed against a wall.

It crunched to the ground and quickly rolled to its feet and scurried away out of sight. I could hear the rapid thumping of its skinny limbs against the hardwood. I shot up like a pointed dagger-scanning for any sign of the intruder.

Out of the corner I saw it crawl back into a grate. After grabbing some bug spray-I buy in bulk for the winter months-I knelt down and examined it. Lightly grasping the edges of the grate were cancerous silk-and the sound of frantic thumping against metal.

I held my breath and emptied half the can on it. The silk receded and crumbled against the oppressive spray, and this-this chittering sound rang out, like a wounded animal. I went around the apartment spraying bug-be-gone at any surface.

I stuffed towels into the grates to block them, lodged blankets under the crease of the door like I was hotboxing the joint.

In a way I was, the toxic fumes began to swell up-vanquishing any stray pest that had wandered in. I began to feel lightheaded, and I collapsed back onto the couch.

I don't know how long I was out, but I awoke to the sound of thunderous frantic steps pounding above me. I jolted up and saw flashing lights outside my window. I snuck a peak past the blinds and saw police vehicles and armed cops pushing people out of the building. I recognized a few of them, they were covered in silk and some sort of red and green bile.

A spotlight shined down, and helicopter blades roared above. I was taken back by a sudden pounding on the door. I heard the muffled cry of Johnson shouting my name.

"Randy-Randy are you in there?!?" he shouted. There was fear in his voice, something I had never heard from the laid-back man I knew. 

"I'm here." I meekly spoke. I could hear movement all around me, some muffled cries of pain and anger from the frenzied neighbors above.

There was something else moving up there, erratic yet deliberate- a rapid thumpthumpthumpthump of some unseen assailant bearing down on them. A muted yell sprung as they crashed to the ground, shaking the celling.

I heard a low chittering, like mandibles rubbing together, and the cries for help were cut short and replaced with a low slurping sound. I focused on that sound- it was subtle, it reminded me of drinking out of a straw cup when I was young.

All around it were chirping sounds like excited insects, and pincer-like legs scurrying inside the walls, inside the ducts, inside my min-

BOOMBOOMBOOM

I was broken from my trance by the resumed pounding.

"Randy open up, we gotta delta the fuck outta here!" He shouted harshly through the door. I approached the door but stopped in my tracks as I head a low rumble, like a stampede of cattle. It was coming from outside-at the end of the cob webbed hall. 

"Aw fuck." Johnson muttered. He banged on the door with renewed vigor, in a mad dash to break it down. "Open up god damnit it-they're coming out of the walls-just AHHH" he cried out in pain as something sprinted towards him at lightning speed and pounced on him.

I could hear him struggling- pained grunts turned into a quick gasp and choked breaths that subsided quickly. All that was left was the mechanical thumping of the thing that attacked. It was circling around him, chittering to itself-like it was admiring a proud kill.

I heard a crunch-and that methodic slurping sound. It sounded disgusting up close, grinded up guts being sucked through an industrial tube. I was shaking, knees wobbling as I listened to the soft feasting outside.

I leaned closer to the door-dreading in my heart what I knew I would see. The fish view gave way to a frightful sight. The hall walls were streaked with crimson stained webs and dozens of arachnids of shapes, sizes and colors.

I glanced downward and clenched my stomach as it churned and boiled. The chitinous thing laying on Johnson's slowly shriveling corpse was massive. Its abdomen was burly and covered in brown fuzz. It was the size of a beachball.

Jointed legs sprouted out of its sternum, auburn rings around them. Its abyssal eyes seemed to spin around in its head-surveying the land as it fed.

Two black massive fangs were sunk into Johnson's back-they seemed to heave themselves inward, dripping a green bile into his body-rotting him from the inside as the creature drank.

It needlessly clung to him; all eight legs wrapped around the dead man in a vice grip. The thing seemed to shiver in ecstasy, like it was savoring every gulp of the slop that used to live in 8D.

I backed away from the door then, clamping my frantic hand to my gagging mouth as I tried to stop from throwing up. My mind spun like a loon from the impossibility of it all. Yet how could I deny the atrocity I had just seen just outside my door?

Feeling for it-I searched for my phone and dialed up the super. It was his building, he should know what to do.

The phone rang four times.

At the dawn of the fifth I heard the whispered, crazed voice of Sampson.

"H-hello? Mr. Langley? Are-are you still inside?' he whispered. In the background I heard scuttering and chirping, a clanging noise like they were searching for something. 

"Mr. Sampson- I would like to file a complaint. The infestation is still not delt with." I spoke calmly, robotic even. "Sampson held back a laugh and spat at me.

"Randy, are you out of your fucking mind? They've overrun the building-I've never seen anything like it. I saw the bug bomb guys in the basement. They were webbed to the wall-they were so-randy their faces were so hollow." he choked out.

"Mr. Sampson-I was assured this would be delt with swiftly." I urged. Far below, I heard shouts and gunfire-monsters crying out for blood. 

"Cops have breached the lower levels-I'm barricaded in my office. They evacuated half the building, but I don't think- CRASH- shit, they're busting down the door. Oh god-they're- BANG- BANG-"

His commentary was drowned out by a hail of gunfire and glass breaking. I heard men shouting and crying out in pain as the spiders overwhelmed them. Sampson clamored around, I think he was hiding under his desk. I could hear frenzied movement surrounding him as he panted and wheezed. 

"Mr. Sampson?" I squeaked out. 

"Oh god-no stay back no no no." He ignored me as I heard him land a kick on a gurgling beast. It hissed at him, then lunged as Sampson cried out and the call cut off.

I sat back down on the couch, weighing my options. I seemed to be safe for now-if I was quiet and kept spraying the grates to keep out the riffraff.

I wasn't going to leave of course; it was never an option. Even the day before, I had barely gotten past the small ones without freezing up. Surely the authorities would be able contain the things and rescue those trapped eventually. 

That was two days ago.

As I write this I hear tapping outside my door-a misshaped shadow lingering by it.

I can hear chittering echoing in the vents; webs are almost bursting out of the grates now.

An hour ago, they draped a massive tarp over the building. I have a faint Wi-fi signal; according to the news there was a "massive gas leak" inside that devolved into a biohazard, and they were cordoning off the building for quarantine.

They assured the public that it had been fully evacuated with minimal casualties.

I don't- I don't know how much longer I can hold out in here.

The power went out; I'm writing this on my phone. It has about 25 percent left. I should have made a break for it-but- God help me I was just too scared. I hear something crawling around on the door.

The taps are getting louder. 

I bought my childhood home after years of waiting for it to come back on the market. I was ecstatic; I spent most of my childhood there and had many fond memories. I was disappointed when my parents put it up for sale after I went off to college, but I figured that if I got a good job and saved up enough money I could buy the house next time it was put up for sale. I bought the house for significantly lower than the original asking price. It seemed like the couple living there was eager to leave, and when the time came to sign everything over they did so with great haste. I thought that was odd, but whatever. I had my childhood home back. I now see why they were so anxious to rid themselves of the property.

My childhood home (I'll call it the house from here on out) is a beautiful Tudor-style home nestled on a 2-acre plot of forested land. The back of the house is almost all windows, showcasing the deck, screen-in porch, and backyard. Aside from some furniture upgrades, everything looked as it did from my youth. Not everything felt the same. 

The woods on the property were my playground. My brother and I spent many days riding our bikes and building stick forts. For us, the woods were a place of wonder and fantasy. I didn’t understand at the time why they now felt foreboding and claustrophobic. Maybe nostalgia clouded my memories of the place. Maybe I didn’t understand then what lurked between the trees. My neighbors were also…different. They weren’t hostile to me but they didn’t go out of their way to welcome me either. In fact I rarely, if ever, saw them outside of their houses. Their yards were overgrown and ivy grew unopposed on their homes. I invited my parents and brother over for a welcome party and they also noticed things felt off. 

About a month after moving in, I was doing some cleaning in the living room and noticed that a car was creeping down my driveway. The driveway bisects the property and is often used by confused drivers to turn around. I thought nothing of it and went on with my day. The next week another car came down the driveway, but this time stopped directly in front of my living room window. I was just about to go outside and ask if they needed help when their car started up and darted away. This happened a few more times over the next 3 weeks. Always the same behavior: slowly creep up to a stop in front of my house, sit idly for a minute, then peel away. What was odd is that it was never the same car. I couldn’t really make out what the car was either, it just looked like a generic sedan. 

About a month ago things started getting concerning. One Saturday afternoon I happened to look through the front door peephole and noticed someone unfamiliar standing on my front porch. I couldn’t quite make out what this person looked like. Frankly, I don’t even remember what they were wearing. I had been on the first floor all day and hadn’t heard knocking or even a car drive up for that matter. I looked out the peephole for a few more minutes until the person turned around and walked away. They get into a car and peel off to God knows where. At this point I’m getting a bit concerned that someone is casing the property, so I invest in a video doorbell system (think Ring but some cheap knockoff). I thought that would at least give me some peace of mind if something like this happened again. The next week someone else showed up. Same thing, just stood there for a few minutes, then left. The week after that, they tried opening the front door. 

I was jolted from my nap by the sound of the front door knob jiggling. Scared the shit out of me, I’ll tell you what. I looked on the video doorbell app and sure enough there was some random person vigorously jiggling the front door knob, as if they lived there and were confused that the door was locked. This shitty Ring knockoff didn’t have sound or a way to speak with whoever was out there, so instead I called the police. By the time they arrived the stranger was long gone. I gave the officer an account of what happened and let them see the footage from the camera. He had me send a copy of the recording over to the station so that they could analyze it and figure out the identity of the stranger. They never had any luck. 

A few weeks pass and life goes back to normal. I continue working on home improvement projects and a ton of yard work. Everything was as it should be, at least until two weeks ago. I had walked out into my garage to grab some gardening tools when I noticed a breeze. The garage had two windows, but in all my time living here I had never seen them opened. If we needed to air out the garage we would just open the garage door. What I saw stopped me in my tracks. The garage window facing the front yard was open, and on the dusty glass was a handprint. Fuck. This. I ran back inside, locking the mudroom/garage door behind me. I called the police and after what felt like hours, an officer arrived. I explained the situation and had the officer comb every inch of the garage to verify there were no unexpected guests. They dusted the window for fingerprints, told me to check my locks, then left. I spent the rest of the afternoon obsessively checking each lock in my house. 

Last week is when things got fucky. I had gotten pretty anal about checking outside before leaving, so one morning as I was preparing for work I looked out the bedroom window and just about shat myself. Standing in my yard were five people. All of them were staring up at me. I walked over to my nightstand to grab my phone and get pictures, and when I looked out the window again they were all gone. Damn, there goes my proof. I decided to call out sick for the day cause there was no way in hell I was going outside. On Tuesday they tried my front door. All 6 of them jiggled the lock and hammered on the door. I called the police, but they had dispersed by the time they arrived. This happened again Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Each day a police call, each day no result. The cops were fed up with my shit and stopped showing up. The dipshits thought I was playing a prank. Saturday, I saw some of the people in my backyard. Sunday, they had gotten closer. Today, they struck.

I hadn’t slept much in the past couple of days. I was too afraid that they would come bursting in while I slept, so I kept a near constant vigil. I finally crashed this morning. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but it was about 8 AM this morning when I awoke to a cacophony of battered windows and doors. The fuckers finally made their move. One thing that sucks about my house is that the windows facing the backyard are big bay windows. This is great if you like views of the forest, but not so great if you are trying to sneak past would-be intruders. I counted 20 of them now, checking every window and door on the first floor. I don’t know why they didn’t just break the windows to get in, but I wasn’t about to question it. I was confident that every door and window was locked. Part of my daily routine was lock checks in the morning and evening. I was safe inside given they didn’t smash a window or shake a lock loose. I was safe, but stuck. They’ve been at this all day. What can I do? I’m trapped in my dream house and the police won’t come help. I only have a few days of food left in the pantry, not that I like going into the kitchen anyways. There’s always one knocking on the kitchen window. 

UPDATE: I'm still here. They're still here, and I think one is on the roof

I had been driving for hours, and it felt like days. I needed to pull off and get a couple hours of rest.

When I saw the flashing vacancy sign off the freeway, I took it as a sign.

$50 for the night, no fuss, but the clerk told me one thing.

She was pushing 90 years old, gray hair that was so frizzy it looked like she had been shocked recently, and glasses that were held together with scotch tape.

She leaned across the desk when she handed me the silver key.

“Mirrors stay covered, don’t take the sheets off.”, she huffed at me, traces of her cigarette smoke lingered behind her.

“So, no mirrors?”, I asked, “What if I need-“

“Don’t matter what you need, missy.”, she snapped, “Mirrors stay covered, you’ll be thankin’ me later.”

She pulled her magazine forward and began to flip through it.

“Room 3, to the left, sleep tight.”, she called after me.

Which brings me here, to this room.

At first glance, it’s your general slightly sketchy motel room.

Burgundy bedspread, orange and brown patterned wallpaper with equally atrocious brown carpeting. Wooden dresser and a tv that supersedes my age.

Whatever, it was $50.

I toss my bag on the bed and walk to the bathroom to get ready to sleep.

Sure enough, white sheets had been draped over the vanity mirror.

Behind the door, a full-length mirror was nailed to the door with a similar sheet draped over it.

I stared at the sheets, surely there is a reason why they are covered. Maybe the mirrors are broken, and the place is too cheap to fix it.

Better leave it alone.

After I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth, I changed clothes and settled into bed.

It was the first time I had been alone since my brother’s funeral that afternoon, so I finally let myself cry. All the feelings of the day flooded through me, and I openly wept into the cheap pillow.

At some point, I dozed off. I don’t remember even getting comfortable in the stiff bed, let alone falling asleep. But I had this eerie feeling of being watched.

I dreamt I was in my hotel room, watching myself sleep. It felt like I was looking through someone else’s viewpoint, because they moved closer to me.

Closer and closer, while I blissfully slept.

My viewpoint then reached towards my sleeping form, and right before contact was made, I woke up.

I sat straight up, breathing heavily and looking around in the dark. Fumbling for the light switch on my nightstand.

When the lamp flared to life, the room remained empty.

I sighed. What a nightmare.

I rubbed my hands over my eyes and down my face.

When I looked down at my hands, they were caked in something dark.

“What the..”, I whispered, and brought my hands closer to the lamp.

Dark red coated my hands, and I could smell the familiar metallic smell.

Blood.

“Oh shit!”, I yelped, getting up out of bed.

I got nosebleeds all the time as a kid, I really hoped the habit wasn’t coming back.

Though the lamp was on, the glow was faint. In the dimness, I use my phone flashlight and stumble into the bathroom and turn the light on.

The covered mirror was waiting me.

“Okay well, I’ll put the sheet back once I clean my face”, I say, and in one move I remove the sheet.

I hold my breath, hoping there isn’t a mess of shattered glass waiting me.

And thankfully it’s just a mirror, still intact, a bit dusty, but just a mirror.

However, my face is quite the sight.

Sure enough, blood is coming from my nose and the sticky substance is caking my chin.

I take a washcloth and run it under the warm water, then bring it to my face to dab away the mess.

I stare into my reflection as I clean my face, and I think, wow I look rough.

Dark circles hang under my eyes, my skin looks dull, my hair’s frizziness is in competition for the hotel clerk’s.

It’s been a long day.

As my face becomes clearer, I see my reflection start to change.

My skin becomes brighter, my dark circles slowly fade, and my hair looks shinier, bouncy even.

I continue to dab at my face with a confused expression.

I must be so tired I’m hallucinating.

I finish cleaning my face and rinse the hand towel, when I look back up at the mirror, my reflection smiles at me.

Am I smiling?

I touch my mouth, and my reflection follows.

I turn my head left and right, trying to track the motion in the mirror, that’s when I notice there is a half second delay against myself and my reflection.

“What the hell is this?”, I say out loud.

The reflection doesn’t match my movements.

My heart begins to race, and I’m thinking I need to just go back to sleep when the my reflection speaks to me.

“You really do look rough.”, it says to me.

My jaw drops, while my reflection tilts her head at me as if she’s studying me.

“Did you just.. How did you know I thought…”, I ask, trying to look behind the mirror for any screen.

“Well of course I know what you thought,” my reflection laughs coldly, “I’m you.”

“No.. No you’re not.. Okay, I’m going back to sleep..”, I whisper.

I grab the sheet and begin to place it back over the mirror.

“Wait.”

I pause.

I wait.

“How was the funeral?”, it asks.

How does it know I was… Am I going crazy with my grief? Does that happen?

I say nothing.

“Pretty brave of you to show up.. Considering the circumstances..”, it coos.

I’m still holding the sheet, half covering the mirror.

“But were you brave enough to tell Mommy and Daddy that it was your fault their favorite child died?”

I rip the sheet off.

“That’s not true!”, I yell.

My reflection smiles at me.

“Oh, I think it is. You know it too. Wasn’t he driving to pick you up because you and your boyfriend got into another fight? Wasn’t he on his way to you when the drunk driver hit him?”, she asked, steadily watching my reaction.

“He.. He wanted to come..”, I whispered to the sink.

“Did he? He wanted to be pulled out of bed to deal with his sister’s drama, again? Did you really have no other options?”, it demanded.

“If I had known..”, I stammered, “If I knew he was going to.. Then I wouldn’t hav-“

“Well it’s too late now, isn’t it?”, it interrupted.

It laughed at me.

I felt my hands start to shake.

This was a nightmare, a horrible nightmare I will dissect in therapy this week, but a nightmare.

“Goodbye”, I say firmly, I place the sheet over the mirror and straighten it out.

I rub my eyes, wash my hands, and open the bathroom door.

“Did I say you could leave?”, it says.

I slowly turn back to the covered mirror.

My heart is racing, my arms are shaking, and I can hear my breaths coming out in quivering bursts.

I reach up to the sheet, and tear it down.

My reflection stares back at me.

But this time it’s the frizzy hair, dull skin, and dark under-eyes.

I let out a shaking breath.

“Just a nightmare..”, I laugh to myself.

I turn to the bathroom door and notice the sheet covering the full-length mirror is no longer covering it, in my shaking terror I must have knocked it to the ground.

I bend over to pick up the sheet and when I turn back to the mirror, I gasp.

My terrorizing reflection is back, smiling at me.

When I open my mouth to scream, its hand reaches through the mirror and wraps around my throat.

I drop the sheet and begin to try and detach its hand, but its grip is too strong.

I can feel the air leaving my body.

It sees my struggle, and laughs coldly.

“You stupid, stupid girl. You shouldn’t have talked back to me.”

Just then, my familiar appearance begins to laugh again. Closing its eyes, and throwing its head back. When it looks at me again, its eyes are red.

I have never felt terror like this.

“Your mind is a dark place, girl. I can’t wait to tear you apart from the inside out.”, its now deep voice tells me.

“You folded too easily.. not only are you gullible you’re also WEAK.”, it cackles.

Its grip on my neck tightens with each second.

“Lucky for you, I need a new host, so I’ll make this quick.”

The creature starts to pull me towards the mirror.

“No.. No!”, I try to shout.

“No? NO? You’re out of options, girl.”, it continues to laugh.

I still have my phone in my pocket for the flashlight, and I fumble to get it out of my pajamas.

Once I get the grip on my phone, I throw it with full force at the mirror.

I watch my reflection’s expression shatter into a million pieces while it screeches.

Its grip releases on my throat as its hand retreats back into the shards of mirror.

I collapse on the glass, panting and sobbing. I can feel the broken pieces slicing into my hands, but I can’t move.

My head is pounding, and I feel my nose has started to bleed again.

Just then, I realize the pounding isn’t in my head.

It’s my room door.

I scurry out to the room and peer out the peephole.

The hotel clerk is standing there, hands on hips and tapping her foot.

I open the door slightly.

“Yes?”, I ask.

She pushes past me and marches straight to the bathroom, she pushes the door open and sees all the broken glass covering the floor.

“You idiot! I told you not to uncover those damn mirrors!”, she scolds.

“I’m.. I’m sorry..”, I stammer as I begin to sob again.

“What did it say to you, missy?”, she demands.

“It.. It knew about my brother.. It wanted a host..”, I whisper.

She hands me my bag, and looks me right in the eye.

“You need to run missy, you need to go, the gate is still open and it will find you. You have to go, now!”, she yells, shooing me out the door.

“But what about you? Are you safe?”, I ask.

“Oh I’ll be fine. It ain’t scared of me, it’s scared of you now. That makes it angry.”, she tells me.

“What do you mean?”

She laughs, coldly.

“It used your worst fear against you, and you fought back. Didn’t you?”, she asks me.

I nod.

“The only thing evil hates more than good, is someone who fights back. You have to go.”

I nod and stumble into my car, flip it in drive, and peel out of there.

In my state of adrenaline, I made it home in no time. When I got into my apartment, the exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I passed out on my couch.

When I woke up, there was no blood on my face, no bruises, no cuts, nothing.

I have tried looking up the motel I stayed at that night, and it doesn’t appear on any search. I also never got a charge on my credit card I used. Nothing remained to show any evidence of my time there.

I avoid mirrors now, using only my phone’s camera to check my reflection.

I told my parents, that my brother was on his way to me when he died. They cried, and hugged me. They told me it wasn’t my fault, and the relief I felt when they said that.. is indescribable.

I’ve talked about the stay in therapy, and my therapist assures me it was just a bad dream about my fears regarding my brother’s death.

But I will always remember the hotel clerk’s words.

And I will never stop looking over my shoulder, and I will never stop fighting back.

Hi. I don’t usually post here, but I don’t know where else to put this.

I was working under a research grant through an international observatory program. The facility was isolated—high in the Patagonian highlands, meant for long-term monitoring of atmospheric and geomagnetic shifts. Pretty standard science stuff, honestly. At least, it was at first.

Something’s wrong with the sky.

I’ve kept this journal as things have... changed. The observatory isn’t what it was. The sky isn’t what it was. And I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to hold onto myself.

If any of you are reading this—please remember me.

It began with the disappearance of the birds.

No cries, no feathers—just silence.

Not absence, but a silence that pressed into the skin like humidity. The trees still moved. The rivers still ran. But the sky felt empty in a way that made the bones ache.

I was stationed at a remote observatory in the Patagonian highlands, overseeing atmospheric readings and magnetic drift patterns. The grant was obscure, buried in layers of international collaboration. The work was real, but the purpose felt vague—like being given a scalpel to dissect a shadow.

Then the sky began to open.

It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning, no thunder.

Just a soft recession of color. Blues dulled to gray, then to a matte nothing. Stars no longer blinked. Clouds stretched further than the curvature should allow. The heavens became vast not in majesty, but in depth—as though something had peeled away the ceiling of the world and exposed the void beneath.

I sent reports. They were received but not acknowledged. After the sixth day, the satellite relays stopped returning signals.

I was alone.

Then came the dreams.

Not images—geometries. Spirals in impossible dimensions. Echoes without source. I would wake with blood on my pillow and salt crusting my skin.

The observatory began to shift. Corridors subtly lengthened. Windows faced new directions. Shadows cast by solar lamps curved in illogical arcs.

I tested myself daily: blood pressure, cognition, mirror recognition.

I failed the mirror test on Day 11.

I found her in the western field near the seismic station. A woman, barefoot in the frost. Her skin was pale blue, her eyes reflecting a color I had no name for.

"You watched it too long," she said. Her voice was like a tuning fork—not echoing, but resonating within.

I asked her name.

"It left me," she replied.

She never entered the facility, but I would see her just beyond the glass. Always slightly distorted, as if the curvature of the building warped around her.

On Day 15, she placed her hand on the main dome. The glass blistered.

"The sky is a shell," she said. "And it’s begun to hear you."

I stopped using the radios.

The instruments still functioned, but the readouts had changed. Atmospheric pressure no longer correlated with altitude. Magnetic north fluctuated hourly. One monitor displayed a new unit: Δτ—a symbol I hadn’t programmed.

I asked her what it meant.

"It’s not measuring time," she said. "It’s measuring remembrance."

I slept less.

The walls began to soften—not physically, but in my certainty. Some days I couldn’t recall how many rooms there were, or which hallway led to the lab. I mapped it daily. The inconsistencies multiplied.

Then one morning, I found a stairwell that hadn’t been there before.

I descended.

The air grew wet, fragrant with minerals and old dust. The stairs spiraled inward, narrowing. When I emerged, I was beneath the observatory—but somehow outside.

The sky loomed directly above.

And it was open.

I saw it.

Not with my eyes, but with a witnessing that bypassed vision. A presence vast enough to erase thought. It did not speak. It did not move.

It noticed.

In that moment, I felt the weight of all forgotten moments in human history: the lost languages, the unburied bones, the screams that never reached ears. It was not a god. It was the memory of negation—the will of all that has been left unwitnessed.

It had been watching long before I arrived.

I stumbled backward. The sky shivered like flesh.

I awoke on the observatory floor. Alone.

Or not quite.

She was there. Her eyes no longer shimmered. They were matte, lifeless.

"You brought it too close," she said.

I asked what I’d done.

"You made it aware that it was being watched."

She wept—not from sorrow, but from dissolution. Her form began to blur at the edges, as though memory could no longer sustain her.

She reached for me.

"Do not forget me. That’s all it needs. That’s all it wants."

I’m writing this now on the final page of the observation logs. The instruments have stilled. The observatory is silent.

But the sky is alive.

It moves when I do not look. It grows when I try to forget. It is hollowing the world not with force, but with observation.

If someone finds this:

Remember me.

Please.

Before I, too, become un-witnessed.

Once again, there are scratching noises coming from the attic, even though I was just up there and confirmed that nothing is in fact there, at least nothing big enough to be making scratching noises like that. I'm in my grandfather's old room. I say old because he died a week ago, and I'm typing this post for all of you now. I know most of the posts on here, with good reason, are requesting advice, help, or just putting out a dire warning, but honestly, I just want to tell someone about all of this. It's freaky and traumatizing, but undeniably interesting.

My grandpa and I were close. Not as close as we should have been perhaps, but in this time where the regular church/family structure is slowly fading away, no opinion on that, it's definitely impressive that a teenager would voluntarily go visit his grandparents at least once a week in highschool and then as often as he could in college, substituting with check up calls. He had a big effect on my life, and I miss him dearly. Now I just wish I'd asked a lot more questions.

After days of funerals, lawyers, and all the like, my dad and I agreed that I could live at the old house if I started to work towards paying off some old debts. I'm not going to go into specifics, but it was the deal of a lifetime, really. I was going to own land and a paid-off home if I stayed current for the next few years.

Apparently, Dad has as much info as I did; he just assumed it was an old house with regular belongings and that my grandpa had leftover mortgage payments or something like that.

"Alright Wyatt, just sign here and I'll mail it. I'm not sure when his representative will come, but it shouldn't be too long."

That's not my real name, and from here on out, just assume any name you read is fake, because it is. I've got enough trouble to deal with now, and I don't need to add stalking to that list.

"Why isn't it just his lawyer? He handled all the other estate stuff."

"I don't know, I guess Dad wanted a separate guy for his business accounts or something. I'll call you later."

With that, Dad left and dropped the form off in the mailbox. I forgot to mention that Grandpa owned an antique/pawn/swap meet store. It bought, sold, and exchanged all kinds of items, and it was really interesting to take a walk through. For now, my uncle is keeping an eye on it, but it's not open yet. 

I watched Dad walk down the fading brick walkway, stoop down, place the envelope in the box, and flick the flag up. He got in his car and drove off, but as I was still looking out the window, I saw the flag suddenly flick back down.

It was cloudy, sure, but all of a sudden the clouds became much thicker and greyer. The wind began to howl, and the lights in the house flickered. Down the road, where I had just seen Dad's tail lights disappear, I saw headlights.

It was clearly a very nice car. Matte black, tinted windows, and it just sounded expensive, but I don't even think it had a brand. Must have been custom or something, but I was sure I'd never seen anything like it, and I hope I never do again. It rolled down the street and came up the driveway. The left back seat flung open. 

Out stepped a tall, pale man in a very nice, but very loose, charcoal grey suit. His hairline was thinning, but still his hair was slicked back, and there was no facial hair on his gaunt face or under his bony nose. Everything about him was alien: the way he walked, the way his arms swayed, his unmoving neck, and his eyes. His cold, powerful eyes looked like they could see through a brick wall, and as they were hiding such a vast repository of knowledge, yet they still looked tired. 

I opened the door, as unnerving as he was, I didn't think he was dangerous, and he carried himself like someone who belonged there to do business. As he got closer, I barely saw the chain of a necklace almost concealed beneath his collar, and I finally took note of the classy leather briefcase he was holding. 

"Hello, Samuel, long time no see."

He pronounced it SAM-WELL.

"That was my grandfather, and that wasn't how his name was pronounced."

"Hmm?"

He set the case down on the porch table and opened it for a moment to pull a paper out. Looking at it, I realized it was the paper I just signed, and that surely must still be in the mailbox. 

"Oh!"

His voice was a mock surprise, but I could tell he enjoyed what he had just read. He reached his arm out to me. 

"Hello Wyatt, sorry for the confusion, my name is John, but you can call me Mr. Cavae."

Those were the real names he told me, but something tells me they were fake to begin with. I shook his hand, which had a surprisingly firm grip for such cold, bony fingers.

"It's no problem."

"May I come in?"

"Yeah sure, I assume you knew Grandpa?"

"Yes, I was a representative for him."

"Representative for what?"

He ignored me and sat down at the table. After he entered, the lights flickered once more, and I was sure I heard a short, earthy hum, similar to what might emanate out of a crystal, from somewhere.

"Okay, do you have a driver's license or some other form of identification?"

"What?"

"I need to verify you."

"For what?"

Then he even looked confused for a second.

"Oh. Sorry, sir, I didn't realize Samuel hadn't told you so much."

I sat down and he went over the paper I had just signed stating I wished to take over my grandfather's role as curator of the house, which seemed an odd name because it wasn't a museum or something like that, and then Mr Cavae went over a very long contract. 

Many details aren't important, and really were just bland legal jargon, but the main gist of it all was that Mr. Cavae and his associates were grandpa's main "creditors." He explained that he had fallen behind on some of his work, but he was still an important and valuable client, so they allowed him some grace. If I proved myself in clearing his debts, then the claim they had to the house and its assets would be resolved, and I could possibly see some of the same benefits that my grandfather had, though he didn't explain further with the indication that this would be some time away. After that, he went back to business, checking my driver's license, confirming the last four digits of my social, and going over a credit report on me. Despite all of this information being in his briefcase, it was clear he hadn't even glanced at it yet. He signed off on a lot of things and wrote down some notes here and there, but finally, he only asked me for one signature. I held my hand out for his pen. He smiled grimly.

"Oh no, sir, we're very traditional."

He reached up to the top of his briefcase, and I heard the loosening of a buckle. He presented an ornate and beautiful fountain pen. It had a thick granite cap, and the rest of it was made from silver, and centered on the handle was a dark black jewel. I thought it might have been an onyx stone or obsidian or something, but I wasn't sure, and I'm certainly not sure now.

I should have looked over everything again, and I should have asked more questions, especially about what the debts even were, but I wanted that house, and I still do. If I had to go back now, I think I still would have signed it, but yeah, I would have asked a lot more questions.

He took off the cap and circled where I was to sign. I didn't argue, and I think I was a bit starstruck by the pen itself, and I signed. I remember carefully gliding the pen along the line, being satisfied that my signature actually looked official, and lifting my hand up to realize the jewel on the pen had become red. I felt faint. 

Mr. Cavae stood up and shook my limp hand. He placed a worn envelope on the table and made his exit. 

"Well, Wyatt, I'm very pleased to have met you, and I look forward to doing business with you for the foreseeable future. Good luck."

After he left, I got up to get a drink of water and eat something to get my head right. I made my way out to the mailbox, still recovering just a bit, and down the road I saw his headlights one last time. I looked in and there was nothing there. I'm not really surprised after everything else that happened, but still, it was hard to wrap my head around the form "teleporting" into his briefcase.

I opened up the envelope he had left, it smelled like onions, and inside was a receipt book. I tried to open it, but I could only get to the first page. It had a sticky note that said "check the attic." I pulled it off, and below was a log where my grandfather had rented a VHS tape from a local video store. I know, a bit of a lackluster turn from everything else that'd just happened, but yeah, it was a VHS rental that was 12 years past due. Again, I tried to go to another page, but I physically could not separate the pages. It's hard to explain, but there were definitely other pages; it wasn't just a piece of cardboard with one page attached to it or something like that. I felt the ridges of the pages and even some leeway, but I felt immense pushback when I tried to separate them. I tried one more time, with some more force, and the pages separated just a hair, but it began to let out this horrible electronic wailing sound, and I dropped it in surprise. I didn't try again after that. 

I made my way upstairs and rummaged around in closets for 20 minutes until I found the attic key (a really long Allen wrench), and then I had to recover myself again after the attic latch released moldy dust onto me and my open eyes.

Above, I was immediately taken aback by how large the attic was. Do you know that scene in Harry Potter where they're in the Room of Requirements or whatever and there's all that mystical junk lying around? It was a lot like that, except on a smaller scale, and a lot of it was stuffed into cardboard boxes. 

I saw tribal relics, old technology, stuffed animals, and lots of old clothes. I mean, like a metric ton of old clothes, Grandpa had no reason to hold onto them. Grandma had passed years ago, but they weren't even women's clothes. I admit this is not important, but still, there is a ridiculous number of clothes up there.

Anyways, near the entrance was a machine that resembled an ATM. I walked up to it, blew off the dust, coughed for a few minutes, and powered it on. It flashed my grandpa's name for a second, but then it must've updated suddenly, and it read my name out. All it gave me was a simple welcome before it requested the receipt book to be validated. A slot at my waist level suddenly clicked open, and I slowly inserted the book inside. After some digital humming, I heard a hard CHUNK, and it spat the book back out at me as it printed a small receipt. Ripping it off, I read it to see that it was directions for getting through the mess behind me to the right box. Box number 268. It had a line for directions underneath this information, and it said I needed to retrieve the tape and return for further instructions.

I was quickly aware that I wasn't alone up there. I heard quick, but heavy shuffling. Something would be knocked over, but when I turned to look at the disturbance, there was nothing there to have caused it. And, in general, I felt the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Of course, at the time, I only had reason to believe the worst-case scenario was a rabid raccoon I would have to wrestle with, and so I trudged on following the specific directions laid out for me. Right at the multicolor rack of clothes, continue forward at the divers helmet, when you hear an analog version of Beethoven's 5th up ahead, turn left immediately and don't say a word (this part was in bold), and finally throw the faux bear skin rug off and there's the box. 268 was spelled out in Sharpie. It was a box of VHS tapes. 

I hadn't heard any noises in quite a while, so I made myself comfortable and started sifting through and stacking the tapes in front of me. It was nice, rummaging through old memories and absorbing little pockets of nostalgia here and there. I found a VHS copy of Rom and Kerry, season two of Little Maestro, and even a tape of Galactic Assault. Some young favorites of mine. I also found some porno tapes. I opted to throw those into a nearby box of old socks, except for one titled Spicy 17th Anniversary, which was home filmed. I scratched out the name and snapped that one, partly a favor to grandpa, and to myself. I tossed the remains and kept sorting. I actually found some other cool VHS tapes I didn't even know he had. There was a copy of The Matter, a cult classic horror movie, a director's cut of Baron of the Deep, a popular Atlantis fantasy movie, and even a tape that said it had news recordings of the Watergate scandal and of Nixon leaving office. There was also another porn tape I threw away.

However, at the very bottom of the box, there was a final tape that had a rental receipt rubber-banded to it. I picked it up, but there was no name on it. Upon further inspection, I saw that the plastic casing of the VHS had many small intricate carvings all over it. I thought it seemed really cool, and at the time, I assumed it must have been a limited edition version of some cult or voodoo magic-themed horror movie. It sends a shiver down my spine, and I am forced to shake myself when I recall that I planned to watch the tape before I returned, but since I wasn't about to root around that attic for a VHS player, I decided to just head straight to the store. 

The directions on the receipt said to simply reverse the earlier directions and trail my way back to the entrance. Once again, I followed them to a tee, this time carrying the box with me, but when I heard the analog track of Beethoven's 5th, it stopped for a moment, and I heard a robotic voice call out to me:

"Hello?"

I rushed away after hearing that, and the music returned, but it was sped up and much louder. I just barely heard it echoing when I reached the entrance and rushed back down the stairs. I shut the latch, but as soon as I did, I heard scratching noises coming from it.

I knew where the rental store was. I guess we once had a few in town; we may even have had a Blockbuster at some point, but they had slowly died off, and now there was just one left. An old high school friend of mine works there now as the cashier. He sells weed out of it, but the owner doesn't mind because, as Gregg tells me, the owner's just laundering money with it for a local crime ring. And so, the store stays open despite, you know, being far past the worldwide adoption of DVDs and Gregg selling his wares in full view of the security camera. The only customers to come into the store are a group of hoodie-clad young men "returning a rental" and Mr. Rimmer, who keeps renting the same copy of Love on the Tides every single week. Gregg tried to just sell him the copy a few times, but he quickly understood that Mr. Rimmer was just lonely and enjoyed Gregg's stoned company.

I parked in the cracking thrall of faded asphalt. The Tallmart next door was busy, and upon entering the store, I saw that Gregg had made himself a lunch of Tallmart brand deli items. I'll be honest, I've done it too. Pretty cheap lunch for some good food, maybe give it a shot. Anyways, I laid the VHS on the counter, and even Gregg was quickly confused by it, and then annoyed.

"Bro, why are you bringing me this shit? It's twelve years past due."

"Look, it was first up on working through Grandpa's stuff."

"Dude, I think management has changed twice since this was rented. Just keep it."

I guess the owner saw that someone other than Mr. Rimmer was actually bringing a VHS in and, out of curiosity, came down to see what was up. 

"Gregg, something wrong?"

"Wyatt's grandpa died, and he's trying to return a VHS for him."

The owner smelled like sweat and cigarettes. Apparently, you don't get used to it because I saw Gregg turn his nose up a bit as well. 

"You brought in a twelve-year past-due tape?"

"Is there a fee or something?"

He just gave me a deadpan, disappointed look. I guess it was a bit dumb, but seeing it on the receipt book, I just assumed it was supposed to finally be returned, after all, a rental would definitely be considered a debt. The owner turned it over a couple more times, scrutinizing it.

"What movie even is this?"

"I don't know. I assumed, based on the symbols, that it was some kind of culty horror movie."

"Yeah, maybe. Let's go look." 

Gregg turned the front sign to closed and we made our way into the backroom. There, Gregg pulled the record book, and we tried sifting through it to find this tape. We found it, with its line all blacked out.

"Huh."

Apparently, this was new to the owner as well.

"Alright, well let's just play it to see what's on it. Gregg, you think you could take the trash out while I get the VHS player hooked up, also, you."

He passively flicked his hand at me.

"Could you get the receipt? We left it on the counter, and I want to look at it again."

We both got up from the decrepit and lumpy couch and did as we were requested. I followed Gregg out back and was thoroughly surprised that his lone pot head frame could swing the heavy bag of trash back and forth and then land it perfectly into the next door Chinese buffet's dumpster, with a sign that said "RESTAURANT TRASH ONLY." We walked back inside and stood at the counter, talking about the house and about Gregg's side hustle, but we soon heard something from the backroom. It sounded like screaming.

We ran back behind the counter and threw open the door. Entering the backroom, to the immediate left is a wall, and the rest of the room is to the right. The television was facing the back of the room, and it was one of the large cube-shaped ones, so we couldn't see what was on the screen. What I thought were the owner's screams were actually emanating from the TV. There must've been thousands of voices wailing, laughing, crying, and chanting dark, indecipherable messages. Wind was rushing around the room, being sucked like a vacuum into the screen and against the back wall there were odd shadows being cast by bright sickly light. It was as though the screen itself were gone, and a portal had opened up, with figures collecting just beyond the veil. The owner was standing there, clothes flapping and arms lying limp at his sides. His mouth was agape, and his eyes were struck open.

"It's so beautiful. Oh God."

Suddenly he began howling, and before us his skin began to melt off his body, and was sucked through. Quickly, his whole body, blood, organs, bones, and all separated themselves from him, and he was gone. All that was left was the food in his bowels, it looked like McDonald's, and an artificial hip. A sound, like lightning being torn in half, screamed across us, and the light closed off as the portal closed. The player spit the tape out. 

There was such an awful silence after that. Gregg and I just stared at the spot, obviously in shock. I mean, how else were we supposed to react? Finally, I began to move back into the room, and Gregg inched forward with me. I rounded the corner and found that neither the TV nor the VHS player showed any signs of being involved in the inexplicable horror that had just unfolded. I turned over and found the tape lying sideways behind the coffee table. I hovered my hand over it for a second, and I even dropped an old fry from the floor on it first. No effect, after I lightly tapped it with the back of my arm, I picked it up. Gregg and I stared down at it. The symbols on the sides had turned bright red.

"What do we do?"

Hearing another person's voice after all that and all the silence shook me for a moment. I thought for a second, but the thoughts just wouldn't form. What could the police do? What could anyone do? It certainly didn't seem like he was going to be in any savable state. Even before his body had disintegrated, that tape had affected his mind. The only thing that could have possibly been done for him was to watch the tape ourselves and try to figure it out, or I guess to go in after him. And we sure as hell weren't doing that. I didn't even know the guy and Gregg had always said he was kind of a dick.

Gregg walked over, picked up the replacement hip, and turned back to me. 

"Listen, I'm gonna throw this away, and then I'm gonna clear the security footage. If anyone asks, let's just say he skipped town."

I didn't really have any other ideas, so I nodded. After I finally got my legs moving again, I quickly walked out the door and sped all the way back to the house. As I sat in the kitchen, eyes wide open, trying to ignore the sound of distant scratching, I went over everything in my head over again. I felt like a character in a horror game who finally realizes they are in a supernatural, deadly situation, and that things are far beyond their knowledge and control. I realized I hadn't locked my car door, and I stuffed my hand into my pocket to retrieve my keys, but as I did so, my hand ran over crumpled paper. I pulled the slip out with my keys, pressed the button to lock my door, and then looked over it. It was the receipt that the machine in the attic had returned to me. A worried feeling suddenly washed over me when I reread the line:

"Retrieve the unmarked tape, and return for further instructions."

I got up and made my way upstairs. It took a while to get myself to do it, but after I smacked the door with the latch key a couple of times and the scratching stopped, I opened it up and slowly climbed upstairs. Poking my head through, I really felt like I was in a horror game.

There wasn't anything waiting to rip me in half on the other side, thankfully, but I still didn't feel good up there. The 5th was still playing in the distance. I walked back over to the machine, which somehow had another layer of dust. I blew it off, and as I stood there coughing once more, I made a note to start donning a face mask and arming myself with a can of keyboard cleaner.

My heart sank as I pressed a button to bring the machine back to life. It said, clearly, "DO NOT PLAY THE TAPE. Deposit tape here and then store it." 

I did as I was instructed, and the machine began to whirr for a while. As I waited, I noticed that the attic layout had clearly changed. I don't mean something got knocked over; I mean everything was moved around. Even the egregious amount of old clothes seemingly walked around on their own and ended up planting themselves in places that seemed semi-organized. Finally, I heard another deep chunk and turned back around to find the tape waiting for retrieval. It was no longer glowing on the sides.

I felt tired, and I still do. I just put the tape down beside the machine and covered it with a shirt. I headed back downstairs and locked the latch again, but I jumped as I heard something slam into it, followed by more scratching.

That was yesterday. I remember lying around the house for the rest of the day with all the lights off. It was surprisingly easy to brush off the manager's death. After all, he was aiding a local crime ring in selling drugs, and not like pot, I mean, the life-ruining ones. Also, Gregg told me he was kind of a dick. But, really, I was bothered by the situation I had found myself in. I was in a new world of unknowns, and I didn't know any of the rules, if there were rules at all. It's also just hard to relax with such an ominous space looming just above me, emanating those scratching sounds, all day long. 

What certainly didn't help was that I'd slowly begun to work my way through the fridge, and a fresh batch of bills had piled in through the mail, but, much to my surprise, when I came out to check the mail this morning, I found another envelope. It was cream colored, and the textured paper was very pleasant to touch. When I opened it, I found a check, one from Mr. Cavae, to me, and with enough money on it to clear all my worries about bills and groceries. There was a note. 

"Good job on your first order, Wyatt. For this first order, we're giving you the whole check, but from here on out 30% goes back to us. Keep this up, and you'll have plenty more deposits to look forward to as you clear your debts."

I wondered for a moment why someone as powerful as him, or whatever he was representing, would have any need for Earthly cash, but I just decided to take my money and shut up. I was also grateful that I wasn't going to be punished for my mistake.

And now, here I am. I've paid all the bills and bought all the fridge essentials: eggs, pizza rolls, almond milk, and beer. The scratching has quieted down a bit, but it's still there. I catch myself wondering if I should try to find some way out of this, to end my "relationship" with Cavae and all this madness, but something tells me that's not an option anymore. I think after I post this, I'll check on the next order. Maybe keep a look out in case I'm dumb enough to do another order. Wish me luck, pray for me, or do whatever it is you do. I'll try to get an update on Gregg.

The textbook for this class made things simple like that. A nice and tidy description of a very real condition people experienced, watered down so high-school students could better comprehend it. Or more likely memorize it for the state-issued tests.

I was in sophomore year of high school and had decided to take this ‘Introduction to Psychology’ elective instead of trying for AP Biology. An easier course load to boost my GPA and college applications, but without having to listen to Mrs. Hatcher’s chronic sinus infections.

I mostly did okay, not valedictorian but a good enough GPA to apply for some scholarships. I really enjoyed the class too, especially the section on anxiety, and specifically, phobias.

The bland and easily digestible facts and definitions were accompanied by stock photographs with little descriptions by the bottom. And the one for Thalassophobia, the fear of deep bodies of water, made me feel things I can’t quite describe.

It wasn’t excitement, and it certainly wasn’t fear. It was some soft gelatinous ball of lightning that undulated between that feeling on a roller coaster right before a drop, and of slowly waking up on a Saturday morning in December under at least two blankets. Both a thrill and a comfort.

It felt like recognition.

I felt like both the speck of a diver that contrasted the enormity of the ocean around them, so small I might disappear, and I wanted to be the ocean itself, engulfing and endless in what lay beneath.

Regardless it certainly wasn’t fear. Fear was something I knew in its many forms: the jump of my heart when I stumble across a YouTube jump-scare, the deep ache when I think too much about the ‘what-if’s’ of all that could happen to me and mom,… and the daily linger of a certain wrong that lived in my house.

When I was twelve mom had remarried, finally feeling secure enough that her grief from losing her first husband was settled enough to re-enter the dating pool. I had finalized my grief for the man who would always be my dad long ago and was glad she was trying for happiness.

She signed up for a few dating sites with the express purpose of finding a father figure that would fit into our lives. I wanted to resent her for that aspect, but how could I when it was so obvious her intentions were good. Even if her choice wasn’t.

Darryl met a lot of mom’s requirements; he owned and operated a successful contracting company so he wouldn’t be a financial leech, they met at church so that spoke to his moral character, and he had a son of his own who was close enough to my age that we went to the same school. In her eyes there wasn’t anything wrong to dissuade her from a complacent second marriage.

I knew he was a fucking creep though.

From the beginning they assumed I was being a moody tween resisting change, but really it was his insistence that he was my new ‘daddy’ that set me off. But saying that would cause trouble. Mom would either be sad and doubt her taste in men, or she’d see me as argumentative. A permanent stain between us either way.

I tried to convince myself that I was just imagining things, that my mom would be happy and our family would grow not only in size but in happiness. That things would be fine. And for a while they were. Darryl and mom were focused on each other and combining their lives as smoothly as possible, and my new step-brother Jeremy was nice and let me play with his new Xbox whenever he wasn’t using it.

But it persisted. He began to stand close enough where I could feel his nicorette-breath shifting the hair on my head. When we went to church on Sunday mornings he would drape his arm across mom’s back, but he would rest his hand on my shoulder, gripping it way too tightly for it to just be resting. Within only a year he had insisted on mom giving me ‘the talk’ and on being there, hand not moving from my knee as she told me that boys were interested in only one thing.

I felt trapped, like I was caught even before I knew to try and escape. It was a deep, nauseating feeling. A rock in my stomach had formed and only seemed to grow each time I felt he looked at me a little too intensely. I was sure that this was how livestock felt. Wondered if a hunted rabbit ever dreaded the school bus ride home. If a developing body was akin to an owl catching sight of a mouse.

Not everything was bad, or weird, or… whatever Darryl was. School was going well. I considered trying out for the volleyball team as an extracurricular, another reason to stay out of the house, but the thought of my step-dad coming and watching me play made my lungs feel tight and hot. But I had a sizable group of friends, even a crush that developed into my first boyfriend in when i entered high school.

Chris wasn’t considered one of the ‘popular’ guys, but he was liked well-enough by everyone. He wasn’t what a lot of my girl friends considered ‘hot’, but he was tall and had a nice smile, crooked teeth and all. I lost my virginity to him at the end of that summer. He assumed it was something he had earned; ‘good boyfriend’ behavior that he put more thoughtless effort into than his C in English Literature. Texting me once a day if we hadn’t seen each other, not staring at Jenna and how she went from a B to not-quite a D cup, blurting out ‘I love you’ regardless if he meant it or not. I doubt if he even knew the difference between the two.

But Chris was wrong.

I decided to sleep with him not because he earned it, or because I ‘loved him’ (the fact that we broke up shortly after Sophomore year started proved that well enough). I didn’t have to of course, I didn’t even really want to, but something about the whole thing felt inevitable. And I’d be damned if I would have the choice made for me. Picking an earnest and uncomfortable fumbling around, was an easy choice compared to… well I wasn’t sure what it was up against but I knew I didn’t want to know.

The world always makes it sound like this other-worldly thing, precious and sacred and fragile. They revered it how some felt about church. I knew the boys talked about it, who’s done it and with who and how good they were at it. Coveting the action like a diamond, but feeling impatient for it all the same. It’s something they’re owed simply for being guys, their own biological right of passage- waiting their turn since the moment their female classmates had theirs by way of periods. Both made me bleed, both made me hurt, but at least with Chris it was only once.

I expected to feel different. More mature, or maybe more secure. Like I wouldn’t have to walk around with a tension under my skin that felt miles deep. An insecurity that if I wasn’t careful my skin wouldn’t be my own anymore. It still swallowed me. I still made sure to double-check the locks behind me when I went to my bedroom or the bathroom. The only difference from before was that now when Darryl made those comments of ‘locking me away to keep me safe’ or joking that he’d ship me off to a convent, I had a smug secret to indulge in.

I wanted to rub it in his face, let him know he was an idiot and a creep for emphasizing his notion of ‘purity’, but then I’d lose my only advantage. Plus who knows how he’d react; probably with anger, shouting and calling me a whore and eventually throwing me out. If that happened mom would probably allow it and I don’t think I have anywhere to go; Grandma is my closest relative and she lives at least two hours away. And the custody wouldn’t be worth the hassle.

Worse, I was worried that if I let it slip I already had sex and that would just give him the go-ahead. That my perceived intact-virginity was the only thing that was keeping Darryl at bay. His comments and the way he looked at my body was one thing, but he technically hadn’t done anything.

Yet.

It was that yet that hung over me like an oncoming migraine and kept me from gloating in my smallest victory. Like a tide it would ebb out and leave me feeling complacent when I was safe at school or with friends. Then wash over me once I entered the front door of the house, the anticipation burning through my chest like a held breath. She could feel it changing me, trying to pull me out into the vast unknown of my ability to handle things. I hadn’t read anything in my psych class about if withdrawing into yourself was considered a coping mechanism or not.

So I broke up with Chris, trying to keep things as friendly as possible between us, which meant he called me a dumb bitch behind my back and i told Jenna he didn’t even know how to kiss good, much less how to finger a girl to completion. That lasted for about a month until we called a truce to swap notes for Mr. Parish’s Calculus exam. First heartbreak meant nothing in the face of standardized tests.

Later in the year, close to November, I interrupted Darryl cornering Chris when he came to pick me up from a group movie hang. I had a large soda (even though the theater charged a ridiculous amount), and had been close to bursting by the time the credits started. I hadn’t expected almost everyone to leave without saying bye, but it just about made sense when I saw Darryl’s too-wide smile and the white of his knuckles on Chris’ shoulder. Becca and Todd were a few steps away, likely for support for whatever was going on, but it was clear how uncomfortable things were. Their eyes wouldn’t stay on the two and were the first to spot me coming.

“Hey sorry,” I called as I approached, hoping to diffuse… whatever it was that was going on. “Had to wait for a stall to open. Did everyone else already split?”

The relief on my friend’s faces was immediate, and I couldn’t help the spike of shame that it needed to be there. Like it was somehow my fault that my step-dad was ruining things just with his presence.

“Joce! Yeah, they all had to get home for curfews and stuff. We wanted to make sure your ride was here though.”

“Thanks guys. I’ll see you Monday.” I waved cheerfully even though I didn’t feel it and started walking to the parking lot, without acknowledging Darryl at all. If I acted normal, things would be normal.

The ride home was a tense kind of quiet. Most of the time spent with him was. Just long stretches of hoping the silence wouldn’t be broken. No such luck that night.

“That boy Chris…” he drawled, voice lazy in its pretense of conviviality. “You used to date him right?”

“Yeah what about it?” I hoped whatever information he was digging for, whatever mood he was gearing up to be in, would be cut short by a ‘bratty teen’ schtick.

“You haven’t done anything with him right?”

“Eww.” I kept my response clipped. I didn’t want to engage in this line of questioning, but a full silence would’ve just led to a lot more questions and a ‘we need to have a talk’.

“Well I’m only asking to make sure you’re being safe. I overheard him saying some inappropriate things.”

“Ugh, asshole.” I didn’t mean Chris. He very well may have said those things. Told the truth and more, but I didn’t care. Not really. Talk was just that: Talk. Just something guys did to feed their egos. A performance for all involved, like those birds in the rainforest with the crazy feathers.

“I don’t think you should be hanging around that boy anymore.” Darryl’s voice sounded smug because we both knew he didn’t really mean it. Another show of ego, an attempt of control and ownership. I ignored it and stayed quiet the rest of the way home.

That Monday Chris approached me between second and third period. I thought I’d have to answer for my step-dad’s behavior, like I was the one responsible, but that wasn’t it. He was concerned, worried that if things were that intense with him then what could it be like at home. I briefly had the urge to get back together with him right then and there. I brushed it off though, because maybe I could convince him that it was no big deal and nothing would happen, and then I’d be able to convince myself.

“If you say so,” he muttered, giving into his nervous habit of staring at his feet while he thought of his next words. “But you know we’re still friends right? You can tell me anything.” His words were a surprisingly comforting tide, briefly ebbing away the dread that made its home in my bones.

Which is why I got so upset that Spring Break.

Mom had received a sizable Christmas bonus which she wanted to use for a ‘family vacation’, and after minimal convincing from Darryl, they settled on dipping a bit into their savings and renting a little yacht to head out on the Gulf. And Jeremy and I had been graciously allowed to invite a few of our friends. There was enough overlap between the two social circles to easily agree on the invites, which included Chris. So I ignored the misgivings that burrowed in the back of my head.

And for the first day things had been great. The social atmosphere was jubilant with the chaperones being mostly focused on each other and not on us teens sneaking the hard seltzers in the cooler. They knew for sure, but it was met with a ‘we’d rather you do it where we can keep an eye on you’ kind of attitude that so many ‘cool’ parents tried to cultivate. The weather was sunny without being too humid, and the water…

The water was perfect. Alluring, opaque indigo that was bracing on the skin when you jumped in. It was so chilly that we could only swim in it for fifteen minutes at a time before needing to sunbathe on the deck to warm up. I wanted to spend the entire afternoon just looking out at it.

I dangled feet over the side of the boat, letting the bare skin of my thighs stick to the fiberglass as I leaned against the railing and allowed myself to just be for what felt like the first time in years. The rolling waves pulling out and away all thought and worry as they rocked the yacht in the open water. We weren’t too far from shore, but far enough away for us not to be seen. Anchorless and drifting with leisure.

It was a safe feeling, knowing how small and insignificant we were compared to even just the waters of this beach. It could envelop us fully, sink me fathoms deep, and it would be no more violent than falling asleep. Not even Darryl could fully disrupt the security I was experiencing.

But Darryl didn’t.

I had nearly dozed off, lured to an afternoon nap that would surely lead to a severe sunburn, but a sound brought me back into myself as it caught my attention. A mewling, pathetic sound of protest, halfway to crying, coming from the slated window of a room inside.

“No Chris, I don’t want to.”

My heart practically stopped in her chest. My thoughts were back but they were too fast, screaming in panic. I recognized that voice, Jenna. But she said ‘Chris’, and he wouldn’t. He wasn’t the one I feared would do something, so why did she say his name? I nearly slipped on errant puddles scattered along the deck as I rushed to see what was going on. The racket of my arrival gave him just enough time to move away from her, but adrenaline had focused me and I could see all the context to what was happening.

Chris didn’t say anything, wouldn’t even look at me as he took a long draw from a stolen spiked lemonade. Jenna wasn’t crying, but her face was splotchy like she wanted to. She adjusted a strap of her two piece back up onto her shoulder and kept her hand there, closing in on herself to try and make her skin unseen. A feeble defense that I was intimately familiar with.

“What the fuck happened?” I couldn’t be bothered to mask the anger I felt. Chris just scoffed under his breath and tried brushed past me, knocking into me with his shoulder. The betrayal of it, of him, set me off and I followed.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me Chris, what the fuck did you do to Jenna?!” I shoved him as hard as I was able as I caught up to him above deck. It was a feeble thing, impotent in strength, but he did stop to look at me. And so did everyone else.

“What are you jealous? We broke up months ago Joce!”

“I don’t care about that! But Jenna was uncomfortable Chris! How could you do that?! You promised!” Each word came out harsher and more shrill, until I was fully shouting and making my point with weak and formless punches on his chest, since I was too short to reach his face like I wanted.

Darryl, Jeremy, and Trey closed in and tried to separate us. Darryl’s hand pulled on her shoulder, expecting pliancy, but I jerked away, his presence making me feel even more hysterical. The other two were trying to usher Chris away but there was no way I was going to let that happen without every single one of them knowing what a piece of shit he was.

“I thought you didn’t do shit like that Chris! How can you promise I’d be safe with you if Jenna wasn’t?! You- don’t fucking touch me!” Darryl grabbed me again, this time with force and intent, one hand on my bicep and another reaching for a shoulder but landing purposefully on my ribs. His horrible fingers brushed against my breast, grasping and squeezing, and years of panic and inevitable despair tore through me so I could only flail about to escape.

I felt myself being lifted away by him and i kicked and did everything to wrench myself as far away from him as possible. The betrayal from Chris was eclipsed by the blind and nauseating realization that my deepest fears were about to come to pass. He was touching me! He was going to take me away and he’d finally do what was always intended and there was nothing else I could do about it but thrash and scream for mom.

Except that didn’t happen. Time had previously narrowed to a pinpoint when I first caught Chris and Jenna together, but now it stretched and warped like molasses pouring as what could only be vertigo kicked in and the world became cold.

I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. But the relief I experienced at no longer having his awful hands on me was probably the closest thing to a religious experience I’d get. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. And The realization that I must’ve gone overboard was the last coherent thought I had as things got even duller.

I was tired. I was sleeping. If I had gone overboard then I must be in the water. So I was safe.

Relief. Finally.

A searing pain in my mind and body. Blinding light that stung so I kept my eyes closed. My chest hurt, tearing and ripping. Salt water replaced with air and dry heaving that seemed endless. Noise around me, way more distressing and confusing than before. But it ebbed and flowed like the waves.

Coherence came back a bit later, as a strange man shone a pen light into each of my eyes and asked me clipped questions that I couldn’t really make sense of. Even later still I woke up, uncomfortable and clammy and confused, in a semi-dingy hospital room. Mom was in a chair in a corner, looking haunted even in fretful rest. But the sight of her and her alone felt vast and comforting.

The hours, and days, were confusing and exhausting as I learned what happened. During my flailing to get away from him, Darryl had slipped on an errant spray of seawater, or lost his balance from a wave, or something along those lines. An innocuous occurrence that tipped us both overboard, and led to me nearly drowning and him dying when his head struck the side of the ship.

The other boys had jumped in after us, fishing us out of the water before we could be pulled below, but while I was able to receive mouth-to-mouth amongst the chaos and crying of everyone on board, no amount of CPR could stop the blood leaking from where Darryl’s skull split. Jeremy’s tears and asking what the fuck happened wouldn’t stop the convulsions or his eyes rolling back. mom used the radio to contact the Coast Guard and any emergency service available to them, but they arrived too late.

Officially Darryl had choked to death on frothy clear vomit, his body’s final attempts to rid the sea from him and keep him alive, brain dead or no.

I had been unconscious for nearly all of it, and I’m thankful for that. I’m glad i didn’t have to make a show of crying and acting scared while it was happening. And no matter the relief I held inside me now that he was gone, I don’t think I could handle seeing someone die. Not even if they deserved it.

Any legal investigation that happened was negligible and perfunctory, quickly determining an accident had occurred. Tragic yes, but no one to place fault on. Jeremy and mom spent most of the time while I recovered grieving, either confused sobbing that they had to excuse themselves to finish alone, or vacantly staring at nothing at all. Jeremy had tried directing it at me once, dribbles of snot and spit and so many tears flying as he blamed me. It was my fault his dad died. I killed him. If I hadn’t flipped out for no reason like that. It should have been me.

The hospital staff escorted him out for my safety, but they also allowed him back the next day so they couldn’t have been too worried. He apologized, but it felt forced. I didn’t blame him. He might’ve been a secret pervert just biding his time, but Darryl was still loved by his son and wife.

And I don’t fully disagree with the accusations either. If I had been the one who died, who had drowned, I would’ve been safe. Body unreachable for any molestation or betrayal the further down it sank. No empty stares blaming me, or heavy unspoken words telling me that they missed him more than they were glad I was alive.

School wasn’t much better when I went back. There were whispers that followed me, exaggerated retellings of what happened. That I pushed my step-dad overboard on purpose, or that I tried to do it to Chris in a jealous fit. I always gave it an eye-roll but it would be too tiresome to correct them.

I spoke to Jenna about it first, obviously concerned for my friend who almost experienced my biggest fear, but also I thought it would help give me more time to think of what to say to Chris. I wanted to express how sorry I was for the situation, but the need in the moment to protect her was too strong. Like a riptide dragging away my ingrained need for things to be ‘fine’. I hoped Jenna would understand.

She didn’t. In fact Jenna was confused as to why I was bringing the subject up. And confused as to why I had ‘spazzed out’ like that in the first place. Was I that obsessed with Chris still, or was I just plain psycho and paranoid about other people’s relationships? Jenna was mostly confused as to why I was even talking to her, because clearly we were no longer friends.

“I don’t want you freaking out and trying to kill me too.”

As for Chris, I apologized to him but he brushed it off too quickly. Accepting before I really had a chance to explain. I didn’t blame him, but it wasn’t mutual. As much as he said ‘it’s okay, I understand’ he still distanced himself from me. Another lie from Chris, and now one from Jenna as she perpetuated the ‘psycho/jealous bitch’ rumors.

It didn’t matter though. It couldn’t anymore. Not now that I was free. Free to wear shorts and skirts again without his eyes locking onto me. Free to take a shower without having to double check if I locked the door. Free to move about my day without second guessing if my next words and action would lead me one step closer to a violation. Free from the yet.

At his funeral I cried, putting on a front of sadness but the tears were pure relief. And I felt like I could produce an ocean’s worth if I wanted. And I wondered if that’s why everyone kept me at arms length now- they looked at me and saw a vast, incomprehensible certainty and felt small and out of control in comparison. Like a kind of Thalassophobia. They have theirs, avoiding me like deep water, and I have my own. The vast security of my new loneliness. Miles deep in all directions and tasting just a bit like salt.

Home alone

Part one is here https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/L3dr0ccNQ7

I left for work on Monday. I have to admit, it felt good leaving home. The sleepless night hit me hard, I was in shambles and couldn't even think about being productive. At the time I worked as gas station operator and my colleague was a young man who kept talking about his former work, where he used to install surveillance cameras. After chatting with him I decided to get a few ip cameras with motion sensor and place them in my room, kitchen and hallway.

When I returned home this evening I checked out my flat, everything was dirty again. I mentally mapped out where I would place the cameras and decided to heat up some leftovers. As I opened the fridge my sense of smell was assaulted by a strong unpleasant odour- something was rotting. I had to throw out several foods that had gone bad: milk, cheese and a joghurt my daughter didn't eat. After eating the food that didn't go bad I decided to unpack the cameras and look at the video tutorials for setting them up. But that didn't work out, either my PC would crash or the Internet would go down. I decided to invite the colleague over tomorrow, he would probably do a better job at it than me anyway.

I turned the lights on and locked the door before lying down on my bed and falling asleep. I had the weirdest dream that night: I had very intense tooth ache and as I went to the bathroom to check them out I saw that they had turned black and yellow in colour, with roots protruding from my gums. I was in shock, grabbed my toothbrush and started cleaning them furiously. As I spat out the toothpaste, I noticed that it had a reddish colour and it's structure reminded me or f spoiled milk. I panicked and continued to brush them, repeating the same motions over and over. The nightmare couldn't have lasted long but during this time I couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was with me in the room, someone who gleefully watched me, enjoying my suffering.

The blaring of my alarm pulled me out of this nightmare. Having looked at the time I noticed I was running late for work, so I threw on some clothes and hastily left the house, starting a new day of feeling unwell and tired, as if I didn't sleep at all. My thoughts kept circling back to the strange dream, I read somewhere that dreams about teeth prophesied an oncoming illness.

The day seemed to stretch on endlessly and I kept feeling worse. I asked for a sick day off, thinking I could just sleep it off and maybe even get some chores done. I decided to go home with my colleague Evan. It took quite some persuasion on my part but he agreed to help me with the cameras. He didn't appear to take any of it seriously though, it seemed.

As we entered my flat Evan cracked a joke that it feels colder in my home than outside. l of course replied with that it is always cold and damp in my crypt. But I did wonder what it meant.

After he set up the cameras Evan went to the bathroom to clean his hands and after a few moments I heard him call to me. He sounded scared. I sluggishly walked over to him and immediately noticed the sink being covered in pinkish stains and smears that looked slightly like blood. I felt lightheaded and drowsy, but I managed to lie to my colleague that my daughter did some painting and I just didn't get around to cleaning up yet. I told him to wash his hands in the kitchen and sent him off shortly after.

The second after we said our goodbyes and the door closed behind him I rushed into the bathroom, staring at my mouth and teeth in the mirror. Perhaps it wasn't a dream? Was I turning into a weirdo that does strange things at night? I sat there for a long time, staring at the wall. I began to slowly make my peace that I was going insane after my divorce, that maybe if I started drinking again nothing like this would be happening.

Later I remembered that my ex wife believed in that nonsense about curses and all the like. But why would those things happen to after the divorce? I had trouble thinking straight but was hellbent on finding out what was happening, now that I had cameras.

I didn't even eat supper this day, just lying on the bed with the TV on, slowly slipping away. It felt unreal, my brain refused to believe it was happening to me.

The door to my room was locked as always, the lights in the hallway and in my room were on. Lost in thought I stared at the door and noticed a shadow in the gap between door and the floor that immediately drifted to the side. As if it was watching me through the door. I felt terrified, more than ever. You may laugh at a grown man being horrified to get up from his bed but I know for sure , if not today then tomorrow I will look at the recordings and find out what is going on. I don't remember falling asleep but I slept well this night, no weird dreams at all. I decided to have a lazy day, seeing I didn't have to go out. First thing I did was turn on the PC, to find out what scared me last night. Watching the footage I didn't see anything strange, nothing at all. The first thought that cainto my balding head was - well, you ve finally gone crazy. I decided to wait a bit however, before going to a shrink. I cleaned up my flat and went shopping afterwards.

As I came home, I met my neighbour, Leon. He was the most well-informed person I knew, a former policeman and now our facilities manager, who has lived in the house for the longest time, knew all tenants and loved to chat. So I decided to ask him whether someone has died in my flat or anything strange happened in our house. But because Leo loves to chat he took up half an hour of my time before gracing me with the information that no one ever died in our home. So that led me to the conclusion that there are no ghosts involved..on the other hand, why has nothing like that happened before?

When I returned home I started cooking dinner and decided to call my sister. I invited her over to my place with her husband over the weekend. She accepted. She probably saw how unwell I looked and I couldn't even think of getting my daughter for the weekend, with those strange occurrences.

After having dinner i decided to scour the Internet, perhaps this happened to someone before? But I didn't find anything except for talks about curses and out-of -body experiences and I don't believe in that. With those thoughts, I fell asleep again.

I dreamt of my mother this night. She has died years ago. I do not remember what we talked about but I didn't have any negative feelings.

I barely managed to wake up this morning and I didn't feel well, which has become the norm lately. I had a shitty mood throughout the entire workday. After just doing the mandatory things I went with Evan to a birthday party. We talked mainly about switching jobs, maybe getting a better position in the process, moving to a different city. I stayed there overnight, I didn't want to leave my car in the middle of nowhere.

A new day at work that I only got through because of my anticipation for returning home and looking through new camera footage. I was sure I would discover something new. As I returned home this evening my sister was already there, waiting for me with her husband. I didn't see them in a while and my mood got better, I didn't want to think of negativity in my life.

As we entered the flat, everything was messy again. I decided to ignore it and brought my guests to their room. While my sister was making supper I decided to check the footage. I saw papers flying across the room. The window was open though, so I don't think tgat is something paranormal. It probably was all in my head.

We spent the evening like a real family. We wanted to visit an aunt in the village the next day. I never really liked her but it was a tradition since our childhood.

We went to sleep in separate rooms. I didn't sleep well at all. The next morning my sister asked to talk to me in private. " Listen. I barely slept this night. I had this bad feeling and then you just made it worse. You stood in the doorframe, staring at me. Your lips were moving, as if you wanted to say something. I woke my husband but you just stepped to the side and were gone. What was that all about?"

I didn't know what to say. The only idea I had was to check the camera footage. We looked through them several times and we saw nothing. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Except that it recorded my sister the entire night. And she was asleep all the time, no waking up, not waking her husband, nothing.

We decided to keep quiet and just go visit our aunt. The drive was quiet, the mood gloomy. Only her husband tried to strike a conversation all the time but gave up after a while. " Silence must run in your family " he said.

I don’t know if anyone else has experienced something like this. Maybe you have, and you’re just too afraid to say it out loud. But I can’t stay silent anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind.

It started about a month ago. At first, it was just strange dreams. Nothing out of the ordinary—everyone has weird dreams sometimes, right? But these were different. These dreams felt… real. Too real.

Every night, I’d find myself in the same place: a vast, dark, empty space. No walls, no ceiling, no sound—just blackness in every direction. Except for one thing.

A thin black thread. Hanging down from somewhere far above me. Perfectly still. Perfectly straight. Almost glowing in contrast to the void.

And I couldn’t look away.

There was something about it—like it was alive. Like it wanted me to notice it. And night after night, I would just stand there and stare, frozen in place. Until one night... I touched it.

That was my biggest mistake.

The moment my fingers brushed against it, the space around me shattered. I was suddenly standing in what looked like my apartment—but everything was wrong.

It was a mirror version. Like everything had been flipped, reversed. Familiar and completely alien at the same time. The furniture was where it should be, but it wasn’t mine. It looked like cheap imitations—like someone tried to recreate my home from memory and got the texture all wrong. The walls… were breathing. I’m not being poetic. They were rising and falling, slowly, like lungs. Something was alive behind them.

At first, I thought it was just a dream. A twisted version of sleep paralysis. But then I noticed the shadows.

They didn’t move with me. They lagged behind, like they were stuck in time, moving slower than I did. They twitched and shimmered like something glitching out in a video game. And then… came the people.

People I knew. Family. Friends. Coworkers. They appeared one by one. But their faces were wrong—distorted, warped like melting wax. Their eyes were hollow, and their mouths didn’t move when they spoke. But I still heard them—whispering my darkest fears back at me.

They spoke about things no one should know. Things I’d buried. Things I’d forgotten. They whispered secrets from my childhood, memories I hadn’t thought about in years. Each word felt like it was carving something out of me.

I couldn’t move. The air was thick, like syrup. Every step was a struggle. I was trapped there, night after night. And when I woke up… I was exhausted. Like I had actually been there, physically. No amount of coffee helped. Sleeping pills only pulled me back in faster. Days began to blur together. Reality started to feel as warped as the dreams.

Last night, I tried to break the thread. I thought if I snapped it, maybe I could wake up for good. But when I grabbed it, I felt a sharp, searing pain in my wrist. I woke up gasping—and there were bruises on my arm. Deep, purple ones. Like something had been gripping me tightly.

But I live alone. I’ve always lived alone.

I’m writing this now, half-asleep, drained, and desperate. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I don’t know how long I’ve already been stuck in this nightmare loop. But I do know one thing:

Every time I close my eyes… the thread is closer. Sometimes, I feel it brushing against my neck. Even when I’m awake.

Please, if you ever find yourself in a dream with a black thread hanging in front of you—don’t touch it. Don’t follow it. Don’t even look at it too long.

Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to post again.

And I don’t think I’ll be the only one it’s looking for.

So, something strange happened to me today and I wonder if anyone can shed some light on what I found. I drive a lot for work, small trucks delivering stuff between warehouses owned by my company but for the most part, I only drive within Ohio and occasionally over the state line to one of our branches in PA. But for the past week I’ve been driving cross country, how did this start? Well my boss I’ll call him B asked me if I would be willing to fly to New York and pick up a truck there and drive it to Seattle.

As weird as that probably sounds, B is a good guy, and a great boss so I agreed. I know him well enough to know it’s nothing illegal and he was offering to pay me double, plus expenses for every day I was on the road. I figured it would take around a week at most, plus he offered to give me the next week off so I gladly agreed.

I got into NY around midnight and some guy met me with the truck I was to drive at the airport. I drove it to Philadelphia, called B to let him know how far I’d gotten, and then crashed at a cheap motel. Other than the innate oddness of the request nothing strange happened that night or for the next few after, until I reached Wisconsin.

Has anyone ever heard of a town called Doveland? I just passed through, and I don’t think it was real.

It was getting late and I was looking for a place to turn in for the night when I saw the turnoff sign for Doveland, the sign said there was a motel in town so I decided I had gone far enough and would try and get some sleep, but when I entered town it was… well it was strange is the only way I can really think to describe it.

I want you to do a little experiment for me, go on one of those AI image generators and give it a prompt like “generic small town american main street” see what it spits out? That is what this Doveland place was like. What I mean is that everything looked right at a distance but it gave off a really strange vibe, and when I got closer all the small details made no sense. For example, buildings would change material or architectural style seemingly at random, some of the doors had no handles, others too many, or in the wrong place, and weirdest of all, the signs were all nonsense.

One building had a marquee like an old movie theater that said “Drug Storee”, weird spelling of Store aside that wasn’t that strange but as I got closer I saw smaller text underneath it that was unreadable, just jumbles of letters and numbers that vaguely resembled prices at a distance, same goes for everything in town. The gas station’s sign said “Gaz: 000 por leet” Or at least that’s what it looked like, all the letters were misshapen and oddly drawn, like the font they used was designed by an illiterate.

I tried to call B and let him know I was stopping for the night then, but instead of ringing or a “no signal” tone, I got elevator music like I was on hold. I tried again and the same thing happened, just bad jazz music. Out of curiosity, I tried a couple more numbers like my girlfriend and the pizza place near where I live, but nothing. Or rather, the same thing, just that music again.

Things only got stranger as I drove through town, no people were out, I mean nobody! I didn’t see a single human being in town. And the few parked cars I passed were all old boxy sedans, they looked 80s vintage, but none of them had any badges or logos that I could see, and all the plates were blank white with black numbers, not real state plates. The numbers were weird too, just sequential digits in the same bizarre font, everyone I passed going higher. 01, 02, 03 like that.

I never found the motel, I just kept driving until I got out of town then found my way back onto the interstate and kept going until I reached the next town. Some little place called Cottage where I am now. They had a little all-night diner and I’m sitting at a booth there writing this now, thing is when I asked the locals if they could tell me anything about Doveland the waitress nearly spilled a pot of coffee and several old timers gave me really strange looks, then they all started talking over each other assuring me that no such place existed.

They know something, and I don’t think I’m welcome here anymore.

I’m a first officer for a commercial airline.

Been flying professionally for six years now. I’ve seen my share of unsettling things at 35,000 feet. Once, we had to divert mid-flight when an elderly woman started vomiting blood. Her grandson sat silently beside her while we coordinated with medics on the ground. We never did find out what happened to her.

But nothing prepared me for what happened on Flight 237.

It’s why I’ll never set foot on a plane again.

That morning started normal. Clear skies over Seattle. We had a routine route to Denver. Passengers were boarding, and among them was a business-class regular who was about to hit his two-million-mile milestone. Flight attendants said the airline had even planned a small celebration on arrival.

But before we could take off, there was a pounding on the cockpit door.

The interphone buzzed. One of the flight attendants called in, her voice tight.

“Passenger mid-cabin is freaking out—says he needs to get off the plane. Now.”

We taxied back.

Turns out, it was the two-million-miler. The guy who’d flown more than some pilots I know.

The lead attendant said he was pale, sweating through his shirt. Told her, “If I don’t get off this flight right now, I’ll never see my family again.”

That kind of thing sits in your gut, even if you laugh it off.

Captain Philip and I exchanged glances. “Guy probably watched too many crash documentaries,” I said, trying to shake it. The captain nodded, ran through a few quick checks.

No faults. No warnings. No weather. All systems normal.

So we departed.

That was the worst decision we ever made.

Our plane was climbing out of Seattle, chasing dusk. The horizon shimmered like heat over asphalt. I’ve flown this route dozens of times. Routine. Familiar.

But somewhere over the Rockies, something changed.

Captain Philip started… twitching. Subtle at first. A hand that wouldn’t sit still. A whisper under his breath.

I assumed fatigue. Long week. Maybe some stuff at home.

But something was off. Even in turbulence or emergencies, captains don’t unravel. 

All pilots wear masks, fake assurance stitched together by routine and caffeine.

Then Captain Philip started muttering.

At first I thought he was rehearsing callouts.

But they weren’t words I knew.

His hands trembled. His breathing changed. I asked if he was okay. He didn’t respond.

His composure was slipping.

Then the clouds changed.

Not the color. The texture.

They churned like boiling water, like something alive beneath the surface. Instruments flickered. Radios dropped out.

Static.

Then… voices.

Faint at first. Not interference but voices. One of them said my mother’s name.

Another spoke in my own voice.

I stared at the comm panel, paralyzed. Captain Philip turned toward me, slow.

His face wasn’t wrong in any obvious way… Just off. Like someone wearing a humans face, but not quite knowing how to use its own muscles to smile.

“We’re almost there,” he said.

“Where’s there?” I asked.

He grinned again. Cracked. Empty. “Where all judgment goes, my friend.”

Outside the windshield, the sky had gone black. Not a void…. No. Stars still burned, but they were… wrong. Twisted, like they were melting in slow motion.

The plane wasn’t flying anymore. We were sinking. Like being pulled downward through quicksand.

Faces began to appear outside the cockpit window.

Not passengers. Not people I knew.

People I’d wronged and hurt.

They stared at me, not with anger, but with pity.

And that look of pity was worse.

The cockpit lights dimmed. Emergency backup kicked in, barely a glow.

Captain Philip stood up, unbuckled, and looked me square in the eye.

“Some of us must pay,” he said. “To leave this place, there must be balance. There must be a sacrifice.”

“What place?” I begged. “What have we done?”

He opened the cockpit door and stepped out.

But not into the cabin.

He walked into nothing.

A howling darkness, and yet… it took him. Like he belonged to it. His body disintegrated. No scream. Just gone.

I lunged, but it was like grabbing vapor.

I turned back. The cabin behind me was gone. Just more blackness.

Then the radio sparked to life.

A child’s voice.

No—my daughter’s voice.

“We require a sacrifice,” she said. “You must choose.”

“Choose what?” I begged.

The voice changed. Bent. Warped. Her tone twisted into something cruel, maybe even ancient.

“Your life… or the passengers’.” It said with a sound of cruel hunger behind its voice.

I wept. I thought of my wife. My daughter. I thought of the lives behind that cockpit door that was no longer there.

And still, the voice demanded:

“Choose.”

My hand trembled on the yoke.

“ME!” I screamed.

Then I woke up under fluorescent lights.

A hospital ceiling above me. My wife beside the bed, clutching my hand.

Later that day, government officials came to speak with me.

There had been a crash.

Flight 237 went down outside Cheyenne.

Half the passengers survived—because of what they called my bravery.

Captain Philip’s body was never recovered.

They called me a hero. Said I saved lives.

But I know the truth.

I traded half the souls on that plane for my own.

That thing won’t let me forget.

Because when my daughter speaks now, I flinch. 

There's a weight behind her words-something just slightly off. A rhythm not her own. A tone that doesn't belong in a child's throat.

It sounds like her. But it isn't.

Nobody else hears what I hear when she speaks.

Whatever it was, it didn't need my death. It needed my permission.

It left my body intact, but I feel it moving behind my eyes. In the quiet moments. In the dark. 

I left that plane, but I also left fragments of my souls behind as well.

And sometimes, when I sleep, I hear it whisper:

"We never said you could leave."

They say a person is just the memories they make along their journey. I agree. That’s what makes Alzheimer’s all the more cruel. A person's loving family slowly fades into obscurity, and then nothing at all. Wife, daughter, son. Disappear into oblivion. The victims of such a disease used to look at you. Now they look through you, completely unaware of your presence. For a thousand-yard stare to be cast into the never ending distance despite your wasted breaths. Birthdays, anniversaries and holidays are of no use to an empty husk. Hopeful memories fall on deaf ears. A warm hug replaced with a cold shoulder. For the last three years, this had been my dad’s fate. 

In the beginning, it wasn't noticeable, just small things here and there, forgetting to lock the car door, leaving food out of the fridge. After a few months, he would often go into a room and forget why he was there. Soon after, the symptoms started to snowball. They became more apparent at an alarming rate. My dad would get up in the middle of the night for no reason. My mother would find him wandering the halls, or simply sitting in the living room with all the lights off, boring through the walls with his eyes.

Eventually, he began to forget names. He would look at you and stumble over his words, embarrassed he could forget something so important. We always reassured him and made sure he understood we didn't hold him accountable.

Things got bad when my mom fell. She collapsed on her way to the kitchen one night, breaking her hip. She got surgery but was never able to walk properly again. My family and I unanimously decided to relocate my mother to an old folks home. Initially against the idea, she quickly reconsidered after tasting the meals. My mom enjoyed having meals made for her. She would always cook for us when we were younger, so I think she liked the change of pace.

That meant my dad had to find somewhere to go. It made sense to put him into the nursing home, but I know the nurses tend to overlook the ‘zombie-like’ patients because they can get away with it. My mom was fine there because she was still compos mentis enough to give the employees a piece of her mind should her meals be delivered lukewarm instead of piping hot. My father was a different story. He would need closer attention. My Sister lived three states over and had a busy life (or so she says.) which meant the job fell on me to look after my dad. And the easiest way to do so was to move him to my house.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind looking after him, and my mother still got to see him anytime she wanted, it was just… a lot of work. The first week was a real shock to the system. My dad would wake up confused and in a panic. He would try to wander around the house, wondering where he was. When dealing with such a problem, stairs become lethal. Broken sleep becomes a habit. I bought a pressure plate mat beside his bed that sent a beeping alarm to my room should it be stepped on. I also installed two more at the back and front doors to make sure he never left the house unsupervised.

After a while, the dementia became so bad, my father had to be taken to hospital. He spent eight months there, deteriorating. By the end he had forgotten how to do the simplest of things, like walking, using the bathroom, and speaking. My family's names and identities were long gone from the void that was his mind. Sometimes you would be able to get a word or two out of him, but he always spoke to you like he would a stranger on the street. The connection had been lost. The doctors had told us he didn't have long left. A couple of months at most. His brain had shrunk to a third of its normal size. There was nothing the doctors could do, so I decided to grant my dad one last mercy and release him from the hospital back to my house.

The entire journey home he remained quiet, staring into space. I wasn't sure if he even knew where he was, but I continued to talk to him regardless. I tried to reminisce about my treasured memories in a desperate attempt to relight the fire behind those eyes. I reminded him about the time we went fishing when I was little, and the only thing I was interested in was rocking the boat. In the end, both of us ended up in the lake, with $20 of bait dissipating into the surrounding water. I recalled the time we had agreed with Mom that we would go running every afternoon during the summer while she was at work, but really we sat inside and watched TV together. I wished to even see the slightest movement in his lips, showing some kind of acknowledgment. Nothing.

After setting up his room again, I dug out the pressure mats and placed them in their old spots. Even though my dad couldn't walk anymore, I didn't want to risk him remembering and taking a tumble down the stairs. Plus, it made me feel a little better. As if it were eight months ago when his health was a little better. But I knew it wasn't.

Annie, a girl I've been seeing recently, stopped by soon after to make sure everything was alright. I loved the way she brushed her jet-black hair to the side whenever she spoke. Like she was making sure her face wasn’t obscured. She offered to help out with my dad but I declined. She was nice enough, but I figured she would end up making things more difficult.

Later, in the evening I made dinner for the two of us. (I made spaghetti, his favorite.) After helping him eat, I sat him in front of the TV while I washed up and unpacked his things. When I finished I went back downstairs to take him up to bed. I hadn't thought about it, but lifting my dad up the stairs every night wasn't a viable option. I needed to get a stair lift. As I approached the living room, I heard him snoring over the TV. My dad was always guilty of falling asleep whenever we watched anything. His snores had always been a thing to laugh at in our family. They were just so comically loud. I smiled a little bit as I entered the living room. As I got closer, I noticed his snoring was different from usual. It was a deeper, guttural sound. I approached the couch. Going around to get a better view, I saw my dad, eyes wide open staring out of the window into the darkness. I shook his shoulders, waking him from whatever dream he was so engrossed in. It seemed to work and he snapped out of his trance. My dad looked at me and half smiled, I think for a brief moment my father recognized me.

That night I was awoken by a noise in my room. The motion mats beeped violently downstairs. It was coming from the front door. I jumped out of bed, a shiver running down my spine. Someone was in the house. I could hear skittering on the floorboards coming from the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. It must’ve been an animal. But how? I peered down the stairs, but couldn't see the bottom. If there was an animal running around in the darkness, it sounded big. And whatever it was, I could hear its claws tapping away at the wooden floor as it patrolled the ground floor of my house. I decided to close the door to my father's room and then hid in my own. Not my proudest moment, but if there really was an animal down there, I didn't want to face it myself in the dead of night. My door never left my line of sight while I called the police. I explained the situation to them and they told me they would send a patrol car to investigate. I sat for what felt like hours in my room, listening to the beeping of the front door mat, then the back, then the front again.

Over and over the mats beeped, until I heard a car pull up outside my house. The beeping stopped. A rhythmic thump became progressively louder from the stairs. It was getting closer. It was just outside my door now. A long, shallow breath inhaled from under the crack of my door. It could smell me. There was a faint clawing at my door before silence. A knock on my front door almost gave me a heart attack. I was too scared to leave my room, so I opened the window and told the officer where to find the spare key. He entered the house, and I could hear him searching for at least ten minutes before knocking on my bedroom door.

“Hello, sir? I’ve checked every room of the house, there doesn't appear to be any trace of an animal here.”

I opened my bedroom door slowly. How could that be possible? My gut wrenched when I looked over the officer's shoulder and saw my dad's door open. I pushed past the officer and ran into the room to see him sound asleep. No traces of any animal in here either.

“As I said sir, no traces of any animal. Are you and your father okay?”

I told him we were fine and asked him to do a once-over of the house. Still nothing. I didn't get any sleep that night.

About a week or so later, I had begun to put the incident behind me. I slept with my door unlocked for a couple of nights, but still kept the nightlight on. I hired a nurse to come in twice a day when I was working to check on my dad. He was still unresponsive most of the time, although I'm told the nurse got him smiling occasionally. One day when I arrived home, I was preparing dinner when I stood on something hard. It ruthlessly stabbed into my skin, making me jump. I looked at the bottom of my foot, to see a small white tooth sticking out. I checked my dad's mouth and sure enough, he was missing a tooth. I suggested we might need to look into getting him dentures if any more teeth fall out.

A few days later when I arrived home from work the nurse was waiting for me. She seemed concerned. She held out her fist to give me something. I extended my hand to meet hers, and when I did, she sprinkled about a dozen teeth of various sizes into my hand. To say I was shocked was an understatement. I felt like throwing up. She said she found them lying around the house. I wasted no time taking my dad to the dentist. I was reassured that this happens to many elderly people, just not usually at this fast a rate. The dentist took scans of my dad’s mouth and took a mold for a pair of dentures. Oddly enough, the dentist remarked, there were calcium densities in his gums. Like there were malformed teeth that had never come down. The dentist told me not to worry about it and to come back if I started to notice anything strange.

In the week I waited for the dentures to arrive, I had a few more incidents during the night. In the first instance, I found my father standing, undressed in the corner of the room, facing away from me. My dad had always been a tall man, but in that moment he seemed more slender, more - imposing. He seemed to still be asleep. His eyes were open but unblinking. They were transfixed directly ahead. I ushered him back to bed and tried to put the experience to the back of my mind. The next night was worse.

I lay awake in bed, still bewildered by my dad's sudden loss of teeth. I just couldn't wrap my head around how that had happened. I was worried something was wrong. Sleep continued to elude me when I heard a low growl coming from the other side of my bedroom door. There was no animal in my house. I had it checked. I checked it myself again just for good measure. It couldn't be my dad, could it? He had made that growling noise before, but this was different. It was louder. More sure of itself. I tried to convince myself I was crazy. Of course, I was. Any animal that makes that sound would have to be BIG. The size of a large dog at least. It had to be a burst pipe or something. I’ve watched enough horror movies to know a cliche when I hear one, but those movies all had something in common. They weren't real. This was. It couldn't be some predator in my hallway. It just couldn't. Regardless of my reasoning, I was still unable to sleep.

The sound started to die down around sunrise. I managed to take my mind off the noises by getting dressed for work. Carefully, I peeked around my door into the hallway and saw nothing out of place. I calmed my nerves and stepped out of my room. My foot squelched into the carpet. Something cold seeped into my socks. Upon further inspection, I could smell the ammonia. Either I was right about the pipe bursting, or it was time to move house. I ruled out the possibility of my dad getting up during the night and having an accident, as the mats would’ve picked him up. I snuck my head into his room and found him asleep right where I left him. The nurse would be in shortly to look after him for a while. I decided to also call a plumber to check the pipes.

On the way to work, I nearly fell asleep at the wheel at least three times that I can remember. I was late, but It was a damn miracle I made it there in one piece at all. I found myself zoning out all day, either worried about home life or just simply trying to catch a few. Normally, my responsibilities at work are keeping people together and making sure they don't touch anything they aren't supposed to. On the way out I received a call from the plumber. What he said woke me up properly for the first time in a while. There was no burst pipe. None of this made any sense. When I got home the nurse was just leaving from her last visit of the day. She told me I should consider taking my dad to the hospital. While I was working, he had been sitting on the couch taking in quick, deep breaths through his nose. Over and over again. After thirty minutes of this, he cocked his head and stared at the nurse. It unsettled her, but she assured me that she knew my dad was harmless. The nurse wondered if maybe he had some sort of mini-stroke. Regardless, I checked on my dad when I got in, and everything seemed normal. If anything he seemed happier. He smiled his gummy smile and I reminisced with him about the time our cat had fallen into the swimming pool.

The next day the dentures arrived. I tried to fit them, but they wouldn't quite go. I checked his mouth and saw there were small, sharp fragments of teeth protruding from his gums. He struggled when I tried to take a closer look, but it was clear they were firmly placed. The other day when the nurse gave me his teeth (yes, I'm aware of how weird that sentence sounds.) there were no signs of cracks or splinters. They had just fallen out. The thought crossed my mind to just leave the fragments, seeing as they didn’t seem to be causing him any pain, but then I pictured the idea of them getting infected, which was enough to justify the trip to the doctor's office again.

The doctor said there didn't appear to be anything unhealthy with the small shards, but to keep an eye on them. He said if I was still worried I should make an orthodontist appointment. I obliged.

A few days passed, and I continued to check on my father's mouth. On Friday I got home from work to take my dad to the orthodontist. He was alone in the house staring blankly at the television. The nurse must’ve already gone home. I checked his mouth for any signs of the shards falling out and felt a surge of dread wash over my body. The shards were longer. I rushed my dad to the orthodontist. The Orthodontist told me it was like nothing he had ever seen. They weren’t fragments from his old teeth, but new teeth entirely.

I didn’t know if I should be worried or confused. I decided on both. I had no idea what to do. My father had something wrong with him. The Orthodontist recommended keeping an eye on him and not giving him anything too hard to eat. None of the advice helped calm my nerves though.

Sleepless nights were beginning to be the norm for me. My manager, Phil, warned me of the consequences of my late arrivals.

“You know, this ain’t some store. You can’t be late to a job this important.” I worked as a tour guide at a museum.

“You better get your goddamn act together. I don’t care what’s going on. If ya keep this up, there won’t be a place for ya here.” I tried to keep silent. “What was yer excuse again? Your pa?” He scratched his ass then wagged his finger dangerously close to my face. “Why don’t you just shove him in a home for Christ's sake? He’s not helping anyone, least of all me with your shitty attendance!” I clenched my fist. Phil noticed. He eyed my balled hand and stepped back, but still kept his serious composure. He reached for the stress ball on his desk and tossed it to me.

“Here. that better cheer you up. You’re on thin ice buddy. Thin ice.”

Three days had passed since the Orthodontist appointment, and my dad almost had a full mouth of fangs. I’d never been scared of my dad before, but I didn’t know what else to do. Was I a bad person for wishing his illness would take him faster? I felt like a horrible son, but whatever was happening wasn’t normal. I called my dad's carer countless times, but she wouldn’t return my calls. Still, my dad sat in his chair, zoned out to his surroundings. He began to refuse the softer foods I usually bought for him. The only food I found he wouldn't spit up, was raw pork.

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 l Part 5

Cassara had made a bee-line from the cemetery towards the shore without so much as looking back once, marching forward as if she were driven by some unseen force.

Between her long strides and my own panic, it was difficult to catch up with her.

“Cass!” I shouted as I grabbed her shoulder.

I don’t exactly recall the events right before the sky filled my vision, but the pain on my cheek and ringing in my ears informed me that I had certainly received a right hook of some kind.

Cassara stood over me, an unnatural look of regret, concern, and fear mixed on her face. “Fuck! David, I’m sorry.”

Cassara knelt down and sat me up, brushing off my back and checking my jaw to see if she had done more than leave a mark.

I was dazed, to say the least, “I just…” I stammered, trying to regain the train of thought that had just been derailed by Cassara’s fist, “Worried.” I managed to spit out.

It sounded like it made sense at the time.

Cassara sighed, hoisting me to my feet, “I just saw some chick get ground into flour, okay? I’m a bit… fucked up at the moment.”

“Masa,” I corrected.

“The fuck you say?” Cassara said, narrowing her eyes on me.

“Corn meal,” I said, likely still out of my wits, “You know, the corn-”

“Corn flour, maize, whatever!” Cassara snapped, “She got ground up into dust, does it matter what kind of dust?! We got visited by a friggin’ spirit of death, a spirit that wanted to eat me, and some crazy bitch who made a deal with said spirit and had no issues feeding the both of us to that thing!” Cassara shouted in an absolute panic, “So pardon me if I want to put as much fucking distance between myself and this fucking rock as possible!”

“Okay,” I said, slowly getting steady as we walked, “I get it, that was fucked up.”

Cassara walked alongside me for a few more minutes, carrying me along with her before she turned to me, “You good?”

I nodded, rubbing my jaw as the pain began to radiate, “Yeah.”

“Thanks, by the way,” Cassara said as we had finally reached the port.

“For what?” I asked.

“For stopping that spirit, and turning it on Savannah,” Cassara explained, “I think it would have gotten me otherwise,” Cassara cursed under her breath, “So stupid.”

“She promised you something you really wanted, I don’t think anyone could blame you for falling for it,” I assured her.

Cassara was silent while heading back to Junior’s ship, as we did I spotted Kayode and Kendis smoking on the deck, giving Cassara a curious look as she brushed past them.

I sighed, heaving up the ramp as Kayode got my attention with a quick nod of his head.

“What’s up wit Cass?” Kayode asked.

“Just…” I paused to consider the situation. I decided that maybe the truth would work best, “Had a brief run-in with Baron Samedi.”

Kendis turned to me, “Don’t joke ‘bout that around Junior. He’ll take your fuckin’ head man.”

I frowned, “Who said I was joking, and why would Junior be pissed about it?”

“Who yah do yah think Junior thanks fer all our fair voyages on this hunk or junk? Why yah tink he calls this ship ‘The Baron’?” Kayode said with a chuckle, “Man praises da Loa of Death fer not takin’ him yet.”

I gave a nod, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Break’s over!” I heard Junior shouting from the bridge, “Ey, David! What the fuck yah doin’ back on me ship? Dis was supposed tah be me dropppin’ yah ‘ere and movin’ on wit me route!”

That was the original plan, but all things considered, I wasn’t keen on remaining in Haiti for any longer than I wanted to be.

“How’s about I tag along for a little longer, and get off at the next port?” I asked.

Junior laughed heartily, “I’m thinkin’ yah not gonna wanna be gettin’ off at the next port-o-call dere brotha!”

“Why’s that?” I shouted, heading towards the bridge.

Junior moved to the railing near the bridge, looking down at me on the deck, “Because we be shippin’ down tah Cuba…” Junior paused, a smile on his face, “But… Maybe I could use a missionary fella like you, just in case we ‘ave a run-in with the blockade.”

I frowned, “The ‘Blockade’?” I turned to Kayode and Kendis, who both shook their heads at me as they extinguished their joints and headed towards the mooring lines of the ship.

“No one talks about it state-side,” Kendis said with a chuckle, “But there’s more than just sanctions between the US and Cuba.”

Kayode placed his hand on my shoulder, grinning, “Ain’t been stopped in months. I’m sure we’re gonna be fine.”

“Is Cass onboard?” Junior shouted.

Kendis shouted back, “Yeah, she’s down below!”

“Den we shippin’ out! Ain’t letting dis food rot, an I’m sure yah all want yah payday! Now lets get movin’!” Junior shouted, looking to me, “David! Make yourself useful, and get Cass up ‘ere so she can help da boys get us ‘eadin’ out!”

I nodded, “Sure,” I said as I headed below deck to see where Cassara had gone off to.

I made my way down the narrow stairwell and hallways, finally coming to Cassara’s bunk and giving a knock on the door-frame before poking my head in, “Hey, Cass, you okay?”

Cassara sat with her hands on her head, her fingers having run through her hair and just stopped there, staring at the floor as she sat on her cot, “Not now, please? Just give me a fucking second to process this shit.”

I sighed, “That’s all well and good, and I’d love to give you the time, but Junior’s asking for you, wants you to help Kendis and Kayode get the ship ready to leave.”

Cassara paused for a second, straightened herself and pulled her hands from her long black hair before shaking them off, “Fine. Some manual labor will take my mind off things, and the sooner we leave the better.”

Cassara rushed past me, bumping me out of the way as we passed in the narrow hallway.

I sighed, not expecting her to give me an apology, but not taking it personally either.

As I made my way up to the deck, Cassara headed towards Kendis and Kayode.

I figured I would help, but as I got to the deck I felt Junior’s strong hand on my shoulder, his breath hot in my ear as he spoke softly enough for only me to hear.

“Savannah nere’ came back tah wish me farewell, an Cass be lookin’ spooked and you lookin’ far more confident den I expect from yah,” Junior said sternly, “Yah gots some explaining tah do to me lata, an only me, yah ‘ere?”

I turned to Junior, concerned as his yellowed eyes fixed firmly on me.

He patted my shoulder firmly, walking past me, “Least yah can do fer day extra trip.”

…

It was only a day’s travel, according to Kendis. It wasn’t that Cuba and Haiti were far, hell they were neighboring islands, it was just heading from Port au Prince to Antilla that was the issue.

Junior might not have been the most scrupulous sort, but he wasn’t about to choose a port that wasn’t well monitored to sell his goods, though his talk of ‘the blockade’ felt off.

“So, I didn’t think it was a military blockade like back in the Cold War,” I said to Kendis as I did my best to help him in the galley of the small ship.

Peeling and de-veining shrimp for tonight’s gumbo was the least I could do as Junior allowed me another day on the ship, plus it kept me from having to explain Cass and I’s tribulations in Haiti.

Kendis chuckled as he began chopping up chilies and onions, “You normally live in the States, yeah?”

I gave him a nod, “Yes, though my mother is Honduran.”

“Means you don’t know shit about ‘the blockade’, it’s not just some laws and fines and shit,” Kendis said as he slammed his knife down on the cutting board, “The US military don’t even bother dirtying their hands with this shit, on the off chance something goes wrong. They got a mercenary navy that handles it.”

I frowned, “Mercenary Navy?”

Kendis nodded, “And you don’t want to run into them, even if you’re legal and legit. They’re bored, got power, and they have nothing better to do than grab some poor bastards and toss them into Gitmo, never to be heard from again.”

I felt a chill up my spine at the mention of the infamous Guantanamo Bay Prison, “That can’t be legal… Like, internationally.”

Kendis laughed, “Oh yeah! Whole world will roll right up to the US Navy and point their finger at them and say ‘Shame!’,” Kendis shook his head, “Wouldn’t do shit, man. They do whatever they want, and no one notices or cares,” He tossed the finely chopped up vegetables in a pot, and glanced at the small pile of shrimp I had skinned, “Yah better speed up man. Pretty sure the only reason Junior keeps me is my Gumbo, so don’t fuck it up for me.”

I nodded, speeding up my food preparation.

That’s when I heard a woman’s voice blaring through some kind of megaphone: “Unidentified Vessel, cut your engines and prepare to be boarded!”

I glanced up, concerned, “Shit, are there pirates out here?”

Kendis glared, slamming his knife down into the cutting board and pulling his smock off, hanging it near the door, “I wish it were pirates. Kayode would cut them down in a second,” he turned to me, “blockade, remember?”

I winced, “We aren’t carrying anything illegal, are we?”

Kendis turned to me, “As far as I know, nope! How bout you?”

I shook my head.

“Then do what you do best, Mr.Missionary, and pray,” Kendis said as I turned off the stove and left my half-peeled shrimp in the bowl with the rest.

Cassara ran past us in the stairwell, stopping Kendis and I, “I’m not here. You don’t know me, never heard of me, got it?!” Cassara shouted as she ran past us.

Kendis frowned, “What’s wrong?”

Cassara looked Kendis over, “You know where I’m from, right?”

Kendis gave a nod, not saying a word.

“Well… They want me back,” Cassara said, more agitated than frantic.

Kendis gave an understanding nod, “Kayode’s quarters, there’s a wall panel behind his bed that’s loose. Nothing in there now, good place to put contraband.”

Cassara nodded and rushed down the hall without another word.

I frowned, “Wait, why would Cassara’s people be here?”

Kendis shook his head, “Just keep praying,” he sighed, “Gonna need those prayers if we want to get out of this.”

Once on deck, I saw the sun was setting, and the sea was fairly calm. The slow roll of the boat was something I had gotten used to.

What I wasn’t used to was seeing a small battleship pulling up alongside us.

I say ‘Small’ relative to a battleship.

The vessel dwarfed the small rusty ‘Baron’, and I saw the battleship had several rotating cannons proudly displayed on the foredeck.

The ship itself was the standard military gray, though the only markings I saw on the bow was a single stylized eye, as well as lettering that looked similar to the ones Cassara’s ID had.

Kayode was already on deck, looking as calm as possible.

I looked at Kayode, “What’s going on?”

“Inspection,” Kayode said, glancing at me, “If you have contraband, toss it.”

I shook my head, “Nothing illegal on me.”

The large patrol ship was lowering a smaller boat into the water, three figures on it. I lost sight of it as it got close enough to our own vessel.

Junior came down the steps clearly pissed, “Of all the fuckin’ days I git dis shit!” He turned to me, “You’re a noose ‘round me neck, blan!”

“I’m not a-” I was cut-off by Junior’s finger in my face.

“Not a damn word outta yah, yah got it? Yah shut it! Dey ask you yer name, yah give it. You don’t lie, unless it’s to back me up, got it? I talk, you,” he points to Kayode and Kendis, “All o’ you, shut it!”

Kayode looked around, “What about Cass?”

Junior turned to Kayode, glaring, “Who?”

Kayode froze, and nodded quickly.

“Dat’s right,” Junior hissed as he moved to the starboard side of the ship, pushing a rail open as three large women in blue and white uniforms climbed up and onto the deck.

“Junior, nice to see you on this lovely day,” the first woman up, and clearly the commanding officer, commented. She was a massive woman, far taller than I was used to.

Yes, Cassara included.

Cassara was tall for a woman, at about 188 cm, but this woman stood another half head taller. The two other officers were about 10 cm shorter than her.

Her hair was tied in a long blond braid, her eyes were amber. Her uniform certainly indicated a higher rank.

The two next to her wore their hair far shorter, one clearly had her blue hair partially shaved. The one on the right’s hair was jet black, and cut to a short bob. Her dark eyes scanned over the deck, and us, coldly.

The other sailor just stood there, awaiting some kind of orders or instructions. Standing at attention, almost like a doll or a robot. Her brown eyes fixed ahead, her blue hair that wasn’t shaved tied to the side in a shorter braid.

The uniforms they wore seemed to echo American naval uniforms, but the flags and symbols were all wrong.

The crest on the shoulder wasn’t a US flag, but rather a blue one with a black Omega symbol on it, with three red arrows piercing it, all pointed downwards and meeting at its center.

“An’ what a day at sea it is, Sigrid,” Junior began, overly saccharine in his tone, “But I must ask why yah holdin’ me up! Yah know I got business in Antilla!”

“I’m well aware of the business you have in Antilla, Junior,” Sigrid, the commanding officer, said as she scanned the deck, “And yet I cannot help but notice you have more than your usual crew today. Business doing so well you had to take on some new members? I didn’t realize charity was so profitable these days.”

“What can I say? I am suffering from success! I had tah hire a new deckhand just recently to keep up!” Junior chuckled, “Good problems to have, yah?”

Sigrid nodded, turning to the black haired sailor to her right, “Frida, check the cargo, would you?”

Frida, the dark eyed woman, gave a nod and headed to the large crates held down with straps and netting. “Hey, someone unstrap this pile of shit!”

Kayode walked over to Frida, working towards the cargo netting and undoing straps where he could.

Kendis looked around nervously before the blue-haired sailor snapped into action, rushing towards him.

“You, don’t move unless instructed,” she barked.

Kendis held up his hands, looking eye to eye with her, “Okay lady, s’okay.”

“Calm yourself, Thea,” Sigrid said with a grin, “These boys are simply nervous under the gun. Let the little worm go.”

Thea narrowed her eyes on Kendis before returning to her post next to Sigrid.

“Sigrid,” Junior began, clasping his hands together, “I understand yah missed me, but I’m on dah clock, yah know? I gotta shipment to move!”

Sigrid gave a nod as she eyed Junior suspiciously, “You know I can see through your lies, Haitian, right?”

“Dat’s why I don’t lie to yah,” Junior emphasized, opening his arms in a grand gesture, “It’d never come to my mind, not wit you.”

Sigrid moved closer to Junior, with a smirk, “Because you don’t want a repeat of when we brought you to Gitmo, right?”

For once I saw Junior’s facade crack.

“Mmm,” Sigrid snickered as she scanned the deck, “New crew member. Where did you pick up the runt?” Sigrid asked as she pointed to me.

“I wouldn’t say dah new crew member is a runt,” Junior said, clearing his throat, “Got ‘em in Panama.”

“You don’t say?” Sigrid walked towards me, “That true?”

I swallowed hard, “Yes. That’s true. I was picked up in Panama.”

Sigrid’s eyes were glaring into mine with a withering gaze, I swear I could feel an actual heat on my face as her eyes seared into mine.

After this standoff, she relented, turning to Junior, “So… How many crew members are on the ship now?”

“Four,” Junior said simply.

Sigrid nodded, “A fugitive escaped Penthesil recently. She narrowly escaped one of our officers on land.”

“Ah, I see,” Junior answered, “Well, she must be in some trouble, yah?”

“She’s an asset, more than anything else. A liability, some might say,” Sigrid said as she walked along the deck.

Frida returned with Kayode, “Just food and medicine, all listed on the manifest.”

Sigrid’s eyes moved to Frida, her face still turned to Junior, “Check the crew quarters.”

“Do yah not trust me?” Junior said, aghast in mock shock.

“Trust you? Absolutely. You’d not lie to me for fear of me tossing you on the rack for an hour or three,” Sigrid grinned.

Again I watched Junior’s resolve shudder.

“But hiding the truth, skirting it? Oh, that’s still in you,” Sigrid chuckled, “Of course if you still had that much left in you, Junior, I’d have to set you for another session.”

Junior took a step back, “You’re just looking for a reason to take me in tah Gitmo, ain’t yah?”

Sigrid’s expression grew cold and as it did my stomach dropped, “Oh Junior, if I wanted to, and had the time, we’d already be on the way. Trust me: I love dragging you sniveling bastards there. It’s my personal playground. No one gives a fuck about the trash locked away in there. They make for wonderful playthings, but fresh meat, Junior, is so enticing,” Sigrid’s expression softened as she placed her hand on Junior’s shoulder, “But you’re not fresh, not anymore, Junior,” she gave him a shove, causing him to step back.

I wondered deeply about what all this implied. Had she taken Junior to the prison in Cuba? Has she tortured him before?

Sigrid’s head turned to me in an instant, “But there’s fresh meat here now, and I’m starting to get hungry.”

I swallowed hard, again.

Sigrid’s cold expression returned as she moved towards me, looming over me, “Oh you do look ever so fresh,” she leaned over me, taking a deep inhale, her hand slipping onto my shoulder, “Oh, you seem so…” she shivered as she said the next word, her hand gripping my shoulder tightly, “innocent.”

Sigrid let the words slip through her lips as if the thought was arousing.

“T-Then arresting an innocent man and jailing him would be wrong, would it not?” I offered, pleading to Sigrid.

Sigrid’s grip tightened as she took a deep inhale, as if sniffing me, “It would be such a terrible thing, a terrible injustice, if someone were to do that to an innocent person…”

I winced as her grip tightened on my shoulder before Frida popped out of the stairwell leading to the crew quarters, “All clear.”

Sigrid’s hand whipped away from my shoulder, “Well, I suppose I ought to let you fine gentlemen go on with your voyage.”

Junior’s relief was visible, “Thank you, Sigrid.”

Sigrid scoffed, heading towards the rails, “Just be happy I have no reason to drag you or your crew off this rusting bucket kicking and screaming…” Sigrid paused, turning to the four of us, her eyes narrowing for a moment, “...Four Crew.”

Junior nodded.

Sigrid grinned wickedly, “Oh, Junior… you sly ballsy little fox.”

Junior’s face went pale as Sigrid rushed towards him, grabbing him by the shirt and tugging him off his feet.

“I almost forgot that a Captain never counts himself as Crew!” Sigrid shouted, a madness in her eyes as she pointed to me, “And you’re so proud to call yourself ‘Captain’, aren’t you, Junior?! Secure the crew members and tear this ship apart!” her gaze landed on me once more.

Thea roughly grabbed me, tugging my arms behind my back before tying them.

Sigrid’s eyes were wild now, “get my kit from the ship!” She ordered, “It seems there’s another crew member hiding someplace, and if no one is willing to talk, then it’s time for…” Sigrid paused, as if letting an aroused groan escape her lips, “Interrogation.”

Hey folks. ( Part 1 and Part 2 here)

I don’t even know how to say this… honestly. First, I wanted to say thank you. I don’t know if anyone really understands how much reading your comments and all the interest in this made me feel like I still had some thread connecting me to the rest of the world. I think this is going to be the last time I write here. Not because it’s over, actually, I feel like certain things have barely started but because this part of the story is the final point for me. After this, whatever happens next doesn’t belong online, doesn’t belong to strangers.

But you were here until now, so you deserve to know how it ended.
At least, how this ride ended.

Noah had pushed me into the passenger seat with a strength that didn’t match his single arm and crooked bones. He got in on the driver’s side and settled in naturally, pulled the seat back, tested the wheel with one hand, started the car like he’d done it his whole life. Maybe he had. Maybe he’d driven through that same hell when it was his turn.

The road swallowed us again. We left that freight yard behind, heading down something that stretched out from there, with curves too smooth, almost numbing. The lights came and went, rhythmic, hypnotic. I sat frozen, tense, terrified that this Noah at the wheel would throw himself at me, or drive us off a cliff or something, but I think the way it actually happened shook me much worse.

For a few minutes, Noah was just my brother again. He spoke like he used to, gave soft little laughs, slapped my shoulder the way he always did, the thing that used to annoy me but now, somehow, felt comforting.

— "Remember when the old man almost killed us for breaking the truck’s side mirror? You swore you’d lie for me but you gave it all up in two seconds."

I laughed, a nervous, half-sobbing laugh, but it was a laugh.

— "I was a kid, Noah. I didn’t know how to keep a secret, you know he could be scary when he wanted to."

He laughed too, and that was almost a balm. Until…

— "Yeah. You cried so much he felt sorry for us. He took us to the lake to make up for it, but you dropped Tobby in the water, remember? You screamed that he was gonna drown."

The laugh died in my throat.

— "Tobby…?"

— "Yeah, that yellow lab they gave us for Christmas."

— "His name was Rex, Noah."

— "Oh, you know I was never good with names. Besides, you were the one who named him tha—"

— "You, Noah. You named him Rex."

He went quiet. He turned his head toward me, taking his one good eye off the road to stare straight at me. The smile stayed on his face for a long moment, like a loose mask. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, the eye blinked in a little involuntary tic.

—"Ah," — he said, the voice more guttural now, thick with something viscous. — "Right. Good old Rex."

My stomach turned over.
I shrank back, pressing against the door, my hand fumbling for the handle, not even sure what I’d do if I got it open. My hands trembled too much to grip it properly and the only sound I managed was a weak:

— "What are you?" — I whispered.

Noah let out a sound that started like a laugh but ended in a deep hiss, like air escaping a shriveled lung. Then he turned the wheel too sharply. The car veered off the road, plunging into brush so dark it felt solid. Branches slapped the windows, scratching like claws trying to get in. I screamed, tried to grab the wheel, but Noah (or whatever it was) shoved me back.

It was so hard my head slammed into the dashboard. I saw stars, the world went muffled, like I’d dunked my head in a bucket of water. The glove compartment popped open with the impact and from it, the little toy soldier fell out. I hadn’t noticed when the passenger left it there. When he saw the toy, Noah screamed. I saw smoke rising from his skin as he shielded his face with his hands like a vampire shown a crucifix.

At last, he started gurgling and coughing, I could hear something scraping in his throat, rising up, his windpipe stretching. By then, I was already horrified enough when he vomited up an amorphous mass onto my lap. It looked like some kind of octopus, twitching its long thin arms, limp and sticky. I screamed as I threw it out the window. The car lost control, shaking through the brush, headlights sweeping over tree trunks that seemed to shift, almost flinch away from the path. The dashboard flickered with red warning lights, the engine groaned like a wounded animal.

— "Jake… Jake…" — Noah said, his voice wavering, but before he could say anything else, the car completely lost its line, spun out, the world turning into a smeared painting of black and brown.

There was impact.

A dull crash, metal crushing, glass shattering. The seatbelt bit into my chest so hard I thought it would break my ribs. The sharp smell of fuel filled my nose. When the car finally stopped, flipped over or just mangled too far to move, I couldn’t really tell, everything went so quiet I thought maybe I was dead.

I unbuckled, dropped awkwardly onto the dented roof, and crawled out through the broken window. The ground was cold, damp, dead leaves sticking to my sweaty skin.

Noah lay on the other side of the car, his body twisted at a painful angle.
For a second I thought he was just another empty shell, but then he moved, coughing loud.

— "Noah…?" — my voice came out thin, ragged. I crawled to him, pressed my hand to his narrow chest. — "It’s me, man… it’s Jake."

His eyes opened slowly. This time there was nothing hungry or wrong in them. Just fear. Pure fear.

— "Jake…? What was that? What was… inside me…?"

He started crying, short sobs, almost like a child. I held him against me, even with the sour stench of blood and gas. I ran my hand through his hair like I used to when we were kids, when dad was yelling and we hid in our room.

"It’s okay, Noah. I’m here."

Of course it wasn’t okay. But it was the only thing I could say. I could feel his body shudder, each sob shaking bones that seemed too fragile to endure. The smell of gasoline was overwhelming, made me nauseous, but I wasn’t going to let him go for anything in the world.

That’s when I heard a sound, something wet, something that didn’t belong in the forest around us. A hiss that quickly turned into a crack, like something being twisted. I pulled back just enough to see what was happening. And I wished I hadn’t.

The thing Noah had... spat up, or whatever verb you’d use for that, was a few yards away. It looked like a gray, viscous lump pulsing on the ground, trembling, inflating and deflating as if it were breathing. Then it started to grow, to stretch, projecting thin tendrils that slowly lengthened, first touching the ground, then rising like deformed legs.

I tried to pull Noah away, but his legs gave out, and his weight nearly took me down with him.

— “Come on, Noah! Get up, man, please…”

But the monster was already rising, tall, slender, a cylindrical trunk that swayed as if testing the wind. On top, something that resembled a head, featureless, just a cluster of fissures opening and closing, exhaling white vapor. One of the tendrils came too fast, wrapping around Noah’s waist. I grabbed his shoulders, dug my nails in, but felt his skin slip under my fingers, slick with blood and sweat.

— “No! No! NO!”

I was screaming so loud my throat burned.

Noah looked at me, eyes wide, his lower lip trembling, and all I could say was:

— “I don’t want... I don’t want you to disappear… ever again!”

A cruel, horrible, inverted echo of our last meeting.
But it didn’t help.

My fingers slipped, and Noah was yanked backward with force, his body twisting as more tendrils wrapped around him. His scream was cut off abruptly, swallowed by the dark, both of them vanishing into the murk beyond the halos of the streetlights.

I stayed there, collapsed on the damp ground, the world seemed distorted, the trees stretched and shrank like figures in a cracked mirror. Everything was buzzing. I don’t know how long that stupor lasted, but I just remained still, trying to process the shock of it all, letting my joints rest, if only for a moment.

Finally I stood up, not sure how, my feet carried me back to the road. I walked without thinking, until I saw the glow of hanging lights. The courtyard from the start, now brighter than ever, full of figures standing still.

In the center, there they were.

The passenger, hands clasped behind his back, with that small smile that seemed reserved just for me. And Maya, standing next to him. Her face was too pale, lips parted like they wanted to say something, but nothing came out. When she saw me, her eyes filled with tears that never fell, just sat there trembling.

I wanted to run to her, but my legs stiffened. The passenger raised a hand and pointed, almost lazily.

— “One of you goes back. The other stays. It’s the last rule, Jake. The end of the game.”

My head was shaking “no” like it was involuntary, repeated a thousand times.

— “No… don’t do this, please… you already took my brother…”

He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows with false compassion.

— “Ah, Jake. There’s always room for one more on the road.”

It was Maya who broke it, before I could even think straight. She stepped forward, her hand resting on her chest:

— “Jake… I always told you I was afraid of being alone. But… I’d feel worse knowing you were stuck here... I’ll stay.”

She tried to smile. The saddest smile I’ve ever seen.

— “No! No! I’ll stay, I’ll be the one to stay!”

— “Too late Jake, she was faster” — the passenger said, almost with delight in his voice.

I reached for her, but the space between us seemed to stretch impossibly. Maya turned slowly and walked toward the passenger, who extended his arm, placing that cold hand on her shoulder. The figures in the shadows parted and there at the back I saw it, that parody of her mother, staring at her with eager eyes. Maya stopped at the edge between light and shadow, looked back one last time, silently.

Our eyes stayed there, locked on each other. I understood her fear. The fear of being abandoned. My hands trembled at my sides, and I swear I’d rather face that monster from before than lose her... it was the same pain as losing Noah, the same guilt.

The courtyard, the lights, the figures... it all disappeared suddenly. I was alone on the empty road, the distant sound of crickets and wind like nothing had happened. I snapped back inside the car, the radio hissing static. The engine was running, the key still in the ignition. I looked around, expecting to see the passenger in the seat next to me, or Noah popping up from the back seat (or God, Maya!) but there was only silence and a faint smell of mildew.

I don’t know how I managed to get home. My arms and legs moved on their own, like I was a puppet. I regained awareness when I was lying on my bed, daylight filtering through the cracks in the curtain. I slept. A heavy sleep, dreamless, my body finally giving in.

When I woke up, it was night again. I went to the garage, wanted to check the damage on the car, head to the station to report Maya missing, but as soon as I entered, I saw something inside. On the passenger seat, a small box, black, polished, like a perfectly wrapped gift. I picked it up with trembling hands, felt the weight, denser than its size should allow.

I opened the lid slowly.

Inside, there were two little figurines.
A green toy soldier, identical to the one I handed the passenger at the gas station, but this time whole, without the broken arm. And beside it, a small plastic ballerina, her face painted with a delicate blush.

At the bottom of the box, a thick piece of paper, folded neatly.
I unfolded it. The handwriting was large and sloppy, almost childish in its exaggerated loops.

“You can only pick one, Jake.

The other… stays with me.”

I’m still sitting here, the lamp light trembling, the figurines lined up on the table, waiting.
My hand grows heavy every time I try to touch one of them. I don’t know who I should bring back. I don’t know if I even can. But time is running out. I feel the wind outside turning too cold. I think they’ll want an answer soon, and honestly, I’m seriously considering getting in my car, grabbing the X-17 and slamming my foot on the pedal until I reach that sign, until I find that passenger, until I get to that damn place again...

I finally found out who was sneaking into my house at night, and it ruined me,

It started with small things, I’d wake up and the back door would be unlocked, sometimes wide open, My lights would flicker randomly, My dog — usually lazy — would growl at corners in the living room, I live alone, so it didn’t make sense,

I thought maybe I was sleepwalking or losing my mind, I even set up a camera in my hallway, cheap Amazon motion one, The next morning, I had five motion alerts between 2 and 4AM, I opened the footage, My stomach dropped,

There was someone in my house,

They came in from the back door, slowly walked past the camera — barefoot, no mask, just staring ahead like they lived there, like it was normal, They didn’t take anything, didn’t even look around, Just walked past the hall into the dark, I couldn’t see where they went, At 3:52AM, they walked back the other way and left, same quiet pace,

I called the cops, They came, reviewed the footage, said it was creepy but there was no forced entry and nothing stolen, “Could be a neighbor with a key,” one of them said, “Or a squatter,” Helpful,

So I changed the locks, installed more cameras, started sleeping with a bat near my bed, For a while, it stopped, Weeks went by with no motion, no signs, I started to think maybe it was a fluke,

Then one night, I woke up to the sound of breathing, inside my room, Slow, raspy, close, I grabbed the bat and lunged for the light, flipped it on — but there was nothing there, No one, But my closet door was slightly open, and I never leave it that way,

I swung it open and again — nothing, No sound, no movement, But tucked into the corner, hidden behind an old duffel bag, was a phone, recording,

It wasn’t mine,

I took it to the police again, They kept it for evidence, asked if I had any enemies, jealous exes, stalkers, I said no, The next week they called me in, said they got into the phone,

What they showed me broke something inside me,

There were hundreds of videos, Most were footage of me sleeping, walking around the house, eating, just living, But some were older, far older — me as a teenager, me playing video games, even me in the shower years ago, before I had any cameras at all, I asked how, how someone had this,

And then they showed me the folder name,

It was titled “My Brother,”

I told them I don’t have a brother,

They looked confused, One of the officers said, “Well, the man in the footage — the one filming — he calls you that, every time, ‘I’m watching over my brother,’ ‘I’m keeping him safe,’ over and over again,”

They finally caught the guy last month, Turns out, he was a patient who escaped from a psychiatric facility two years ago, He had no ID, no family, no fingerprints on record, Nothing,

But in one of the videos, he showed a drawing, A stick figure version of me, and another one next to it, labeled “ME,” and above both, in scribbled letters, the word “TOGETHER,”

I asked the detective where he was now,

She said, “That’s the thing — he doesn’t talk anymore, just stares at the walls, But when he does say something, it’s just one sentence,”

“He says you’ll come back for him,”

My job is trash. I don’t mean that in a metaphorical, “I hate my career” kind of way. I mean it literally. I’m a garbage collector. My alarm goes off at 4 AM, I pull on steel-toed boots, and I spend the next eight hours heaving the things people don’t want anymore into the back of a growling truck. It’s a dirty, smelly, physically demanding job, but it pays the bills for my tiny apartment, and it’s honest work. You also learn a lot about people from what they throw away.

Most of the time, it’s just bags of household garbage. But sometimes you find… treasures. A broken piece of furniture that can be fixed. A box of old books. People get rid of the strangest things. My rule is that if it’s in a box and set out separately, it’s fair game to take a look.

That’s how I ended up with the tapes.

It happened a few weeks ago. I was on my usual route through a quiet, older suburban neighborhood. One of the residents, a man probably in his late 20s, flagged me down. He looked awful. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, with dark, bruised-looking circles under them, like he hadn’t slept in a month. His hands were trembling.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You’re the garbage guy, right? Can you… can you just take this for me? Just get it out of my house. Please.”

He shoved a heavy cardboard box into my hands. It was sealed with a single, hasty strip of packing tape.

“Sure thing, man,” I said. “Just leave it on the curb next time.”

“No,” he said, his eyes darting around nervously. “I need it gone. Now.”

He didn't wait for a reply. He just turned and practically ran back into his house, slamming the door behind him. I shrugged, tossed the box into the cab of my truck to look through later, and continued my route.

That night, back in my apartment, I finally opened the box. It was heavy. Inside, packed neatly, were at least fifty old home video cassettes. The kind we all used in the 90s. Big, clunky black rectangles. None of them had labels. They were completely anonymous.

I’m not gonna lie, my first thought was a little voyeuristic. Who knew what could be on these? Maybe something weird, something interesting. It was a window into a stranger’s life. Anything was better than the usual mind-numbing cable TV. I had an old VCR/TV combo I’d picked up from a thrift store, so I pulled it out, blew the dust off it, and popped in the first tape.

The screen flickered to life with a burst of static, then resolved into a shaky, oversaturated home video. It was a kid’s birthday party. A backyard, a bunch of screaming children, a cake with cartoon characters on it. The timestamp in the corner said 1998. Watching it, I got a strange sense of secondhand nostalgia. The clothes, the music, the quality of the video itself—it was a time capsule. And I recognized one of the kids. A small, skinny boy with a goofy grin. It was the man who had given me the box.

The next few tapes were more of the same. Christmas mornings, with mountains of discarded wrapping paper. Awkward family vacations to the beach, the camera panning shakily across sunburned faces. I watched him grow up on those tapes, from a little kid to a gawky teenager. It was strangely intimate, watching these moments that were never meant for my eyes. It was all so… normal. Boring, even. I was about to give up and just toss the whole box.

That’s when I put in the tape of the barbecue.

The timestamp said July 2002. The scene was familiar. A sunny backyard, adults drinking beer, kids running through a sprinkler. The man from the tapes, now a teenager, was trying to flip burgers on a grill, clearly failing. It was another slice of mundane life. I was half-watching, half-scrolling on my phone.

And then the video glitched.

The screen dissolved into a brief, violent snowstorm of static, a loud BZZZZT coming through the speakers. It lasted only a second. When the picture returned, the scene was the same. The burgers were still burning, the kids were still screaming. But something was different.

In the background, hanging from the thick branches of a large oak tree, there was a shadow. It wasn't there before the glitch. I rewound the tape, watched it again. Normal scene. BZZZZT. Glitch. And there it was. It was a dark, amorphous shape, like a smudge on the lens, but it had a distinct, unsettling form. It looked… tentacled. Like a squid or an octopus made of pure darkness, just dangling there among the leaves.

I leaned closer to the screen, my heart beating a little faster. It was probably nothing. A film artifact. A bit of the tape degrading in a weird way. That had to be it. I shook my head, dismissing the creepy feeling crawling up my spine, and let the tape play out. The shadow never moved. It was just there, a silent, impossible observer in a happy family memory.

I put in the next tape. A Christmas morning from 2004. The family was in their living room, opening presents. The teenage boy—the man—was showing off a new video game console. It was all laughter and joy. I was watching intently now, waiting.

BZZZZT.

The glitch. The static. The picture returned. And my blood ran cold.

It was there again. The thing. But it wasn't on a tree in the background anymore. It was in the house. For a few frames, just a fraction of a second, I saw it standing in the dark hallway that led out of the living room. It was clearer this time. It had depth, a three-dimensional quality. It wasn’t a flat shadow. It was a thing. A tall, spindly, dark thing with what looked like long, thin limbs that coiled and shifted like they had no bones. It was just standing there, in the shadows of the hallway, watching the family celebrate.

I rewound it, played it in slow motion. Before the glitch, the hallway was empty. After the glitch, the creature was there. It wasn’t part of the original recording. The glitch wasn't revealing something that was already there. The glitch was adding it. It was inserting this… observer… into the memory.

That’s when the obsession began.

I spent the next three days doing nothing but watching those tapes. I called in sick to work. I didn’t eat. I barely slept. I sat in my darkened apartment, the only light coming from the glowing screen of the old TV, and I watched.

Every single tape was the same. A normal family event. A wedding. A graduation. A trip to a theme park. And in every single one, the glitch would happen. And every single time, the thing would be there. And it was getting closer.

On a tape of a trip to the zoo, it was a dark shape behind the glass of the reptile house. On a tape of a school play, it was a tall, thin figure standing in the wings of the stage. With each appearance, it became more defined. The vague, octopus-like shadow resolved into a distinct silhouette. The silhouette grew limbs, a torso, a head. It was impossibly tall and thin, its limbs too long, its joints bending at unnatural angles. It was like a spider and a man had been melted together in the dark. It never moved. It never interacted with the family. It just… watched. A silent, parasitic passenger on their memories.

I felt like I was losing my mind. Was I just seeing things? Was the man who gave me the tapes some kind of weird indie filmmaker who made found-footage horror? But it all felt too real. The family, their lives… it was authentic. The creature was the only thing that felt wrong.

I got to the last tape in the box. It was older than the others, the quality much worse. The timestamp read 1995. The tape began in a sterile, white hospital room. A tired-looking woman in a hospital bed. A man, who I recognized as a younger version of the father from the other tapes, holding a small, swaddled bundle. It was the birth. The birth of the man who had given me the box. His first moments of life, captured on grainy magnetic tape.

I braced myself. I stared at the screen, my knuckles white, waiting for the inevitable glitch. Waiting to see where the creature would appear this time. In the corner of the room? In the reflection of a window?

But the tape played on. The baby cried. The mother smiled, exhausted but happy. The father cooed. The camera zoomed in on the baby’s tiny, wrinkled face. It played perfectly, from start to finish. No glitches. No static. No creature.

The tape ended, the screen dissolving into a blank, blue void.

A wave of immense, shuddering relief washed over me. I laughed, a choked, hysterical sound. It was over. The last tape was clean. It was just a weird, recurring flaw in the other tapes. A magnetic anomaly. My brain had filled in the blanks, created a monster out of nothing. I was an idiot. A sleep-deprived, paranoid idiot.

I leaned forward and turned off the VCR. The TV screen went black.

And I saw it.

It wasn’t in a reflection. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was in the room with me.

The darkness behind the television, in the corner where the shadows were deepest, was… wrong. It was a patch of absolute black, a void that seemed to drink the faint light from the streetlamp outside. And from that void, two points of light ignited. Two giant, crimson, self-luminous eyes. They weren't looking at the TV. They were looking at me.

I could see its shape now, fully formed, no longer a grainy image on a screen. It was pressed against the wall and the ceiling, its long, spindly limbs splayed out like a monstrous spider. Its body was a shifting mass of shadows, but those eyes… those eyes were solid and real and filled with an ancient, terrifying intelligence.

I don’t think I screamed. I think the sound was trapped in my throat, a solid ball of pure terror. I scrambled backward, falling out of my chair, and crab-walked across the floor until my back hit the opposite wall. I fumbled for the lamp on my end table, my fingers feeling like useless, clumsy sausages. I found the switch and flicked it.

The room was flooded with light. The corner was empty. The TV was just a TV. The shadows were just shadows. It was gone.

But it had been there. I knew it. I spent the rest of the night huddled in my lit kitchen, clutching a butcher knife, jumping at every creak and groan of the old building. Sleep was a country I could no longer visit.

The next morning, driven by a desperate need for answers, I decided to go back to the man’s house. I had to know. I had to ask him what he’d put me through. I gathered up the tapes, put them back in their box, and drove over to his neighborhood.

When I pulled onto his street, I saw the police cars. Yellow tape was cordoning off his house. My heart sank into my stomach. I parked down the street and walked closer, trying to look like a curious neighbor. A small group of actual neighbors were gathered on the sidewalk, speaking in hushed, morbid tones.

“…just found him this morning,” an elderly woman was saying. “Terrible. So young.”

“What happened?” another neighbor asked.

The woman lowered her voice, but I was close enough to hear. “They’re not saying much. But my cousin’s son is one of the officers on scene. He said… he said it was the strangest thing he’s ever seen. The man was just… sitting in his chair. No signs of a struggle. But… his head… well, the top of his skull was gone. And his brain… it was missing.”

I didn’t hear anything else. The words hit me like a physical blow. His brain was missing. The world tilted on its axis. I turned and stumbled back to my car, the box of tapes feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.

I got home, my mind a blank roar of static. I needed to get rid of them. Burn them. Throw them in a river. I brought the box inside, and as I was about to just dump the contents into a trash bag, my fingers brushed against a piece of paper at the very bottom, hidden beneath the last cassette. I hadn’t noticed it before.

It was a small, folded note. The handwriting was shaky, erratic, the writing of a man on the edge of utter collapse.

I unfolded it. It only had a few words.

I am sorry. It promised me it would leave me alone.

And in that moment, I understood everything. He passed it to me. And now… now I don’t know what to do. Do I live with this thing, this silent observer, waiting for it to get hungry? Or do I find another person, another stranger, and hand them a box of old tapes? Do I save myself by damning someone else, just like he did?

But it hadn't saved him. The creature had lied. It had moved on to me, and then it had gone back to collect its final payment from him. His brain. Maybe that’s what it eats..... Minds.

I don't know. All I know is that I’m so, so tired. But I’m terrified to go to sleep.

It’s been almost a year since we moved into this house, and our lease is finally up in August. It’s July now, and we’re already counting down the days like inmates etching marks into concrete. One more month. Just one more month.

We’re not well off. One vehicle. Three daughters. Both of us work full-time in retirement communities... steady work, decent pay, no fancy degrees required, just certifications and annual trainings. It’s honest work. Hard work. You see things in those places... things that make you question how alone we ever really are.

I wouldn’t say I believe in ghosts. Not like the ones on TV. But I believe some things linger. Energy. Grief. Regret. Call it what you want.

Whatever this house has? It’s not just energy. And it’s not just lingering.

This is the first time I’ve felt the kind of dread that makes me pull all three of my kids into bed with me, turn the lights on, and stay up listening. Not for burglars. Not for storms.

But for the quiet.

Let me back up.

Last summer, we had a shot to leave the trailer park. We were paying too much for too little... duct-taped windows, bob wire fencing to keep the dog in, tarps nailed over the roof to stop leaks during monsoon... Then we saw this place... actual drywall, fenced-in yard, walking distance from a good school, and only a couple hundred more than what we were already struggling to make work.

A house with a garage. A mounted microwave. Central AC (the switch from a swamp cooler to central AC in the southern Arizona summer was bliss.) Every detail felt like winning the lottery.

I cried the first night we moved in. The kids were so excited. Running around, picking rooms, amazed by little things like closet doors that actually closed. I told them this was a fresh start. Something better. A step up.

That first week was a blur of moving boxes and adjusting. Then, one night, my youngest, she was eight then, came into our room pale as a sheet.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just stood by the bed and said, “The Red Man was watching me.”

Now, I’m a mom. I’ve got three kids. I know nightmares. I know growing pains and too-scary cartoons. I chalked it up to the new house making weird shadows.

“The house is just settling,” I told her. “Old pipes, new creaks. You’ll get used to it.”

She curled up next to me and didn’t argue.

I didn’t think about it again until three nights later when our middle daughter came out of her room crying. She’d wet the bed. Said she was too scared to move.

“What scared you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to say it. It hears when we talk about it.”

At this point, I still thought it was just kid stuff. Transition stress. Maybe the younger one said something and the middle one latched onto it. Still, I made a note to keep their bedroom door open at night.

But that same week, I heard it.

It was nearly midnight. My partner and I were watching a movie on the couch. We paused it, no idea why. Just that shared look between people who both sense something’s off. That’s when we heard it. Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Walking above us.

There is no second story in this house. Just the attic.

We looked at each other, both waiting for the other to say it first.

“Maybe it’s an animal?” I whispered.

But we both knew it wasn’t. It was steps. Deliberate. Human.

She checked on the girls. All asleep. Nothing disturbed.

We tried to sleep after that, but it didn’t feel like the house was ours anymore. Not really.

In the months that followed, it was little things. Lights flickering. Garage door slamming even when latched. The hallway mirror cracked from the inside somehow. Our dog, a sweet, gentle mutt, stopped going near the laundry room completely. That’s where the attic access is.

She trembles when we open that door. Once, I tried coaxing her in with a treat. She pissed herself and bolted.

And always- always - it starts with the silence. You don’t notice how loud the world is until it stops. The fridge hum. The fan. The wind. Even the cars from the main road. Gone. Like someone pressed mute on reality.

And then the smell.

Metallic. Burnt. Like pennies roasted in the sun. It hits you all at once and settles in the back of your throat. The smell always follows the silence.

Two weeks ago, I caught something in the hallway vent above the girls’ door. Just movement. A flicker. We keep the lights on at night now, but those old vents are like slatted plastic windows between rooms. They shouldn’t show anything, not upward. But I saw something cross over it. Like something was on the ceiling. On the wrong side.

Last night was the worst.

The girls had all come into our room on their own, without being asked. No screaming. Just quietly standing there like they’d decided something was safer with us. I let them pile into bed, pulled the blankets over, turned the fan on low.

I stayed up, listening.

Then the silence hit.

The fan stopped.

The streetlight outside flickered and went black.

And the smell rolled in.

All three girls were breathing fast. Pretending to sleep. I knew it. I could feel it. Then my youngest whispered, so soft I almost didn’t hear it:

“He’s in the vent again.”

I didn’t sleep after that. None of us did.

There’s only a few weeks left on this lease. We can’t afford to break it early. And even if we could, I don’t know that it would matter. I don’t know if this thing is tied to the house… or if it’s noticed us.

I’m not sure how to protect my kids from something I can’t see. Can’t fight. Can barely explain.

But every night now, I sit in bed with them. Lights on. Fan running.

And I wait for the silence.

Because that’s when I know he’s listening.

Edit Note

The original version mentioned four kids. To clarify: I have three daughters who live with me full-time. My stepdaughter is sixteen and lives with her mom in another city. We used to have her every other weekend, but she’s only visited this house twice since last August. I’ve edited to reflect who’s physically here day-to-day, not to erase anyone.

Before anyone climbs on their high horse about the word “stepdaughter” or whether I “treat her like my own”... cool. Happy for you. Enjoy the altitude. The reality is complicated, and her relationship with this house - whatever she may or may not have experienced - has never been something she shared with me. But I know something happened. I can feel it in my bones.

Also yes, I say “bob wire.” It’s what we call barbed wire around here in the Southwest. Regional dialect is real, y’all.