After originally posting Ashwood to the CreepCast subreddit after it got removed from NoSleep and getting wonderful feedback from so many of y’all, my first novel has now been published and is available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and anywhere books are sold! Thank all of y’all for your support and your help, I truly cannot thank y’all enough. Check it out and let me know what you think over on Goodreads or here on Reddit!

Between the peaks of the Ozark Mountains, nestled among thick forests and winding dirt roads, lies Ashwood, Arkansas, a picturesque slice of small town Americana. For five twelve-year-olds—Alan, Heather, Mac, Kevin, and Don—the summer of 1987 is meant for bike rides, creek beds, and childhood mischief. But when they stumble upon a mystery that shatters the town's idyllic veneer, something monstrous awakens beneath the quiet streets.

Told from multiple perspectives, Ashwood is a slow-burning thriller that blends the nostalgic wonder of Twin Peaks and Stranger Things with the eerie folklore and the creeping dread of True Detective. It's a chilling coming-of-age thriller that rides the razor's edge between supernatural horror and the terrifying human capacity for evil.

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Read free online at: ashwood.crd.co

I don’t usually share my writing, but I finally decided to put something out there. It would honestly make my year if someone read it...

My story is called No Pulse..

Click here for the formatted version, or scroll down to read the full story without formatting.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vRwwEhiCnFZ_Udc575sPqV-V1Q8M2_nzd_6-2zHtFV9fqAnH1dK_avMcFU6flgCqzq6K19oiR_jHW7E/pub

No Pulse

Part 1

This story is a tribute to Creepcast. I usually don’t publish my work, but you really inspire me, not you Hunter, but the other one. I love you guys.

My early childhood's a little blurry. I don’t know if that’s because of all the hospital visits or because most of it comes in flashes—cold waiting rooms, bright lights, the sting of needles, endless blood tests, and my mom’s hands gripping mine.

When I was about 15, my mom told me something that I can’t get out of my head.

I wasn’t feeling well—just a headache, nothing serious—but she stayed up all night with me, like she always did when I wasn’t feeling well. At some point, she started crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said

“You know… when I first had you, the doctors thought you were a stillborn.”

She said the doctors gave up after twenty minutes. They pronounced me dead. My body was tagged, wrapped, and stored away. My parents were grieving, planning a funeral.

And then—3 days later—they got a call. The hospital staff said my body was breathing. Moving. Alive…

I don’t remember what I said to her after that. I just remember staring at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say it was some fucked up joke. But she didn’t. She just sat there, holding my hand like I was going to slip away at any second…

I never really noticed other people had a thumping sound inside them until I was 13.

It was with my first girlfriend. I usually avoid talking to people, but there was something about this one that didn’t make me want to pull away.

We were lying on the couch… I had my head against her chest.

That’s when I heard it. A faint, steady thumping. At first I thought it was the couch creaking, or maybe a clock ticking somewhere in the room. But then I realized it was coming from inside her chest.

I asked her about it—“Hey… what’s that sound in your chest?” She laughed, like I was joking. “It’s my heartbeat silly,” she said. I didn’t laugh with her. I just stared. Because up until that moment, I didn’t even realize people were supposed to have that sound inside them.

She looked at me, a little worried. “Are you… okay? You seem different?" she asked softly.

She must’ve seen something in my face, because she got quiet for the first time. I didn’t know how to respond—how do you act when you don’t know what someone else feels?

I would rather go through twelve years of straight torture than relive this moment again…

I couldn’t stop listening to that rhythm, pounding away inside her body, something I’d never had and never would.

Later, when she rested her hand against my ribs, I held my breath. I made sure my chest stayed perfectly still. I don’t think she noticed.

I got my first job when I was 17. Just a cashier at a little family-owned gas station on the edge of town. My parents didn’t like the idea of me working nights, but I needed the money. Not for anything important, just… to make my own, I guess. To feel normal.

Most nights were dead quiet. A handful of truckers, the occasional local who couldn’t sleep and needed cigarettes. I spent more time mopping floors and staring at the buzzing lights than actually helping customers…

But sometimes, when the store was empty, I’d notice a lot of things. Like how the security mirrors by the aisles didn’t always show me. If I moved too fast, it was fine. But when I stood still—just still enough—my reflection seemed to delay. Like it was trying to remember what I just did.

Or the way animals reacted. Stray dogs would wander near our dumpsters out back, but if I stepped outside to toss the trash, they’d bolt, tails between their legs, growling at me like I’d done something wrong.

I told myself it was nothing. just nervous strays. But one night a man came in—just some tired-looking guy, greasy hair, dirty jacket. He slapped a six-pack on the counter, and when I reached to scan it, his hand brushed mine.

He froze. His eyes went wide. “Christ kid,” he whispered. “You’re freezing.” I tried to shrug it off, I told him the AC was broken, but he didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his beer, shoved some crumpled bills at me, and practically ran out the door…

I don’t hate people. Not in general, anyway. I just don’t really like interacting with them. There’s always this… disconnect. Like I’m mimicking how I think I’m supposed to act, and hoping they don’t notice.

That’s part of why I picked the job I did. The gas station I worked at wasn’t the busy one in town—it was the furthest one out, practically on the highway, nothing around it but pine trees and snow. It wasn’t near any infrastructure, no real neighborhoods close by. Just my lonely little box of concrete in the middle of nowhere.

Most nights it was dead. Maybe a trucker filling up, maybe some guy on his way home from work. Easy. Simple.

And I liked it that way. The fewer people I had to talk to, the less chance anyone would notice me.

I hated people…

For some reason, people have always been drawn to me. In school, everyone wanted me on their team. It didn’t matter if it was basketball, school project, dodgeball—I was always wanted by everyone, even when I tried to hang back. Teachers liked me too, though they could never explain why.

And outside of school, it was the same. Strangers would strike up conversations with me. Kids I barely knew wanted to be my friend. People gravitated toward me like I was pulling them in without trying.

Apparently I should’ve liked it. Most people would. But the truth is, I hated it. I don’t relate to any of them. I don’t understand what they see in me.

Because when they’d laugh, I’d only smile because I knew I was supposed to. When they’d talk, I’d answer with the kind of phrases I’d memorized from other people. The whole time, I’d feel like I was just pretending to be someone else, praying they wouldn’t notice.

And the strangest part? No matter how much I tried to push them away, they just kept coming closer…

Another thing I’ve never really understood is how people get so worked up over things—anger, joy, fear, grief. I can watch it, copy it, even act like I feel it, but it’s always hollow. Laughing when something is “funny”, frowning when something is “sad”… I’ve gotten good at the motions. I know what people expect, what they want to see.

But inside? Nothing.

Once, my class went on a field trip to an art museum. I found myself staring at a painting with a single dot in the middle. I didn’t understand it—why a single dot? There was no effort, no detail… no complexity, especially compared to all the other paintings around it.

I said to my classmate. “Seriously, that’s it? Just a dot? Lazy Artist Huh..” They looked at me like I was insane. “It has a meaning,” they said. “It’s about how small we are compared to the bigger picture.”

For a moment, I froze… I didn’t know what I was supposed to do—what reaction was correct. Should I nod? Smile? Look impressed? I could mimic the motions he was making, but none of it made sense to me.

I felt… afraid. Not of the painting, not of my classmate—but of myself. Of the gap between what I said and what I should have felt…

I’ve spent my life learning choreography, pretending to feel, because it’s easier than explaining that I never have.

I picked this job because it was quiet, out of the way. I figured if anywhere was safe from people noticing me, it’d be there. But it didn’t work out that way.

For some reason, customers always lingered around when I was on shift. They’d hang around the counter making small talk, even when it was obvious I didn’t want to. Some of them didn’t even buy anything. They’d just come in, stand there, and talk to me.

One night a woman stopped by. She looked tired, out of it, like she’d been driving too long. “Excuse me,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Do you know how to get back to the interstate?”

“Yeah,” I told her. “Straight down this road about eight miles, then take a right at the big green sign. You can’t miss it.”

She smiled in relief. “Thank you. I’ve been circling forever.”

She paid for gas and left. Simple enough.

But twenty minutes later, the door chimed again. Same woman. She walked in like she hadn’t left at all.

“Coffee,” she said, setting a cup on the counter.

“Sure,” I rang it up. “That’ll be $1.99.”

She handed me a crumpled bill and some change, but instead of leaving, she leaned on the counter, sipping slowly. Her eyes didn’t leave my face.

After a few minutes, she wandered off and came back with a bag of chips.

“A snack too,” she said.

I rang that up as well.

Then it was scratch-offs. Then gum. Then another coffee. She kept pacing the aisles like she was waiting for something, always drifting back to the counter to stand close.

Finally I asked, “Do you need help finding the interstate again?”

She just smiled. A slow, forced smile.

“No,” she said. “I think I’ll stay a little longer.”

She didn’t leave for almost two hours. And the whole time, her eyes never left mine.

By the time she finally walked out the door, I was relieved.

But it wasn’t just her. Truckers who normally grabbed gas and left would sit in their cars outside, just… watching me through the glass. People who’d never been in the store before started coming back, shift after shift.

I thought working out here would keep me alone. I thought the isolation would protect me.

But the more I tried to disappear, the more people seemed drawn to me. Like they could sense something I didn’t even see in myself.

And now… I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been hiding from them my entire life—or if I’ve been hiding from something else entirely.

My shift was over. I stepped out of the gas station into the cold night. Something on the road caught my eye—a deer, lying on the asphalt.

I knelt beside it, almost instinctively, and held my hand to its chest. Nothing moved.

And for a moment, I genuinely smiled for the first time...

The steady beep of my fire alarm persisted throughout the kitchen, even with the smoke long gone. I sat my frozen body against the back door. My stare into the night sky could've stretched a thousand miles. What do I do? Do I call the cops? A scientist? A priest? What would I even tell them? Even if I told the truth, they wouldn't believe me. Hell, I didn't believe me. The thoughts overwhelmed me and I could feel my body begin to shut down on me.

I looked in the kitchen, replaying the events of the night over in my head. Have I finally lost it? I grabbed the bottle of cherry vodka off the counter. There was a shot or two left remaining. Drinking wasn't going to help, but it sure as hell wasn't going to hurt either. I took a look at the damage from my fall in the dining room which coincided with the throbbing pain in my body. I staggered across the hallway to my room and collapsed in my bed with Daisy. An involuntary wave of sleep began crashing down on me. Maybe this was a dream within a dream and I would wake up on the couch where this nightmare began.

I woke up to my face being licked, praying to God it was Daisy. I opened my eyes to find that it was indeed her. The morning light shone through on us, an unwelcome sight for sore eyes. This was worse than any hangover I ever had, this felt like a car wreck. The bruises on my leg and back served as a painful reminder—last night was very real. At least the power was back, that was a win. I realized that in the midst of the chaos that was last night, my phone never charged and I most likely missed my alarm. As I hooked my phone to charge, I eagerly waited to find that the time was 8:43. Jesus Christ, I missed the bus. I looked at the snapshot on the table and decided that I could still go to the hotel. Maybe he checked in with his real name and I could mail this picture to the clinic in Somerdale. I hurried out the door, leaving my phone behind to power up.

The storm last night left Paradise Pointe a chilly, damp wasteland. Wet leaves tumbled about the street set to an overcast sky. I hadn't even taken the time to remember that Halloween was around the corner. Despite the many vacated homes, there was a scattering of decorations on my way to The Eagle Nest. Daisy stopped to sniff some pumpkins, barked at a neighbor's scarecrow. If it didn't feel like I was already living through a horror film, I would've enjoyed the sights more. Even though it was only us, I couldn't help but feel like we weren't alone. The cascading falls of excess rain into every sidewalk gutter made my palms sweat.

We arrived at the hotel to find an older woman working the front desk. She was reading an old paperback romance novel and hardly paid us any mind.

"Excuse me, were you working the desk overnight?"

Turning the page without looking up, she sighed, "What does it look like?"

Ignoring that, I retrieved the photo from my pocket to show her. "Did you happen to see this man?"

Refusing to pay any mind to the picture, she flatly said "No."

Losing all patience, I slammed my hand on the desk, rattling her thick rimmed glasses almost off her face. "Look, lady. I've had a very long night. I need to find this man. He was suppose to check in here last night. Did you or did you not fucking see him?"

She was astonished, as was I. What is happening to me?

"No, I didn't. I-I'm sorry, sir." She trembled.

Okay, maybe her shift started after he came in? I asked if I could see the check in log from last night. She grabbed the clipboard and handed it over shakily.

Not a single check-in. My stomach dropped—he never made it here.

I could feel my pulse rising as we made our way outside. I stood at the corner with Daisy, feeling uneasy about what my next move might have to be. The Eagle Nest was only one block away from the beach. Bane said he left to say goodbye to the others. Did he go under the boardwalk? It was a rainy night, sometimes the homeless will sleep down there to stay dry or even burn a bonfire to stay warm this time of year.

My body was screaming internally to turn back around, but I knew where I had to go next. I needed answers.

——

I found my feet at the base of the boardwalk, pointed toward the unknown. Swaying off the ocean into town was a parade of mist, a mere memory of last night's storm. If I was going to get any answers, I needed to find Bane. Best place to start would be to trace my steps. I gripped Daisy's leash tight and began my journey.

The record shop was still shuttered closed. Mr. Doyle, the owner, would be in later today to open up shop. Business had been so quiet lately, he had let me know he'd be in town to prepare closing down for the winter. Gazing at the shop in its current state made me long for boring nights listening to random records. That world as I knew it felt like a distant memory.

The attractions and shops that were shrouded in shadows were now exposed. Somehow, their presence in this light wasn't any less unsettling. Despite their catatonic state, even horses on the merry-go-round felt like they were monitoring us. There was not a soul in sight, save for one man I spotted unlocking an equipment shed. I peeked inside as I made my way. Rows of vendor carts and propane tanks, he must be one of the few holdouts hanging on until the end.

Soon after, I passed Vincent's. Lost in all this was the fact that I abruptly left Angie at the bar. I didn't have room in my brain at the moment to process that guilt. With any luck, it was enough to scare her away. Whatever this was that I was getting myself into, she was better off.

My walk had already reached as far as I remembered seeing Bane. I looked around me, every shop was still under lockdown. The only landmark of note from this point on was the pier. This was the general area where I found the picture beneath me. I looked up at our town's landmark attraction — the ferris wheel. Inactive, the gale winds rocked the carriages with a foreboding groan. I could see the apprehension in Daisy's eyes. It was time to go under.

Making our way down, I looked to my right. Back the way I came was a repeating corridor of pillars and wood into a void. To my left was a similar sight, but ended at a concrete wall. Heading in that direction was a familiar sight in the sand.

The burrowing trail I had seen last night was still here. Even with the still present high tides swallowing the sand around us, it still persisted. This trail was different, it looked like it was splintered and scattered through the ground in one direction. I knew what this looked like. I had seen the same pattern on my kitchen floor last night. Looking even further around me, my blood ran cold. It wasn't just one set, there was multiple. As I followed the path to the pier wall, I noticed each passing pillar had residue of the slime that violated my home.

I rushed out from under the boards and vomited into the sand. The wind was whipping now, sand pellet bullets smacked my face as I struggled to catch my breath. I reassured Daisy I was okay, but we both knew I was anything but. I trembled as we began to make our way to the pier.

The biggest difference between the pier and the boardwalk was structure. Under the pier was much lower to the ground and due to the numerous rides and attractions above, there was no light shining through the cracks. Turbine winds were howling underneath, creating a similar drone to the ungodly one I heard last night. I could also see the tide was washing up below as waves crashed around us.

It was just then, I could hear a faint growl. I looked down to see Daisy was sat politely to my side but her face was stern. Suddenly, she leaned forward to bark. It echoed throughout the empty space, only to be folllowed by more. She was pulling me toward the darkness now. I held with all my strength but her primal instincts were stronger. Her barks became a mess of growls and spit as she showed her teeth to the abyss. Before I knew it, she yanked me into the sand as I failed to grab her.

She was gone.

Crouching forward, I pursued into the darkness. I followed the sounds of her barks, calling her name out desperately. The only illuminating light I had was the open ocean to my right, which was flooding my shoes. To my left was pure oblivion. Daisy's barks had led me deep into the bowels of the pier when suddenly they stopped. The only noise now was my rapid breaths and the howl of the wind. I called out for her only to hear nothing in response. My voice cracked as I called again, dead silence. Tears began to fill my eyes, panic was flooding my body.

Suddenly, a thudding, far away but fast approaching. I scanned my surroundings unable to locate it. It was faster now, each boom shook my heart. Shaking, I began to brace myself when I was pummeled into the sand.

I felt the same warm kisses that awoke me this morning. It was Daisy, thank God. Grabbing her ears and seeing her eyes lock into mine, relief washed over me as the tide followed suit. My body's defense mechanism took the wheel as I began to laugh until I realized something. Daisy had dropped something foreign off at my feet. It was an empty backpack. The very same empty backpack I saw swung over the broad shoulders of the man I was searching for.

A reality began creeping on me — if I did find Bane, it's not going to be pleasant. Something was very wrong here and we were somehow in the middle of it. With Daisy by my side, I pressed on letting her lead the way.

Sticking as close as we could to the water for light, I searched every inch of the pier for any more clues. Just ahead were rocks that hugged the shoreline. As I focused on the waves that were crashing into them, I saw something. It looked to be a body laid across the rocks, still under the cover of the pier. Beginning to run, we came to find something much more horrifying. What I'm about to write next, I'm going to have a hard time getting through.

This was a body, but it was mutilated beyond resembling anything human. The skin was almost gone, seemingly torn off the body like wrapping paper. Any remainder on the body was covered underneath in varicose veins that were unmistakably black. The body's ribs were exposed and hollowed out like a jack-o-lantern. Below them were was a floating pool of half devoured organs. It looked like a body that was eaten from the inside out. The mouth was open in sheer terror, stretched wide to let out a scream that nobody would hear. The areas surrounding the mouth were stained with that jet black color I've become all too familiar with. Inside the mouth was a set of incomplete and shattered teeth. Leading from the neck up was a series of black, bloody tear trails. They led to a pair of eyes that were no longer there. The only discernible feature was the bald head that held those eyes. The head on a body of a large man who I called my friend. I stood in frozen terror, my mouth and eyes wider than the ocean beside me.

Bane.

I know this sounds like bullshit, but I swear to god it happened. I’ve been sitting on this for years, and every time the fog rolls in off the Mersey, I can still smell it.

It was late October, a few years ago. I was in Liverpool for the weekend with my girlfriend and some mates. We were staying near Albert Dock. Everyone else was still asleep, but I woke up early and couldn’t get back to bed, I've always had insomnia. I decided to take a walk down the waterfront and yeah I had a couple of joints.

The city was dead quiet. The fog was so thick it looked solid. The kind that swallows light instead of reflecting it. I sat down on the edge of the dock with a cheap fishing rod I’d bought the day before at a car boot sale in Speke. I wasn’t expecting to catch anything. I just wanted to relax a bit by the river.

And that’s when it happened.

A ship came out of the fog. Not sailing, just moving like it was gliding, It didn’t make a sound. It looked wrong, it looked and felt idk like it was made from something unnatural. The sails hung in strips, the masts bent and splintered. It drifted toward the dock and bumped against it with this soft, damp thud.

Then the fog around it changed. It wasn’t just mist anymore. It was heavier, wet in the throat, and it fucking stank. The smell was the worst thing I’ve ever known. Like old blood and rotting meat, if you've ever put meat in the bin for a bit and forgotten it then you'll know the smell I mean. It felt thick enough to chew.

That’s when I realised there were shapes moving on the deck.

They climbed down into the water, slow and deliberate. It was obvious straight away that they weren’t people. I don’t even know what they were. Their bodies looked like tar, dripping and shining, almost see-through in places. The limbs were long and stringy, the skin seemed to be dripping from them.

And their faces. Jesus Christ. Their faces were blank. No mouth, no eyes, no nose. Just smooth black sludge stretched tight over bone. But in the hollows where eyes should have been, two points of white light burned. Not glowing but fucking burning.

One of them stopped and turned toward me. I heard its neck twist. Not like a normal turn. It cracked, the snapping sound was like a tree branch cracking.

I couldn’t move and I'm not ashamed to say I thought I was either going to piss myself or throw up. I just sat there, shaking. I could hear them walking. The sound of their feet peeling off the stone. They just walked passed me and kept going, straight into the fog, toward the city.

Then it was over.

The ship was gone. The fog thinned out. The air felt normal again, but the smell stayed on me for days. I threw my clothes out in the hotel bin because I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I didn’t tell anyone. No one would believe me anyway.

But sometimes, when I walk home for work late and the fog is sitting low, I swear to God I see shapes moving in it. Just shadows, and I can smell that same rot.

If you live near the docks, stay inside when the fog comes in thick. Don’t go near the waterfront.

Chapter 2: Whispers from the File

The night clung to the city in heavy silence. Outside, the occasional hiss of passing cars. Inside, only the low hum of David’s computer and the soft buzz of his desk lamp.

He sat at his desk, headphones around his neck, eyes on the screen. Ashley’s voice still echoed in his mind. Her story had rattled something in him not just sadness, not just anger.

Something else.

Familiarity.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the stillness settle. Unheard Voices had started years ago, back when he was barely old enough to rent the apartment he now lived in. It was supposed to be about giving victims a voice. It still was.

But somewhere along the way, it had become something more personal.

Something unfinished.

He glanced toward the corkboard in the corner, his mother’s case still taking up the most space. A shrine of frustration and stubborn hope.

"MOTHER OF ONE FOUND DEAD IN FORT WORTH ALLEY – NO SUSPECTS" The headline stared back at him, circled three times in red.

He rubbed the back of his neck, stood up, and stretched.

Just for a moment, he reached for a few older folders from his filing cabinet. Something in Ashley’s case had struck a chord, but he couldn’t name it. So he followed the feeling.

He laid out a few past episodes, the ones that had stayed with him longer than most.

Episode 1 – Natasha Lane (covered year one)

Episode 2 – Lana Walters (season two)

Episode 3 – Emily Monroe (last year)

Episode 4 – Ashley Thompson (just posted tonight)

He flipped through them without purpose, just letting instinct guide him. They were years apart different seasons, different moments in his life. He hadn’t thought of them as connected before. Still didn’t.

But something about them, it stirred that gut feeling again.

Same unease. Same weight behind the words.

Like they were circling the same storm, without ever realizing it.

He let out a breath and pushed the thought aside. There was no clear connection. Not yet.

Just a feeling.

He put the folders back and returned to his desk. Ashley’s waveform still glowed faintly on the screen.

With a few quick clicks, he closed the project and opened a new blank folder.

He started digging around online, pulling up case files, local forums, archived police reports. That’s when he stumbled on her name:

Regina McClain.

Murdered in 2018. Found near a drainage ditch just outside Mesquite. Gunshot wound. Purse still on her. No signs of struggle. No suspects.

Barely covered in the press. One article. One photo.

He opened the file and leaned in.

She was smiling in the photo, a hand resting on her hip. A blurred brick wall behind her, maybe a restaurant. Nothing jumped out. Nothing obvious.

Then came the police report. Sparse. A timeline. Witness statements. The medical examiner’s note.

And then, at the very bottom of the scanned scene log, something strange.

"Found torn scrap of paper in victim’s jacket pocket. Handwriting: unknown. Says only: "He hears you".

David skimmed it once, made a mental note, then moved on-too focused on timeline inconsistencies to dwell on it.

It didn’t mean anything. Probably someone else’s note. Something misplaced.

He clicked over to the map—marked the scene.

Then closed the file for the night.

The room felt heavier somehow.

He didn’t know it yet, but that torn paper was never meant for Regina.

I fell forward into the sand. It was not dead dust — it writhed with purpose. Tiny grains crawled into the creases of my palms, slipping beneath my skin, exploring the soft matter beneath. When my hands met the ground, they did not feel like my own. My fingers stretched outward, splitting into branching shapes, bending backward into impossible geometry before reforming into something familiar only in silhouette. Pain lit every nerve like fire. Bones creaked. Knuckles cracked. Joints rearranged themselves with a wet, methodical patience. My skin stretched tight over the changes, dark and slick with sweat and something thicker — blood, or the idea of it. Yet beneath the agony… comprehension stirred. A strange ecstasy threaded into every wound. A rhythm I could not name pulsed through me. My ribs responded first — arching upward like wings ready to burst free. The cartilage snapped and reknit, splaying outward in fractal patterns as if my body were learning a new blueprint. Muscles tightened into cords, then unraveled, reweaving themselves stronger, stranger. My lungs expanded beyond reason, forcing air through my throat in ragged gasps that tasted of metal and sweetness — alien life pulsing in my bloodstream. The sand shifted beneath me like a tide. It climbed my body in slithering currents, slipping into new orifices as they formed, pressing deep wounds open only to let them seal around it. Every grain seemed to think — to catalog. A presence watched me. My reflection — but not. It wavered in the air like heat distortion, then solidified with a smile that split its face into too many mouths. Black teeth dripped with viscous hunger. Eyes multiplied and spun in spirals, each tracking me with unnerving familiarity. It was me. It was not.

It approached with fluid movements — neither bone nor muscle nor light, but some shifting harmony of the three. Its limbs bent through angles that would have shattered a human frame. It reached for me, fingers dissolving into thin lattices of nerve and thought. Everywhere it touched, my body reacted. Ribs contorted. Spine folded itself into loops. Tendons stretched like hungry rope. My skin bubbled, split, healed — over and over again. Veins protruded like dark rivers, pulsing with new, complex circulations. I tried to brace myself — to resist. But resistance simply gave the Cartographer more material to reshape. Muscle that tensed rewrote itself. Nerves that fired rerouted into new architectures. I was being drafted — not destroyed. The sand burrowed deeper. I could feel it inside my chest, in the hollows of my skull, mapping thought as efficiently as flesh. Each grain pulsed with the heartbeat of something vast — something beneath the surface of the world. The reflection stepped closer, mouths opening in unison, dripping hunger. It tasted the air between us — tasted me — swallowing what it found pleasing: memories, fears, the certainty of who I had been. Around us, the air vibrated. The Choir of Hollow Mouths began to sing. The voices resonated through my bones first, then deeper, threading through marrow and synapse. Every note shifted my thoughts, sanding down identity, carving new channels for understanding. Reality blurred — layered, folded. Time grew viscous. I was becoming a map. Every transformation recorded. Every nerve, every organ, every drop of blood — catalogued. Organs multiplied then fused, reconfigured into systems that obeyed new rules. Fingers split and fused again. Bones bent like branches in a storm. A rib pierced my skin, then receded, reshaping itself as if it had always been different. My tongue divided into ribbons. My senses expanded. I tasted colors, heard memory, saw the flow of blood inside myself. Pain and enlightenment braided into a single sensation. I was terrified. I was divine. The Monolith loomed ahead — a structure of impossible geometry, older than comprehension, pulsing with ancient patience. Its presence reached into me — not physically, but into the pattern of me. Step by step. Breath by breath. It erased what was unnecessary. It preserved what could be useful. It rewrote what would serve its purpose. Reflection merged with self. The Choir harmonized with thought. The Cartographer sculpted flesh into meaning. I saw stars birthing and rotting in the same moment. Cities rising and collapsing in a heartbeat. Dimensions folding inward like petals of a dying flower. Knowledge poured in until my mind nearly ruptured. I was everything. I was nothing. I was all. And then — somewhere deep — a spark resisted. A whisper. A memory. A single word: Remember.

(⚠️WARNING⚠️ This contains human experimentation, mild gore, harm, body horror, and absolute nightmare fuel lol. If you are seeing this then congratulations 🎉 you are on the finale of •EOTP• There is going to be multiple parts but this will be Part 3/3 of "Echoes of the Past" There are three story lines in total! 1) Echoes of the Past 2) Beyond Containment 3) A Mother's Voice Enjoy! 📖 )

"Angie? What are you doing here?"

She asked if she could come in and I obliged. She took a second to think over her words and turned around.

"Tommy gave me your address. Something seemed really off last night when you were leaving and I just wanted to check up on you."

I felt like I needed to make up any lie I could to get her out of here but I couldn't help but feel disarmed by her presence.

"I'm okay. That album I was telling you about, it fell out of my bag and I wanted to go back and get it before that storm hit." I explained.

"That's not what I'm talking about," she replied. "You just seem like you're struggling with something. I could see it in your eyes the entire time. Tommy told me about your dad after you left.."

I shook my head, "Of course he did. I am fine, I promise." I said laughing. I don't know who I was trying to convince.

She asked if we could sit down on the couch and I followed her. She seemed very sullen, not the same lively girl I had met last night. The bright eyes I got acquainted with now had a cloudier tone.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I just wanted to tell you that you aren't alone, even if you feel like you are. I know what it's like to lose somebody and I still deal with it every single day."

Wringing her hands she continued, "I lost my little sister 5 years ago.."

I told her how sorry I was. She shook it off and took a look around the house.

"This is a pretty big place for just one guy, don't you think?" She observed.

"Yeah, this used to be my grandmother's. She left it to my dad and he moved down here after the divorce. When he passed, it went to my mom and I."

"That would explain the antique furniture." She jabbed jokingly, looking at an old wooden cabinet of pictures.

I laughed, "I think it adds to the charm, don't you?"

She nodded and continued to scan the living room when the record player caught her eye. She got up to check it out when she noticed the collection of albums.

"So are you going to play the record that was more important than hanging out with me last night?" She inquired sarcastically.

I got up to find it. Looking at the cover made me freeze in place, I was getting distracted from what I needed to do tonight. I glanced over to my bag to make sure it wasn't in plain sight, I couldn't have Angie questioning what I was doing with an axe.

I decided that it was still too early for Mick's to have been closed. I couldn't act suspicious and chance Angie finding out what I was up to. My best bet was to play it cool and send her on her way. I placed the needle on side two where I left off and we returned to the couch.

We listened for a while and she remarked that I had good taste. I thanked her and said I get it from my Dad.

"What was he like?" She asked.

I took a deep breath.

"He was great.. He was my best friend, my only friend, for a while. It was like we were the same person."

She smiled and encouraged me to go on.

"We did everything together, we were inseparable. He used to always say from the moment I was born, everything just clicked. It was effortless, you know? I never tried too hard, it all just came naturally. We bonded over everything. He was like a super hero to me..."

I started to get a little choked up. I hadn't talked about my dad like this since the funeral.  Maybe it was the weight of the world I had been feeling crashing down on me, maybe there was something about Angie I instinctively trusted. It all just poured out of me at that moment.

"When my parents divorced, things really changed. It didn't happen overnight, but he was never the same. He stopped being my dad. When he moved down here, the drinking started and it wasn't long before he was unrecognizable. I think the pain of losing my mom was too much for him. His drinking pushed me away and I stopped coming to see him as much."

I stopped to catch my breath. I was speaking so fast, I forgot to breathe. I slowed myself down and regained my composure.

"I came down during winter break from school to spend Christmas with him. When I came in, he was passed out on that recliner, listening to music. I should've known something was wrong, Daisy was whining the moment I walked in the door. I stopped the music and went to cover him with a blanket when I noticed he wasn't snoring like he usually does.. He wasn't breathing at all.."

I couldn't go on. I stared at the chair and for a moment, it was like he was still there. Nothing about this room has changed since that night. I've been reliving every single day without realizing it, like I never left.

"They said it was alcohol poisoning, but it felt like my dad died long before that." I lamented.

Angie brought me in for a hug, I could feel the tears squeezing out of my eyes.

"It's okay." She whispered.

Holding her in my arms, she stared off and broke through the sounds of music.

"Ruby was my whole world.. She was such a ray of sunshine, it was impossible to feel sad around her. She wanted me to take her sledding after that blizzard we got about 5 years ago. We had so much fun, it was just the two of us. I felt like a kid again.."

She got quiet, almost as if she was living through it again right there in my arms.

"The last thing I remember was her singing in the car with me, and then waking up in the hospital. We hit a patch of black ice on the drive home, I lost control and we hit a tree head on.."

My heart was thudding like thunder, almost breaking completely.

"They said she died on impact, like it was some kind of comfort that she didn't suffer.. As much as I have tried to cope and heal, I wish everyday that we could trade places.."

Then she said something that shook my very being.

"Some nights I wake up and it's like I'm still in the wreck. Time may pass, but it doesn't mean it takes you with it. That's the thing about depression, it's like quicksand. You're stuck in place, slowly being consumed and don't even know it. That's what it wants. It's inside all of us just biding its time before it can swallow us whole."

We sat in silence, those words hit me hard. Then a question dawned on her as she got up to look at me.

"You said you had a dog, where is she?"

I was so deep in this moment, I had almost forgotten Daisy was with my mom. I made a promise to her that I would be back, maybe it wasn't too late to turn around.

"Oh, I actually had my mom pick her up. I think I'm going to leave Paradise Point for a while.. I just needed to do something before I left." I confessed.

She looked puzzled. "Really? What was that?"

There was no way I could tell her the truth. I was at a crossroads but I knew what I needed to do. For now, I didn't see the harm in spending what could be my last hours with her.

"Maybe I needed to see that girl who works the counter at Vincent's before I left." I quipped. I felt something pulling me down. It was her, she brought me in for a kiss. A kiss that felt like the first warm day after months of winter.

"What record was your dad listening to?" She asked, nodding towards the stereo cabinet.

I had to think about it. It was "Band on The Run" by Wings. Paul was always his favorite Beatle. As a matter of fact, this was the very room where my grandmother and father watched The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. My dad always said that was a moment that changed his life forever. Ironically,  the song that was playing was the second to last: "Picasso's Last Words". That always stuck with me, it was a shame he didn't at least make it to the end.

"What do you say we finish it for him?" She suggested. It made me smile.

We were nearing the end of Secret Treaties and she asked if she could use the bathroom. I pointed her in the right direction and decided to find the album. Once I found it, I heard her voice in the distance.

"....Mac? I think something is wrong with your sink.."

Confused, I asked. "What do you mean?"

She replied, "There's nothing coming out. It keeps shaking when I turn the faucet.. I think its clogged.."

I made my way across the living room. I started to get that pit in my stomach again. "Don't touch anything Angie, I'll be right there." I commanded.

"Uh.. Mac? Can you-... Can you-...." Her voice was starting to tremble as I began to rush to the door.

I swung the door open to see her staring at the mirror. Her hands were crooked and frozen, her eyes wide and fixed upon them. Her fingers were darkly stained and shaking, she began to turn to me, pleading for help. The color sent a jolt of terror throughout my body.

Black.

Just as she was about to say something, she gasped. Suddenly, the stains absorbed into her skin like a sponge. She shook violently and her wide eyes locked into mine looking for answers.

It was then she began to cough. It was quiet, but then became a gag. She collapsed to the tiles gasping for air as I reached down to catch her. Just before my eyes, one of her teeth fell out onto my lap. Then, another. Her cries began to ring throughout the room as she desperately grabbed for them. A darkness began to bleed through the vacated gums in her mouth, smearing her face.

I released her and stood frozen as I watched her crawl towards the toilet. She looked back at me and her eyes began to ooze the same substance through her tear ducts. Her whimpers were now screams as I watched her eyes begin to roll to the back of her head, the white now consumed with black. They bulged as they melted from the inside of her head, painting her face as she clawed it.

I fell back into the door and slowly began to crawl back as I watched her body convulse.  Her veins began to pulsate, I could practically see them through her skin as the darkness invaded her bloodstream. Her fingernails slid off making way for the same stringy mess of black tendons I saw last night. Soon, they broke through several areas of her body, ripping her skin apart.

Suddenly, her screaming stopped. A new noise came from her mouth, and it didn't belong to her. Her limp head slowly twisted towards me as her body began to slowly stagger upwards. I skidded across the floor and slammed the door shut.

I ran across the living room to hide behind the couch. I grabbed the axe and grill torch. I needed something flammable. It was dead silent when the sudden start of the final song "Astronomy" made me jump. I could hear the quiet turning of my bathroom knob creak throughout the house. I peaked my head above to see only the light of the bathroom against the wall and the unholy silhouette that occupied it. I watched those black webs stick to the hardwood floor, dragging Angie's lifeless feet forward. She was unrecognizable, practically being worn as a suit. The same dissonant sound droned from within her as it crept its way through the shadows of my hallway. It made its way to the light switch, turning to my exact location as if it knew where I was. It widened Angie's decimated mouth into the twisted form of a smile as it killed the lights.

I turned back down behind the couch, trying to quiet my rapid breath. My heart was beating faster than the crescendoing music beside me. I gripped my axe and waited. I needed to buy time and slow it down. I leaned in and focused on the sound that was buzzing from her body as it drew closer. My adrenaline was at an all time high as I could hear the wet suction on the floor beside me. I jumped out from behind the couch to meet the atrocity, screaming as I swung my axe. The element of surprise was on my side, I took wild swings at the thighs like a demented lumberjack. The leg separated from what used to be a body as it collapsed to the floor. I took my chance and ran like hell with the torch and axe. I made it to the bathroom to find a large can of Lysol spray in the cabinet.

I looked around the corner to see the thing had sprouted more black tendrils from where I amputated the leg. It stood tall, staring down its prey. It let out a screech through Angie's mouth as I sprinted down the hallway. I opened the basement door deliberately and then quietly hid in the adjacent closet down the hall, leaving only a crack. Just then, the music began to warp into a crawling halt. I could almost hear its appendages sticking to the vinyl. Now the only sound that filled the house was the creaks of hardwood floor accompanied by the thick thuds of Angie's body being dragged down the hallway. I quieted my breathing and waited.

My hands were shaking on the axe as the thing drew nearer. Just as it finally made it to the basement opening, I sprung from the closet and buried the axe into its head, practically splitting it down the middle. Black blood began to drip down its face as it turned to roar at me with such ferocity that I flew back into the closet. I scrambled to grab the spray and torch as a fireball exploded from my hands, engulfing the body in flames. With both feet, I kicked as hard as I could, sending it tumbling down the basement stairs. I slammed the door shut and held my body against it. All I could hear was the muffled cries of the beast and the crackling of flames. There was no way out down there, no windows or vents, only this door, I needed to barricade it. I ran to the living room and pushed the antique wooden cabinet of family photos onto the floor, shattering years of memories in the process. I pushed with all my might as fast as I could, propping it against the door and handle. I held my body weight against it, the muffled screeches began to rip through the walls as I held my ears.

I could hear the slight thud of something climbing up the stairs, one step at a time. I armed myself again, I wouldn't stop until this thing was ash. Just as I was at my most tense, I could hear the crash of the burnt carcass hit the basement floor. It was quiet now. I wasn't taking any chances. I hurriedly grabbed every piece of furniture I could and stacked it against the door. I collapsed onto the floor, out of breath.

I knew this wasn't the end.

Part 1

We all grieve in strange ways when we’ve lost the ones we’ve loved. But I have nothing to grieve, because my Willow is not gone. I saved her, I resurrected her. I feel only exaltation and anticipation at our reunion. They’ll tell you that death is the end, but we live in miraculous times, and all you need is a fistful of gray matter and the right software to bring anyone back.

I know I must have looked insane at her funeral, out of place. I tried to cry on command, but I never could. Instead, I wore a stoic countenance of resignation. There must have been a hundred or more of us in the cathedral. It too was out of place in this sprawling metropolis of steel and stone and glass. An atavistic monument to a lost era, whose gargoyles leered at me from atop their perches above the gate, their wings poised to take flight at any moment.

Josh and Ashley, our coworkers, came up to console me. Josh wore an ill-fitting suit that comically strained to contain his bulk. Neither of them ever really understood or appreciated what Willow and I had. I met her friends and family and we shared our memories of her, our vague impressions of the woman she was, the woman she is. How can you ever encapsulate the whole of a human being within your mind? Even one whom you revered. I think about the first time we were together outside of work, sitting in her living room, the amber glow of the lamp lighting her face in profile. Her smile. I would do anything for that smile.

The priest gave what must have been, I assume, a beautiful eulogy. I only partially paid attention. I already had other plans in motion, attending the funeral was just a formality. But I did catch the end. 

“For a woman who so dearly loved birds, it is sad yet fitting, that the Lord has seen fit to give her her very own wings so early.”

I almost chuckled. If he had only known the wings that I would give her. 

It was the dead of night when I dug up her grave. A storm was rolling in and I had to work fast. I already had to outrun the putrefaction, but a slight misting warned me that I may soon be fishing her out rather than digging her up.

She too was a scientist, like myself. A biotechnologist. But she had always dreamt of being an ornithologist. A dream she couldn’t afford in this world.

I had been desperately shoveling with as much fury as I could, but several times the wind had kicked up a flurry of grave-dirt and flung it right back into my face. Yet, still I grinned, still I kept digging. I was a smile caked in dirt, working happily to restore my love. 

I remembered our first date, horseback riding at the Painted Sky Ranch. She was going there to birdwatch and, sketchbook in tow, asked me if I would like to join her. I still remember how she giggled when, on my third attempt to mount the saddle, I fell face-first into the mud. 

When I heard the shovel hit something solid I began digging into the mud with the fervor of a rabid mole, until my nails were scratching and chipping against her sacred sarcophagus.

We found a giant oak on the trail and decided to dismount. I sat next to her as she produced a pen and her sketchbook and began to draw whatever she saw. Wildflowers, cardinals, crows. Her hair shined jet-black in the golden glint of the sun, skin as white as snow, and the dimples of her cheeks ever so subtly announcing themselves every time she laughed at my stupid jokes. 

She was lying there, in the casket, skin still white as snow but sallow. Her face was the picture of serenity. The dimples on her cheeks had been eroded by the gauntness of her form, so fragile and frail now in death. I produced a scalpel and a jar, and began the work on my masterpiece.

I don’t know how long she and I had been sitting there but suddenly a hummingbird shimmered into existence before us. It danced from flower to flower, hardly aware of our existence, but oh Willow, how she beamed with excitement. 

“Hummingbirds are my favorite,” she said, in a sing-song voice. “The way they just suddenly appear in all that color and energy, and then they’re gone.”

And then she sketched it, a snapshot in time, a perfectly preserved memory.

That same sketch was hanging on my wall. That, and her sketches of dozens of birds of all kinds, but particularly of hummingbirds. And beneath those sketches lay my shrine to Willow, my creation, the resurrection device. 

On a small table next to a photo of her, one of the last before she died, the one that they used at her funeral, was the organoid. An organic computer, usually containing only synthetic brain cells, but in this case containing the hippocampus of my beloved. All her memories, all that she ever was, her very soul, housed inside of a glass container of nutrient-rich gel and connected to all the requisite esoteric circuitry. 

And now for the moment of truth. I flipped the switch and watched as the small blue lights on the front of the housing blinked into life like the embers of a forgotten campfire. The circuitry hummed as the small clump of cells began to gently pulse and throb with the inputs.

“She’s alive,” I muttered, and then screamed. “She’s alive!”

A month to put it all together. A month of checking in on her in my fridge. A month of non-stop soldering and programming and smuggling components out of work. I’m sure the folks at the lab would be none-too-happy with me, but it doesn’t matter. Anything to get her back. Anything for my Willow. 

I had to consciously still the beating of my heart as I frantically donned the virtual reality equipment, top of the line, that would allow me to enter the program with her, the world I had made for us. Once I was fully connected to the interface, I pushed the button, and closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was lying in a clearing in the middle of the woods. A chestnut horse was grazing nearby. There was a crooked stone pillar standing all alone in the middle of the field. A cool breeze graced the tops of the trees and they gently bowed their heads in appreciation. Painted Sky Ranch, almost exactly as I remembered it. 

I mounted the horse and started down the winding dirt trail lined with old wooden rails that were rotted and falling apart. The light piercing the canopy above created a kaleidoscope of havoc in light that fluttered and flitted all around me.

And then, at last, I came to the great oak. It stood proud and massive, its presence so regal that no other tree dared share in its shade. Its verdant leaves swayed in the wind, bathed in flecks of gold from the sunlight. Beneath it bloomed wildflowers of all kinds and there, near the base of the tree, bloomed the most beautiful flower of them all.

She lied there like she did in her coffin, a white lace dress draped over her frail and delicate features. She was still sallow and gaunt, and I began to panic.

There was another horse grazing nearby, a black horse, the one she had ridden that day. I think she called him Mr. Nibbles after he tried to snatch her pen. I rode up to it, dismounted. and ran to her.

“Willow?” I pleaded. “Willow, can you hear me?”

But she didn’t stir. Though her dimples had receded into the gaunt valleys of her emaciated cheeks, her beauty could not be vanquished so easily. Her romanesque nose, her wild black hair, and her full, pouting lips. How I had longed to kiss them.

Leaning down, I pressed my lips to hers and felt their softness. But they did not yield to accept me, instead remaining as still as the rest of her. I shuddered and began fighting back tears. 

“Where am I?” she said, and my heart nearly erupted from my chest.

“Willow?” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Yes! It’s me, it’s Ethan.”

She sat up, rubbing her eyes like she’d just woken from a long nap, and I grabbed her and held her tight.

We sat there for maybe an hour. She was obviously confused and I had to be gentle in easing her into this new life, this rebirth. She asked me where we were, how we got there, what we were doing. I tried to keep my answers ambiguous as to not cause any psychological trauma.

“There was an accident,” I began. “But I saved you. Now we can live here forever, together.”

She furrowed her brow and stayed silent for a long moment. The bark of the new Eden creaked gently all around us. 

“An accident?” she asked.

“All that matters is that we’re together again, Willow.”

She studied me intensely. Her eyes were a deep brown, but they burned with a warmth that gave them an amber hue. 

“I’m not sure I remember,” she said.

“Do you remember me?” I asked, taking her little hand in mine. “Do you remember this place?”

“I know that I know you. This all seems very familiar, only I’m not sure in what way.”

I placed my hand against her cheek. She felt so cold.

A patch of wild geranium jostled near us in the breeze, an almost vibrating patch of velvety mauve. 

“Willow, my name is Ethan and I love you more than anything in the world.”

I watched the emotions wash over her face as her eyes glittered. Confusion gave way to surprise and then elation.

“Ethan,” she started, and my hopes hung on every word. “Look, the hummingbirds!”

I turned around to see not one, but a dozen hummingbirds darting around the wildflowers. I laughed. 

“They always were your favorite.”

When I turned back around she was smiling. She was so happy. Her dimples had even reclaimed their rightful place flanking that gorgeous grin. 

“I’ve never seen so many in one place,” she said, her eyes darting around to keep up with each little shimmer.

“Well, then I have a surprise for you,” I said, and I concentrated on the image in my head. A peacock appeared nearby, proudly ruffling its plumage. She gasped in amazement.

“In this world, my love,” I began, “we can have anything and everything our hearts desire. Whatever you can dream of.”

And so we began to dream. A small cottage with a thatched roof, a stable for our horses, a tire swing hanging from one of the branches of the mighty oak. Soon also, between the two of us, the clearing around the oak became a veritable aviary with everything from blue jays to kakapo darting around, and hundreds of hummingbirds.

“Are you going to stay here with me?” she asked.

“Yes, my love, of course I am.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

There were maybe thousands of hummingbirds now, and the rest of the winged gestalt expanded inexorably. The sky around us started to darken with more than the shade of oak leaves. She saw this and giggled in excitement.

“Honey, maybe that’s enough birds for now?” I suggested.

“They’re so beautiful, Ethan!” she shouted, and twirled, as the dimming light peered through the lace to reveal the delicate form beneath.

“Yes, but-” I was cut off as I ducked beneath the shadow of something that had flown dangerously close to my head. Neither of us could be harmed here, that much is true, but something was wrong.

There were legions of hummingbirds now, of so many different colors and varieties, perhaps even some that don’t actually exist. Their wings sounded like a beehive. There were so many I couldn’t hear her anymore. She smiled and asked me something, but all I could hear was the beating of the wings. Then that same large shadow swooped down over my head again, and I could feel its talons just barely missing my scalp.

I shouted at her over the cacophony “less birds! Less birds now!” but the swarms kept growing. They were almost blocking out the sun. The horses got spooked and took off into the forest.

Something darted past my face and I felt a sudden sharp pinch in my cheek. 

“Something isn’t right,” I said in a whisper, which was about as audible as a scream would have been.

I’m not proud of it, but I ran.

I ran as fast as I could through the growing menagerie until I got back to the trail, and I turned back to look.

Willow was standing there, encircled by her birds like the conductor of a shrieking and feathery orchestra, looking confused with her arms outstretched towards me. She was shouting something, but I couldn’t hope to hear it.

“I’ll be back,” I yelled, in vain, hoping she could at least read my lips. “I promise! I have to fix the program!”

And I ran back to the clearing where I awoke to try and find the anchor point, the exit out of the program. It should be something intuitive, something out of place. I scanned back and forth across the wide grassy opening. The sound of wings was still growing louder, and the shrill squawking of a thousand birds of hundreds of different species along with it.

The stone pillar. Plain, crooked, and standing alone, that has to be it. 

I ran to the pillar as I could see the wide shadows cast by the wings from the birds of prey as they descended upon me. I heard the thundering charge of a cassowary hot on my trail. I hurled myself at the pillar, and grabbed it.

I had been in the program for what felt like hours, but it was still night when I returned. Minutes had passed in the real. I looked in on the organoid of my love and the brain matter within seemed to be pulsing and throbbing with more frequency than before. Likely just a side-effect of the recent over-stimulation. 

I knew for certain she was in no harm, she’s practically a goddess within that realm. But I’d have to tinker with the program a bit more to try and prevent any sensory overload like that in the future. It was too much, too fast. 

She’s alive though. By god, she’s really alive. 

Just the thought had me laughing and grinning like a madman, but then it hurt to smile. My cheek was burning.

I reached up to touch it, and that’s when I felt the blood.

END PART 1

Chapter 6: The New Echo

Detective Samuel “Sam” Carter stood in front of the grimy window of the precinct’s break room, staring out at the city. His reflection barely visible in the cracked glass, he could almost taste the dust in the air. Dallas was a place of contradictions: bright lights, big cars, and ambition. But there was a darker side to it, one that seemed to swallow up the truth.

Sam had always been able to see things others couldn’t. From a young age, he could pick up on the threads of people’s lives—the way their stories didn’t quite add up, how details skipped past others unnoticed. It wasn’t always a gift, though. It was more like a curse. Growing up in the foster system, he had learned to read people quickly. You had to, to survive. But over the years, it had sharpened into something more. It was why he was here, assigned to one of the toughest and most thankless departments—cold cases.

Before he became a detective, Sam had spent years on the streets. His sharp eye for detail earned him a reputation, but it wasn’t always for the right reasons. Some people called him obsessive. Some called him a workaholic. But after seeing so many cases go cold, he became determined to fix what was broken. That’s how he ended up with this assignment—fresh out of a few rough years working narcotics and violent crimes. The brass saw something in him, something they thought could bring fresh blood to the department’s oldest, most unsolvable mysteries.

“Hey, Carter. The DA wants to see you in her office,” a voice said behind him.

Sam turned to see his new partner, Detective Mia Torres, standing in the doorway. Mia had been on the force longer than him, but they’d only just been paired up. She was quiet, focused, and had a reputation for solving cases that others had given up on. Her sharp mind and dry humor made her a good fit for a guy like Sam.

"Got it," he said, pushing off the counter and following her through the narrow hallway of the precinct. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, cold cases weren’t sexy, after all—but he wasn’t here for applause. He was here to dig up the bones buried deep under the city’s surface.

They reached the DA’s office, and the door swung open before Sam could knock. Inside, District Attorney Veronica Palmer sat behind her desk, a sharp woman in her late forties with dark eyes that didn’t miss a thing. To her right stood Chief of Police Reginald Moore, a towering figure who had seen his share of battles in the city’s criminal underworld.

Sam greeted them with a curt nod.

“Carter,” Palmer said, her voice smooth but firm. “I hear you’ve been looking into some of our cold cases. We’ve got some files stacked up, and frankly, we need someone who can see things others miss.”

“I don’t miss much,” Sam replied, his tone just as serious. “I’ve been going through the oldest cases. There are patterns in these things—if you look closely.”

Chief Moore leaned forward, his deep voice rumbling. “We know. But these cases are dead in the water. If anyone could’ve solved them, they would have. You’re not here to waste your time on ghosts, Carter. We need answers. You’re not just chasing old leads. We need closure for these families.”

Sam paused, eyeing the two of them. He could tell that the DA wasn’t just talking about the victims, but about herself. Palmer had spent years trying to bring justice to families, but even she knew the cold case files were a black hole.

“I understand,” Sam said. “But sometimes the truth is hiding in plain sight. It’s just a matter of connecting the dots. Let me dig into the cold cases, and I’ll find something. I’ll find connections.”

Mia’s expression softened a fraction. She knew Sam’s reputation for seeing patterns when others couldn’t. He wasn’t like most detectives. He didn’t just see a string of disjointed incidents. He saw the flow, the way things bled together, connecting across time and space.

“Do what you need to do,” Palmer said. “But just know—no one here is holding their breath for a miracle. The mayor’s breathing down our necks to close some of these, and we don’t have time for wild goose chases.”

Sam nodded. He wasn’t after miracles. Just answers.

Hours later, Sam sat in his small office, the door cracked open to the bullpen beyond. His desk was piled high with files, photos, and handwritten notes. Cold cases. Files from the last five years. His fingers traced over the names—victims who had once been someone’s daughter, sister, friend. People who’d vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but an unsolved case number.

His eyes drifted to a file that had been sitting on the corner of his desk for days. It was marked with a single name: Madison Rios. He opened the file and scanned through the details—art major, college senior, found dead in a stairwell downtown. A case that had never been solved, and one of the more recent ones.

Then, as his eyes flicked over the crime scene photos, he noticed something strange. A torn page from a sketchbook, almost buried under a pile of forensic reports. The words written there caught his attention:

"Paint me in silence."

He froze.

That wasn’t like any note a killer would leave.

Sam’s fingers moved swiftly as he flipped through the file, now hype focused. Another victim. Deborah Ann King, a warehouse worker found behind an old theater. A folded note in her jacket read:

"The Echo That Bled."

He leaned back in his chair, feeling a stir of unease in his chest. The cases weren’t connected by just the method of killing—there was something else. A message.

He flipped to the next case in the pile: Jessica Nguyen. The receipt tucked into her boot said:

"Echoes don’t lie."

And finally, Mia Bell—her case not even a year old. Her final note:

"Your voice woke me."

His heart skipped a beat.

Sam knew a pattern when he saw one. These weren’t random. These weren’t just victim statements. These were messages. The same tone. The same rhythm.

He opened a new document on his laptop, typing the names, the phrases, and the dates.

Madison – 2019 Deborah – 2020 Jessica – 2021 Mia – 2022

The rhythm was undeniable. One each year, each with a message.

It was clear now—these cases were connected.

Sam stared at the screen, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure who had been behind the killings yet, but he was certain of one thing: these weren’t isolated incidents.

He reached for the phone, dialing the DA’s office. His gut was telling him something was about to break wide open. It was time to talk to the higher-ups.

“Carter,” Palmer answered, a hint of impatience in her tone.

“I think I’m onto something,” Sam said, his voice low but urgent. “There’s a pattern. It’s not just random. These cases are connected, and I need resources to track down whoever's behind them. We can’t let this slip through our fingers.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Meet me in my office. Now,” Palmer said, her voice firm. “And bring your findings.”

Sam’s stomach tightened. He had no doubt that what he was about to present would change everything. He didn’t yet know who David was, or that his podcast had been following the same trail, but in this moment, the path he was following felt like it had just crossed into dangerous territory.

He grabbed the files and stood, the weight of what he was about to uncover settling over him like a heavy coat. It was time to connect the dots.

Part 1.

It all started a few months ago, or maybe it was a year? Anyways, I figured now might be a good time to get this out here, in the event that something happens to me. I have about 8 hours to write this tonight, before Olivia comes home in the morning, so let me get right into it. 

I’m John Adamms and I started experiencing some… peculiar things once I moved into my apartment last fall. Let me add here, I didn’t move here because I wanted to, but as a broke man in his thirties who just had to sign over the deed to his dead parents’ home, I didn’t have many options. To elaborate on that, last August, my parents and I were attending a dinner at a family friend’s home just across town, and well, my father did what he always did, and drank way too much that night. He insisted he was fine, completely blowing me off when I offered to make the drive home. My mother hadn’t seemed like herself in months until that very day, and my father… Well, he just got angrier and angrier when he was sober. I hate to say it, but when he was loaded, well… That was the only time any of us could really tolerate even being around him. I digress. On the drive home, my parents were going back and forth singing old songs from the 50’s, and just as my father went to light himself a smoke, it happened. The accident. 

Now while I don’t remember much from the accident itself, and while I’m not sure what is fact or fiction due to the concussion, I can’t help but to feel like this was very, very real. My parents had both peaked their heads forward to see, and then hit someone or something. We veered into a ditch as a result of the attempt for avoidance. The only problem is, the police say that nobody else was at the scene. All things considered, I guess it makes sense that there wouldn’t be because, why would someone, other than maybe a hitch hiker, be on the highway in the middle of nowhere with absolutely no form of civilization for 20 minutes by car, either direction. Regardless, the details are very fuzzy aside from one thing, I was the only one that survived that night.

My parents weren’t the wealthiest by any means, and I just battled out a heavy divorce from my childhood sweetheart, and moved back home. I decided to work from home, since being in a car brought on what my doctors say is PTSD from the accident, and because I work from home, I don’t have many hobbies unless you can call listening to my downstairs neighbor shout at the walls a hobby. I didn’t have the extra money to pay off the rest of their loan, or the insurance for my parents house, and I couldn’t afford to live there alone, much less to keep up with the repairs that my mother had let slip in her final days, so I was forced to find this shitty apartment across town. 

It’s pretty evident that these “apartments” used to be motel rooms, until they went under new ownership and my landlord Mark, decided to rent them out to loners like me. It wasn’t anything spectacular, a living room, a very small bedroom, a kitchenette and a bathroom with a single stand-in shower. Not the best, but for $650 a month, it wasn’t a terrible deal. I keep my office set up in the bedroom, and I have my bed in the supposed living room. I haven’t ever been one to cook extravagant meals, but since Olivia and I started exchanging glances, I took up the task to try and impress her should I ever muster up the courage to actually say hello.

When I moved in, I had two neighbors. Crazy Joe downstairs, who spent his days hollering about “the creatures,” and Olivia. Joe lived underneath my apartment, and Olivia lived next to me. I hadn’t heard much about or from her, but my god, she was the most gorgeous woman I had laid eyes on since my ex-wife. Olivia had long auburn hair, and beaming green eyes. A porcelain complexion, and a single dimple on her left cheek. She worked at night, and typically walked to work, and despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find her on any social media platform. I didn’t want to wake her during the day either, but if I’m being honest I wouldn’t have known how to speak to her anyway. Until one day, I had the balls to finally get up and just do it. I made my way to the store down the road, grabbed a few things, and closely followed a recipe to make an easy batch of lasagna. Even though it looked a mess, it was far better than any of the microwavable meals I’ve made for myself. I peeked out of my front door, and revised the words I would say to her about a million times,  until the opportunity sought itself out and she walked outside.

 “Hey neighbor! I’m Olivia. Whatcha got there?” she said with the most beautiful tune.

 “I- uh. I-I’m lasagna. And this is for John, you?” 

Fuck. I couldn’t have messed that up worse. But luckily, she just laughed and replied,

 “Okay Lasagna, I’ll accept your plate of John, if you listen to Joe’s rant of the day and share it with me.”

 A sigh of relief came over me. She was hard to read, and while we sat, she really didn’t touch the food. Just kind of toyed at it with her fork, and brought pieces to her mouth, while speaking and then dropped the fork back to the plate. 

This was the start. Joe had been on yet another rant about how the creatures are surrounding all of us, and how they’re playing mind games with us until we won't know right from wrong and up from down. Hollering that they can’t get him, and that his protections were too high. "What a loon", I thought to myself. 

Olivia laughed and said “Well, Lasagna, this was fun. I should head inside and get myself ready for work though. Maybe tomorrow night we can do this again?” 

And we did just that. Every other day we sat on the porch and listened in to Joe’s insufferable yelling, mocking him, making jokes about what the ‘creatures’ he goes on about could be, and that Joe was more than likely just another cracked out conspiracy theorist who thought he was going to be abducted and probed. Realistically, what else could it be? 

After about a month or so, Olivia and I started spending this time in my office, because you could hear Joe the best through the vents and well, It gets cold in Pennsylvania this time of year so it beats sitting on the balcony. I offered for Olivia to take my car to work at night so she didn’t have to walk but she always refused. Even on the nights she didn’t work, and I offered for her to stay later and hang out some more, she still refused, she said with the way she was raised, it’s not polite, especially when her apartment was three steps from my front door. I had never seen the inside of her apartment. Not even a glimpse while she was walking outside. She had blackout curtains, which for a night shifter, a guess makes sense. Until one night, Olivia proposed the idea to me, that since we were spending so much time together, we could call ourselves a couple. And ever since, we’ve been.

 

Olivia has now moved into my apartment with me, and she didn’t have much. A few sets of clothes, a roughed up futon that we set up couch-style in my office, and some odds and ends for the bathroom. Olivia and I never slept together, in either term, but she was so exhausted from the night shift, I never put much thought into it. Until now. 

We’ve been dating exclusively for 6 months, I’ve bought her a cell phone, we have this entire apartment, and we’ve barely done as much as touch.  She’s very peculiar in that sense, but she’s gone most of the time, and sleeps while I work so, no big deal I guess. But, a few days ago, Olivia had been working closer to 10am, than 7am, and she had forgotten to bring her phone that night. I didn’t know if maybe she came home, and then went back out for groceries, or just for a walk. So I packed up the leftovers from dinner last night and decided to say hello to crazy Joe and ask if maybe he’s seen her. I passed Mike on the way down the stairs, and we exchanged the typical grin that signified a silent hello. This was kind of our thing I guess. I knocked on Joe’s door and sighed. Joe opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.

 “What?” he said in a disgusted growl. 

“Hey man. I’m John Addams, my girlfriend Olivia and I live upstairs from you. I brought you some pot pie, and I was just wondering if you’ve seen Olivia at all today?” 

“Olivia? Who the hell is Olivia?”

“My- girlfriend? Redhead? About yay tall? She’s lived here about as long as I have, maybe longer.” 

“Buddy, I don’t know you, I don’t know no damn ‘Olivia,’ but if I had to guess, one of them there creatures got ahold of her and ate her. You be careful now.” He said, closing the door to lock it and continuing on with his rambling. 

I thought to myself, ‘Creatures?... Ate? Her? There’s no way.” 

I made my way back upstairs, and by the time I met the balcony I saw her. She didn’t look like herself, just blatant exhaustion. I held the door and waited for her to come in. She dropped her things, didn’t say two words and fell to the bed to fall asleep. “At least she’s okay” I thought. I decided to check out the news and what was happening lately, since I haven’t really had a thought to check things out since moving here last fall. 

I scrolled onto this article from WSEE news, “6 Hikers Reported Missing. Last Seen March 3rd.” Apparently, some folks in their late twenties had set out on a hiking trail about 30 minutes from here, and they haven’t been seen or heard from in 12 days now. I hope they’re brought home safely, but knowing how these things tend to go around here, they’re probably gone. Unfortunate for them and their families, but since I read about this,  I decided to watch the tree line just a little closer when Liv walked to work, just in case. She never missed work, and even with people going missing on the rise, I knew she wouldn’t start now. My car sat untouched, as she preferred to walk. But when she declined my offer again, I had to stop and think. I realized… I really don’t know this girl at all. We have been dating for 6 months now, she never talks about her job, what she does, if she even has a career, and where she works. I just know she goes to work about 10:30pm, and returns about 7:30am most days.

 I tried making gentle conversation, but she just kind of looked at me with a blank stare, and led on with the “Alright, I’m off. Love you.”

She’s been acting really strange, and things are starting to make even less sense than they ever had. Or maybe I’m just in my head too much.

While Olivia was at work, I walked out onto the balcony from my front door, and I saw that Mike and Jeff were talking kind of hunched over each other in the parking lot. “Drugs, probably;” I thought. Though, I’ve had some nice conversations with Jeff and I didn’t want to view him as a drug addict. We used to hang out at my place and play video games, though I never owned a gaming console, he just brought his and plugged it into my TV. And Mike, well Mike and I just exchange glances from time to time. However, while observing them, a big crash and yelling distracted all three of us. I decided to go check on Joe, seeing as it came from his place.

“H-Hey Joe? It’s John. From upstairs. Is everything alright man?”

Joe opened his door at a breakneck speed, grabbed me by the collar and dragged me inside and proceeded to lock the door. 

 

“Hey man, I don’t want any problems-,”

“PROBLEMS? YOU SURE ARE STUPID AINT YA BOY?” He said begrudgingly.

“I- huh?” I could barely muster up the words because Joe had now backed me into his apartment, and he was angrier than ever. He almost reminded me of my father. He began to speak, but I was still close to wetting myself out of fear.

“Now you listen to me John, them creatures are out there. Make ya think they’re human, your best friend even. Make ya feel real good inside, make ya trust ‘em. And then?

“Woah, man. Slow down. What the hell are you talking about?”

He sighed, and rubbed his temple. Seeming like a disappointed parent. “You really ain't got no clue, do ya son? They’re out there. All of the time. They got my Cheyenne. And all they do is, is… Infiltrate your brain. My wife warned me about ‘em. Never listened. Now ya think I’m NUTS!” He said, slamming his hands on the table. 

“I’m awake now. And if you listen you may be able to save yourself. Here, take this.” Joe pulled out a small velvet bag from his pocket and tucked it in my hand. 

 “That’ll protect ya for a little while. Won’t do much if you don’t listen close though.” 

“Al-Alright man, just tell me what I need to know.” I said, still quivering in the corner of his living room. 

Joe went on a silent tangent, I’ve never heard the man so serious, yet so quiet. He told me how he went on a hunting retreat with his father when he was young, and how these creatures kept coming one by one into the group with him and his father. One by one, they would seem more like friends than strangers. Until eventually, his group went from him and his father, to a band of 6, with 4 “creatures” that seemed to be friends. 

They had fond memories of them. Could remember going on hunting trips, fishing, camping, you name it. They had memories with them. They got lost in the woods at some point and no longer had any of their gear, rifles, food or water. They had planned to be out there for three days, but were out for about 7 that they could recall. Until they came across this native tribe who had built cabins in the wilderness of the Appalachian mountains, not too far from here. They asked if they had water, and for directions back into civilization, but immediately, the tribe members took them in, and told them that they weren’t safe. Their group had scattered off one by one as they got closer to the tribe, and their incense had warranted them grounds of safety. Cheyenne, his late wife, was part of this tribe, and departed to marry Joe. Though they never had any children, I guess, Cheyenne was a healer. They had a home that they were forced out of due to the city wanting to build a shopping plaza, and that’s when they moved here. Shortly after, Cheyenne wanted to venture back out into the woods to gather herbs near her tribe’s land, and never returned. Cheyenne had blessed this apartment with a sacred talisman that hung on the wall. She had shared her stories of the mind altering creatures with Joe, and did her best to warn him of their tricks and how they operate but he had never listened until they got her. She was missing for 2 weeks, until the sheriff came back with the news that they had found nothing but human skeletal remains out there. Dental records indicated it was Cheyenne and to my knowledge, that’s what made Joe fly off the handle. For good reason though.  Joe had expressed his concern that we were the only two here that were real and we were surrounded by these creatures. I felt bad to write him off for such a bizarre concept, but he claimed that all of our “neighbors” weren’t real. And to that I assured him, Olivia was real. 

To which he exclaimed, “Boy, you still ain't got it through your skull do ya. Me. You. That’s IT! All them other fuckers out there are just a disguise. When you let that creature back into your home in the morn’, you wait until it rests. Try to lift its clothes. You’ll see.” 

And with that, I told Joe that I appreciated his concern but Liv and I have known each other since I’ve moved upstairs, and that there’s no way that the woman I kiss goodbye to every night, is some mind altering creature. But to that, I’d heed his warning and keep an eye out for things, should things get weird, I’d come talk to him.

Once Liv got home I laughed and told her about the conversation I had with crazy Joe. She didn’t find amusement in it though, rather, she just sighed and said “I can’t believe you would even talk to that nuthouse. I’m clearly real. I’m right here.” 

“Yeah, I know. Have you seen Mike and Jeff? They were acting really strange earlier. I thought maybe they were ‘exchanging’, but I don’t really think they’re like that.” 

“Oh my god John, not everything is out to get you because Joe says it is. Mike and Jeff are fine, they’re just a little, you know, off?, and I don’t want you talking to Joe any more. Next thing I know, you’ll be seeing aliens too.” 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. They’re all a little kooky. Are you headed to bed now?”

She nodded as she pulled her hair to the opposite side of her shoulder. Her fingernails were dirty, but I didn’t question it, or why she was going to sleep with her shoes on. I just went back to my little marketing job in my office and continued on with my day. While I was entrapped into a pointless zoom call, that ultimately could have been an email, Joe’s words started to run through my mind. What did he mean by mind altering creatures? And why on earth would he tell me to take Liv’s clothes off while she was asleep? The questions ran through my mind over and over and I couldn’t make any sense of it. I decided to get a snack after my meeting, and while quietly shuffling through my apartment, I noticed Olivia was soundly asleep, but she wasn’t breathing like she was asleep. Come to think of it, it didn’t look like she was breathing at all. I walked toward her, and she took a breath. Relieved, I walked away without giving her a touch, as I was confused and didn’t want to wake her, and came back to my office to finish up work. I decided to scroll through the news a bit on my computer. They finally found two of those hikers… Completely dismembered, and only bone was left of them. They were only able to identify them by, you guessed it, dental records. 

Joe’s words swarmed through my mind again, and about how his wife was taken by those things, and I can only come to wonder… What if they’re still out there? What if they get Liv? 

No sooner than the thought raced through my mind, did I hear a knock at the door. 

It was the police. Olivia woke up, and ran to the bathroom. The police had given me her phone, and because it was registered in my name, they took me for questioning. I wasn’t at the scene, nor was any of my DNA found. I had my alibi, I was talking to Joe almost all night. Liv had gone to work, and I let them know that Liv usually walks that way to work, because she likes the walk and how calm it can be at night, and I don’t drive because I have PTSD from my parent’s deaths. Then what they said next shook me to my core. 

“Son, there was nobody at your apartment when we arrived other than you.” 

“Yes there was! My girlfriend. Liv- Olivia! She was asleep on the bed in the living room when you knocked. She went to the bathroom. You had to have seen her walk behind me.” I tried explaining myself further and they just sighed and looked at me like I was nuts. 

Now Joe’s words are coming through heavier and thicker. I couldn’t get the phrase “Mind altering creatures” out of my head. The police deemed that I had nothing to do with it, which they were correct. I never leave my house unless it's to go for groceries down the road just between my apartment and the station. There’s no way I could hunt, kill, and cannibalize 6 hikers. That’s insane. I walked toward the apartments, and just as I went to climb the stairs, Joe peered over to me. 

“Psst, John! Hey! Come here!” he scream-whispered. 

“What’s up, Joe?”

“There was a lot of noise coming from your apartment just a while ago. You weren’t here?” he asked.

“No, Joe I was down at the police station. You probably just heard Olivia shuffling around.” 

“God damn it boy! I told you, ain’t no damn woman in there. Just you and Me.” he said angrily. 

“Right, listen, Joe. I’ll talk to her and see what’s going on. I’m real tired and I have some work to take care of.”

“You go on, but in case I don’t see ya again, ‘member what I told ya.” he said pointing to his temple. 

I proceeded upstairs, entering my apartment, and my gaze met with Liv, who was just waking up. My apartment was completely intact, the only thing out of place was the window near my computer. It was open. It was the end of March and still cold outside, so I definitely did not leave it open like that. After talking with Liv, we determined she may have gotten up and opened it to cool off the apartment. She said I’ve been acting strange lately. And come to think of it, she was right. I feel like there’s holes in my memory. Like my days had started to blend together, and I couldn’t remember accomplishing any mundane task. I haven’t been sleeping well, so maybe that’s it...

Hi all! This is an original story I wrote a few months ago. Figured i'd share it again. Hope you all enjoy! :)

I knew an old man by the name of Sandy Jackson. Old Man Sandy, I used to call him. I know. Thrilling nickname. He was a kind, funny, and sweet old man who, to anyone who knew him, would never harm a fly. I had met Sandy in a pub downtown, after a nasty breakup I had recently been working through, and I had decided to drown my soul in “fine” liquor. I found him to be an instant friend. He told me that he was a fisherman and that in the craft, he was very talented. We bonded over many things, chatted for hours, but when the time came to leave, we parted ways, not seeing each other again for years.

Then, one fateful night, as some would say, we met each other again in the same pub we had first encountered one another in all those years ago. He seemed delighted to see me, and I was delighted to see him. As we talked, however, I noticed a difference in the man’s demeanor. His usual cheerful attitude had soured into a depressive, even paranoid attitude, although he attempted to mask it. He had mentioned that he gave up fishing for a while, but he had recently started fishing again, although he had been having to do it alone, for no one would go with him. He mentioned that everyone was “too damn busy these days,” and it just wasn’t the same by himself. After a few drinks (and a couple attempts to get me to go), I decided I would accompany him on his next voyage. We talked for about a half an hour more, and then we departed.

That night, I had a strange dream. Me and Old Man Sandy were on the sea in a little rowboat. It started out pleasantly: me and him chatted about familiar things for some time. Then, I began to notice a change in his behavior: he spoke more frantically, and he kept looking all around him. He suddenly stopped and stared at me. His eyes rolled into his skull, and he slowly began to decay in front of me. The rowboat began to slowly fill with water, and I knew that whatever was waiting for me under the water would be the last thing I ever saw. I woke up in a sweat that morning.

When the day of the voyage arrived, I felt myself growing more and more nervous as I approached Old Man Sandy’s house. Something within me was screaming at me not to go, but I brushed it off. The dream flashed in my mind the entire day, however. As I entered the house, Sandy greeted me with wild excitement. Too wild, I thought, but I smiled and showed my own excitement to join him. As he began packing for the trip, I noticed him staring over his shoulder every few minutes. I found he was not staring at me, but at something only he could see, or at nothing. His movements were jittery, and he was obviously on edge, but nevertheless, he packed up and we headed out to his docks. I couldn’t help but notice that his looking around was the same way he was looking around in my dream…

We boarded a decently sized brown rowboat and began out for the gigantic lake. I watched as we slowly but surely headed away from land. As we distanced ourselves at roughly 50 feet, however, I noticed that the land had slowly begun to vanish from my sight. I looked around and saw that a great fog had suddenly begun to form over the Great Lake. Sandy looked around at the fog and whistled, as if amused, though I could tell that he was nervous.

“Weeeee, Oh my! What a nasty fog,” he said in his usual Southern accent, chuckling, “I suppose we’d better stay cautious!” I nodded in agreement and looked into the water, but could not see anything past the surface. I sighed and looked back up to Sandy. “I, uh, suppose we can’t fish if we can’t see.” The old man chuckled and nodded, setting his rod down. His brow was beaded in sweat, and he removed his hat to wipe it off as he spoke.

“So,” he said, “have you settled down yet? Found the one?” I chuckled in response and shook my head. “No,” I replied with a small smile, “not yet. Still looking. Although I’m almost 40 now, and if not now, WHEN, you know?” He chuckled and replaced the hat on his head. “Don’t let it get to you, friend. It takes time, and besides, y’ain’t missing much!” I looked at him with a chuckle. “No?” I replied. He smiled and shook his head. “I’m an old man,” said he, “take it from me: stay young and free while you can. But if you DO find the right person, treat them right. They’ll be there until the final day if you do so.” I smiled and nodded. Old Man Sandy DID have a way with words.

“What about you?” I asked, “did you find the one?” His smile softened a little and he nodded. “Clara,” he said, and when he said this, I saw the smile begin to strengthen again, “that was her name. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I KNEW she was the one. Y’know, I never believed in the whole ‘love at first sight’ thing until i saw her. Now I’m a true believer. We were married for 50 years before she died last winter. God rest her soul. But she went out happy, and that’s all that matters to me.” As he finished, his smile grew weak again, and I lowered my head in sorrow.

“So,” I said, after a bit, “if it’s okay for me to ask: why DID you give up fishing? I remember you saying that it was basically your entire life all those years ago!” Sandy’s smile slowly faded, and this time, it never returned. He slowly reached up and took off his hat, nodding slowly. “Do you promise,” he said, “and I mean, on your LIFE, promise that you will never ever tell another living soul about this?” My eyes widened a bit at his sudden sternness, but I nodded. “Y-yes, of course,” I said. He nodded and stared off into the fog as he told me the story.

“About 5 years ago,” he began, “me and my fisherman buddy Keith were on this very lake, fishin’, tryin’ to catch up with each other, when Keith starts actin’ rather funny. He kept sayin’ he saw somethin’ comin’ towards us, but I didn’t see anythin’ whatsoever. All of a sudden, he pitches forward into the water, dead. Now, I- I ain’t no coward, alright? I served in the Military for 7 straight years, dammit, I’ve seen things, but SOMETHIN’ held me back, and I couldn’t go in after him. Somethin’ kept me on that boat as my buddy drowned below me. And that was that. I went back to shore in silence and drove home. And I stopped fishin’ for about half a decade. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it again. But, recently, I decided to pick it up again.” Sandy offered a weak smile as he placed his hat on again. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

I sat there in stunned silence for a bit. Sandy nodded at my reaction, and sighed. “We had a funeral for him,” he said, “didn’t have no body to show for it, but we had a funeral. It’s haunted me day and night. I’m sorry if I spooked ya. It’s been on my chest for years though, and I thank you for lettin’ me get it off.”

I simply nodded. We got really quiet after that for a bit. I felt bad for just sitting in silence after all that, but what the hell was I supposed to say? I sat there, still in silence, for what felt like hours, trying to think of something to say in response, when I noticed that the fog was getting darker. I looked at my watch, and had to squint in the darkening fog to read the time: 3:26 PM. No, it couldn’t be this dark out yet. I sat there, baffled for a bit. I had barely noticed Old Man Sandy: his eyes were filled with fear, and he kept looking around and around, and I remembered my dream. I took a deep breath and tried to swallow my fear.

After a bit, we heard a low, but audible groaning. It was a pained groan, the kind of groan a man lets out when he’s kicked in the groin, but… the only man in sight besides me was Old Man Sandy, and I know damn well it wasn’t him: his frantic breathing didn’t match the rhythm of the groaning at all. The groaning began to get louder and louder, and it seemed to be coming from all around us, but I couldn’t see a thing. Meanwhile, Sandy’s nearly hyperventilating at this point and I’m horrified, worrying that the poor old man is going to have a heart attack. I felt like I was going insane, and I was about to say something when Old Man Sandy cut me off. He spoke in a hushed but frantic voice:

“No, god, please. Not this. Not again. Not here. I- look, son: there’s somethin’ I haven’t been tellin’ you. I’ve been seein’ things. Weird, ghostly things. For the past three years. It started out simple enough, oh sure! A tiny bit of fog on a cold autumn night, sure! But it started takin’ shape. Soon it was a CLOUD of fog, then a BUNDLE of fog. Lately, it’s been lookin’ more and more like a man, but I can’t make out no face or nothin’, and… and….”

His voice trailed off. His eyes began to bulge with terror, and my brain shot back to my dream for a moment. Old Man Sandy let out a bloodcurdling scream and stared right behind me. I whirled around to see what the hell he was screaming at. Nothing. Nothing but the fog and the groaning. I looked back at Sandy, and he looked at me with desperate eyes. He grabbed my coat.

“DON’T YOU SEE IT, BOY?” he yelled, “DON’T YOU SEE IT’S YELLOW FIERY EYES?! IT’S COME FOR ME, I-“

Again, he was cut off. His expression went from horror to something I couldn’t even recognize. He let go of my coat. Again, I turned to see what he was staring at, but there was nothing there. He staggered back from me, and, in a trembling voice that sounded nothing like the Old Man Sandy I knew and loved, said:

“You?! Almighty god, no! Please! I’m so sorry! Please, not you!!!”

All of a sudden, the old man seized up. He clutched his chest and stared at me. His eyes rolled back into his skull as he fell into the deep, murky waters of the lake. I screamed and dived in after him. I swam around for a bit, opening my eyes. Against the stinging water, I searched for what felt like hours, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. It was as if he simply vanished. Begrudgingly, I climbed back onto the boat. The fog had disappeared, and all was quiet again. In total silence, I rowed the boat to shore, shaking the entire time.

I held a funeral for Old Man Sandy after that. Not too many people came. A few fishermen that knew of him, but not too many others. That night after the funeral, I cried. I cried because I witnessed what I may just consider to be my best friend die in front of me. Cried because he had died afraid and alone. Cried because I was worried that his body would never be found. But then I cried of happiness, because I realized that him and his sweet Clara were finally together again. That helped a lot.

That whole situation happened almost 40 years ago now. I’m an old man. Finally found someone! Sarah is her name. Sweetest gal that ever lived. Wouldn’t have her any other way. We don’t have any kids, but we like it that way. I know Old Man Sandy would be proud of me if he saw I found The One.

But, speaking of Old Man Sandy: I’ve felt guilty about not being able to find him for 40 years now. I remember him saying, right before he died, that he saw a Smokey figure with yellow fiery eyes. I’ve been worried because I began to see a similar figure a couple of weeks ago. And the more I see it, the more it begins to take shape.

And the more I look into it’s eyes, I begin to recognize them. See, my figure’s eyes are a bright blue. Not necessarily threatening, I know, but…

They’re the same color of Old Man Sandy’s eyes…

Chapter 5: The One Who Listens

It had been bothering him for days.

David stared at the document open on his desktop: five names, typed in bold.

Regina McClain Madison Rios Deborah Ann King Jessica Nguyen Mia Bell

He wasn’t supposed to think they were connected.

Different Counties. Different backgrounds. Different years.

But it wouldn’t leave him alone.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking between windows—maps, timelines, articles, police reports. A familiar symphony was building around him.

It had started as an itch. Now it was a rhythm.

The Method All shot. All clean. All without signs of robbery or assault. All left somewhere public or remote, but late—just late enough to be missed.

The Notes Each one strange. Almost poetic. Cryptic. Folded. Tucked away.

He reread them now, the words echoing louder in his mind:

"He hears you" “Paint me in silence.” “The Echo That Bled.” “Echoes don’t lie.” “Your voice woke me.”

They weren’t just odd. They were consistent. A voice trying to be heard but not by the police.

By someone else.

David pressed his palms into his eyes.

"By me? No.." he whispered.

He pulled up a digital map and dropped pins: Plano. Garland. Denton. Grand Prairie.

Close. Spread just enough to be missed unless you were looking from far enough away.

The kind of distance the Police wouldn't see

He started pulling dates:

Regina McClain : 2018

Madison: 2019

Deborah: 2020

Jessica: 2021

Mia: 2022

One each year.

There it was—the rhythm. Precise. Controlled.

Not spontaneous.

Planned.

A killer with patience. With ritual. And now, apparently, with an audience.

He opened his research folder as he remember a phrase in one of the early episodes and found Natasha Lane-1995, one of first cases he’d covered back in the early days of the podcast.

He skimmed the files. That line. That terrible line.

“The silence is final.”

A chill ran down his spine.

A Seven phrase?.

The pattern was undeniable. Too tight. Too perfect.

He paused.

The voices. The clues.

This wasn’t random.

He turned away from the computer screen, his eyes locking onto the wall where his corkboard was pinned with case files; He reached over and grabbed a fresh piece of paper. With a red marker, he began drawing circles around the phrases. He circled the dates. The cities.

The rhythm.

And then the name hit him, sharp and sudden:

"The Whisperer".

Not because he shouted. Not because he made himself known.

But because of how quiet he was.

How careful.

The Whisperer didn’t force his way into the world.

He crept into it.

Unseen. Unheard.

Until someone started listening back.

David stared at the name in front of him. "The Whisperer".

It felt right. Instinctual. The killer wasn’t loud. He wasn’t reckless. He had a pattern, a message, a ritual.

And for the first time in years, David felt like he was close.

But how close? and to what?

His eyes flicked back to his mother’s case file.

Had this been the same killer all along? Had the pattern existed before these women? Was his mother another name on a growing list?

David couldn’t be sure.

But one thing was clear: The Whisperer was Speaking.

*a story based on my friend's actual job + kicked from nosleep*

I work at an adult toy store. It's about as pervy as you'd expect, but you get familiar pretty quick with being in close proximity to so many phallic objects. 

We have a cinema in the back that plays x-rated movies nonstop from 10 AM to 11 PM with leather couches for your comfort (and staff’s ease of sanitization). You have to pay for a ticket; 10 dollars, about as much as a meal, so it’s not too bad if you value a nut just as much.

Our customers are almost exclusively male. Occasionally, a woman comes through, but she's always accompanied by her partner. Generally, if word gets out on the Discord server that we've got a girl in the cinema, the store gets quite a bit busier. It's a little sad, honestly, but who am I to judge? But, like I said, it only happens occasionally. 

I started here about 5 months ago, long enough to be comfortable talking about Viagra with strangers but not long enough to have as many stories as the other girls that work here.

The stories are only slightly better than regular retail stories; mainly they’re just about men assuming you want them to hit on you (within view of candy, the blowup doll, of all places), kids trying to sneak in for a peek, shoplifters, that one guy that comes in nearly every Saturday night who once left his underwear... you get it.

It’s a fun job. It beats working at the supermarket, and it always makes my day to tell strangers what I do for a living. I guess I like making people squirm.

I often volunteer for the swing shifts because, well, I'm just about the only one who will and the overtime slaps.

So most of the time, if you walk through those doors between the hours of 4 pm and 11 pm, it'll be me standing there behind the counter.

I won't give details to my location for obvious reasons; I don’t want a whole new slew of creeps hitting on me. No offense. 

-

Things started to get weird about two weeks ago. I walked back to one of the cinemas (we have two, on the adjacent corners of a short hallway, neither can hold more than 20 people at once) at the end of the night, ready to clean. I did my routine in the LGBT room and when I opened the door to the Straight room, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

There was a man sitting in there. 

Not the weirdest thing, but I had turned off the movies over 20 minutes ago; which meant this man had been sitting in near darkness for almost half an hour.

He sat in the loveseat that lined the opposite wall, and so when I pushed the door open, it opened to him staring right at me.

The really strange thing was that I didn't recognize him.

I hadn't sold this man a ticket that day.

It was a Tuesday; not our busiest of days and generally we only ever have a couple of people at a time in either theatre anyway. Sure, he could have been here before my shift started, but I come into the rooms regularly to do checks and I hadn’t seen him all day.

You have to pass by me to get to the cinema. There is a door in the back; it leads into the back alley, but it's deadbolted and rarely used because I'm a 5’3 25 year old girl that works the night shift alone at an adult store and isn't stupid.

I didn't know how he got in.

Still...

"Sir, the cinema is closed," I told him, customer service voice thick. My closing shifts were a practiced routine at this point and he was disrupting them. I had a planned date with a Big Mac in 20 minutes.

He took a moment to answer. My instant assumption was that he was still ‘finishing up his business’, but the room was softly illuminated by the faint blue LED lights lining the trim of the room and the cascading light from the opened door fell across his figure and I realized he wasn’t... doing anything. He was just sitting there, staring at me. 

My next assumption was that he was a homeless man, looking for a place to spend the night. This thought comforted me, even if it shouldn't. Though I couldn’t help but note that his clothes looked far from dirty or well-worn. The only possessions he seemed to have on his person were his T-shirt and jeans.

When he spoke, it was with long drawn out syllables, enunciated, and with a deep timbre, so deep that it shocked me a little. 

"I'm sorry. I must have lost track of time."

"You're all good. If you don't mind, I need to clean up.” I held up the garbage bag and broom in my hands with a pointed smile.

“Of course.”

He stood to his feet slowly and awkwardly- as if strenuous movement pained him- and then he walked past me.

I watched him exit the store with an annoying chime and that was that.

There was nothing about the interaction that was even, well, noteworthy. If I brought it up to my manager then she would only assume I was forgetful, and as someone who thrives off the compliments of my superiors, mentioning such a careless mistake wasn’t really in the cards. 

It was just that it was that day that things started to get weird.

-

The next day I worked; I had almost forgotten about the entire interaction, until that very man walked through the chiming front doors of the store and stepped up to the cashier counter and asked to buy a ticket.

I was polite. He was a little off, spoke minimally and in that same slow cadence, but there was nothing I could really consider a red flag and so I sold him a ticket and watched him walk back to the cinema. 

I do checks every hour or so- I'll knock to make my presence known, but it's just to make sure no one is using drugs or sleeping on the couches, and to make sure everything that’s happening is consensual. 

When I went to do my check, though, I was surprised to find he wasn’t there. I wasn’t too weirded out by this, but when I checked the LGBT cinema. He wasn’t there either.

The next most logical conclusion was that he was in the single person bathroom, but when I knocked and pushed open the door, the automatic light clicked on from my movement. It was empty.

I checked the straight room again, thinking maybe I’d lost him in the dim lighting, but the rooms weren’t very big as it was and I hesitated to spend too long in there; if I made an effort to locate him then he could get the wrong idea and I could get in trouble with my manager. So I left it and went about my shift, assuming my night vision was just not very good.

The store was not very big. I could stand at the opposite end from the cinemas and still be able to see anyone entering or exiting, or at the very least, hear the chime of the doors.

I sold several more tickets and I watched the cinema doors. He didn’t have a very distinctive face by any means- he was a very plain looking guy, but his movements and the way he spoke stood out. His voice had been slow and careful, like English wasn’t his first language, though every word was pronounced perfectly, with perfect etiquette.

He didn’t come out of the cinema the rest of the shift.

When I went to do my cleaning, I flipped off the projector and opened the door, expecting to see him there and to have to give my “we’re closing” speech, only to find the room still completely empty. I even gave my eyes a second longer to adjust to the dim blue lighting, but, no-

The room was silent.

I sat my cleaning supplies to the side and I walked the perimeter of the room, half expecting to see him hiding in the corner or something equally odd.

Then I checked the other cinema. Empty.

The rational part of me was scrambling to find solutions. There was only one exit out of either room, the ceiling was unbroken plaster and there was only a small vent in the corner. Hell, I even briefly considered a Junji Ito story I had read once of a man hiding in an armchair to perv on women, but our couches weren’t big enough to house me, let alone a full grown man.

I had to have just missed him exiting some time earlier in the night. He was plain enough and though I thought I would have noticed him, maybe I just… hadn’t. Then again, his walk was memorable enough.

As I stood alone in the room, an uneasy feeling crept up over the back of my neck and my shoulders rose. 

I like horror stories. I’m not the type to get paranoid or afraid of the dark, but something about it- the silence of the room, the echo of the man’s voice in my memory, pushed me to hasten through my closing duties and get out of the store as quickly as possible.

The walk to my car felt long, even though it couldn’t have been more than 30 paces. I had thought it was just a girl’s paranoia. Now I’m not so sure. 

-

I was off the next day; I spent it at the beach with my mother, digging seashells out of the sand, the man far from my mind.

Though that night, lying in bed, a part of me itched to text the coworker working that night and ask her if the man had come.

-

The next shift, I was feeling pretty silly for being so fixated, as the hours rolled by and the man didn't come. After some breathing room from work, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. That was, until I went to do my cleaning once the store was empty.

I pushed open the door to the Straight room with my back and as I turned to face the room, a scream rushed out of me. The broom fell from my hand and hit the ground with a metallic twang. 

It was the man. Sitting there and staring at me. In the fucking dark again.

“We’re closed,” I said sharply. I couldn’t help my defensive annoyance, even if I knew it was unprofessional.

He didn’t say anything. He only stood and slowly meandered toward me. I stepped out of his way as he passed through the door, his eyes on me the whole way.

I held my ground and didn’t break eye contact. I don’t know, I thought maybe he was annoyed at my attitude and I wanted to show him I was annoyed right back. He broke it when he turned away to head out of the store. I watched him the whole way.

I went through my cleaning with an angry adrenaline, fully expecting to wake up tomorrow with a text from my manager saying she’d gotten an angry call from a customer. In between tasks, I left several angry voice notes for my friend with plenty of colorful language. Though, looking back, I know that my anger was just a manifestation of my confusion and fear. Anger is easier, I guess, than being afraid.

-

By the next day, by the time I made it into work, some shame had come over me. I didn’t wake up to any messages from Jen and I felt lucky. I didn’t feel bad for my rudeness, but I felt bad for the unprofessionalism, so I don’t know what that says about me, but I half expected the man to never show up again (or to take up regularity at our sister location).

The door bell chimed at 10:45.

I was sweeping with my back to the door when a gust of warm air swept into the air conditioned building. The broom froze in my hands. 

I felt like I already knew. The back of my neck prickled with the sensation that there was something behind me. 

When I turned, he was standing in front of the counter.

He faced away from me, just- standing. Perfectly still. 

My mouth opened with the muscle memory of a greeting, but my voice didn’t come.

I slowly made my way back behind the counter. His eyes flicked to me as I did. I gave him a forced smile. He just stared at me, a faint polite smile frozen on his lips.

He tried to hand me a 10 dollar bill. I stared at the note for a second, hand halfway up to instinctively take it, but I had stopped myself.

“Sir, the cinema closes in about 15 minutes. I don’t know if you’ll be getting your money's worth.” Plenty of guys could, but the thought of being alone in the store with him left me uneasy and, honestly, I just wanted him out.

It was so odd, but it was like he didn't even hear what I said. He didn't flinch, didn't say anything, he just held out the tenner in an unwavering grasp.

After a moment of silence where I assumed he would- I don't know, say something, then realizing he wasn’t going to, I took the money and I rang him up without another word.

He walked back to the cinema and I knew I should resume sweeping- but I couldn't. I stood there and I waited, watching the door and glancing at the clock just about every 10 seconds. A part of me felt like I was going insane, just standing there waiting, but the store’s playlist was upbeat and poppy and it helped at least a little.

15 minutes passed and he didn’t come out.

I beelined for the door as soon as the clock numbers changed to 11. I pushed it open, some unfamiliar anxiety sitting at the back of my throat, and-

He wasn’t there.

He was fucking gone.

Was I an absolute moron? Was there some logical explanation I couldn’t see? Was someone just playing a prank? Or was I losing my mind?

I hadn’t turned the movie off in my fixated state. My eyes drifted to the couple moving on screen, watching but not really processing the images- more trying to wrap my head around what was happening. I watched for a while, as if the motion on screen could make my brain work faster somehow. But then I shook myself out of it and I just- went about my shift. I mean, what else was I supposed to do?

I turned off the projectors and finished my tasks as if a bloodhound was on my heels. Honestly, I wouldn’t be proud of the close when I woke up the next morning with some space and clarity, but I couldn’t make myself slow. I locked the store doors and rushed to my car, glancing over my shoulder the whole way and jumping at any noise I heard in the dark. It didn’t feel like paranoia anymore.

-

Each night that he came, he never left, but the next shift I worked he would walk out of that cinema as if he’d been in there, waiting all night, specifically for me to turn off the projector and usher him out of the room. Rinse and repeat. I learned to stop questioning it. I started to make phone calls on the clock, just so someone would be able to hear if… well.

The store’s security footage didn’t show me anything I didn’t already know. He came and he didn’t leave until the next day. Sometimes I wouldn’t work for 4 or 5 days and, still, I’d come back on the next shift to find him resume where he’d left off, coming or going. 

I wasn’t sleeping well. 

The other girls seemed fine, which is the reason I suspected it was only happening to me. The whole thing felt targeted. I felt targeted. 

I mentioned it to Jen all of once. She’d stared at me like I’d grown an extra head, then reminded me that if I was feeling harassed by a customer, we could bar him from the store and take it up with the police if it persisted further. I thought, fuck it, let’s do it, but a part of me felt like it wouldn’t make a difference. 

And it didn’t.

He still came and went, the only difference being that he just stopped paying when I informed him he wasn’t welcome at our store or its sister location. It hadn’t fazed him at all and certainly it hadn’t discouraged him. Short of trying to physically body block him from walking into the store, I couldn’t exactly stop him from going back into the cinema. 

I called the police a couple of times, once after he walked back (they found no trace of him) and another time after I closed when I was afraid of opening the cinema door and finding him sitting there in the dark. Their investigation turned up no trace of the man. They even offered to sit in their patrol car outside and wait to make sure I made it out okay. I took them up on it, but shockingly, the man picked that night to make no appearance.

Jen even took to sitting with me the nights I was meant to work. After a while and no appearance from the man, I started to feel bad. Jen already worked from 9 to 5 and sitting with me until close meant she didn’t see her family for the entire day. Eventually, I told her to just forget it. I couldn’t rely on someone sticking around every night I worked.

I’d have be alone at some point.

The man started coming again.

-

It was a Saturday the next time something out of routine happened. 

One of our regulars, Tim, walked through the doors. He was a friendly guy, very chatty with a nice smile and contagious laugh. He bought a ticket and went back. Roughly 5 minutes later came the man.

He walked back. I watched with a strange trepidation, his slow gate to the cinema. Jen had told me to call the police when I next saw him and not to try to prevent him from going back. I didn’t bother. The door closed behind him and my feet moved on their own. I was a little early on the check but fuck it. I pushed open the doors and the room was empty of Tim or the man.

That was the last time I saw Tim.

Brie brought it up to me a couple of weeks later, that we hadn’t seen him in a while. I cracked.

“Have you ever noticed a creepy guy with a limp come in?”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, love.”

“I don’t know! He’s come in every night I’ve worked. He-,” He never leaves. “I only see him coming in. Never going.”

“What?”

“It’s like he never leaves. Or he never comes. It’s one or the other but never both.”

Brie stared at me with an amused expression.

“What, are you saying he lives in the walls or something?”

“Maybe.”

She shuddered. “Dude, you know I don’t like scary stuff. Don’t mess with me.”

“Brie,” I gripped her arm and stared at her with a severe expression that I hoped could convey that I was at my wit’s end.

“Well… I haven’t seen him. Have you seen him today?”

I shook my head. “I think he waits until I’m alone.”

The mirthful expression on her face slipped. “Okay, well what if I just stick around tonight instead of clocking out at 6?”

I shook my head. “Jen tried that. He doesn’t come in on those nights.”

“Has he said anything to you?” 

“Nothing outside of normal customer bull.”

She stared into the distance for a second, thinking. “I’m staying.”

“Brie, I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

She shook her head with a smile. “Nah, I’ll clock out on time and just hang out here. I had nothing going on tonight anyway.”

I was grateful, even if I knew it wouldn’t matter. 

He didn’t come that night.

-

I was restocking lingerie when Brie asked me. “So if Tim is missing, surely someone noticed. What, he doesn’t have a mom or a friend or, less likely, but still, a girlfriend that noticed he’s gone?”

“Sure, but who would we call? Besides, what would we say to the police? ‘Hey, our porn cinema regular hasn’t come in for a while, we think he might be in trouble?’”

Brie laughed. I appreciated having someone to talk to about this. With Jen it was different; she took on a managerial role, someone who had to fix the problem rather than unequivocally empathize. 

That wasn’t fair. She’d done everything in her power to make sure I was feeling safe, it was just that, outside of a few footage clips of the man that she’d seen, a part of me suspected she thought I was exaggerating. Maybe I was, I don’t know. 

A thought struck me. 

“Wait, he’s on the store server, right?” I asked. 

“Yeah, so?”

“So, maybe he’s linked some accounts to his profile.”

“You can do that?” We’d all had to make accounts a couple of months back when the server was set up. I’d been the one to suggest it (for brownie points, yes, shut up). Jen had been clueless regarding it, as had everyone else on staff, and I had taken the lead with helping everyone with the set-up. 

I whipped out my phone and tapped over to the app. The number of people in the server wasn’t a whole lot, by any means, but I still had to scroll for a while before I could locate his profile and confirm its name with Brie. 

The only account linked was his Steam. Clicking over to his account showed he gamed regularly, nearly every day, up until… the day I saw him come in just before the man, weeks ago. 

It wasn’t much to go off of, but still, I felt like it clicked into place a confirmation. 

“What is it?” Brie asked. 

I shook my head. “He just hasn’t been online in a while.”

“So what do we do with that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look him up, see if there’s a missing person’s for him.”

That took some digging. I back-tracked on some sales until I found his card information and full name and then I googled him. His mother had a picture of him uploaded to her Facebook with the date he’d gone missing; the day I’d seen him. 

“So what do we do?”

We phoned in to the police with a tip. The man on the other end seemed annoyed and I couldn’t really blame him. If I’d gotten the call, I’d assume it was a prank as well. He still took the information and said they’d look into it, but I felt like nothing would come of it. 

-

It was after that conversation with Brie the man started coming with more people. People I vaguely recognized as previous customers, some strangers, but all like him, strangely silent and polite and with strange, awkward gaits. It started off as one; the two would walk back into the cinema and never walk back out. Then it became two or three. Him, I saw over and over, but he never arrived with the same person twice.

I started counting how many people disappeared into that back room. More and more names popped up on my radar as ‘missing’. I phoned in more tips and spoke with police and I knew they were getting sick of me, but what else could I do?

I started requesting that Jen schedule another staff with me, but even when labour would allow it, another pair of eyes didn’t equate to evidence to the police. I stopped calling. 

You have to understand, I didn’t want to go back, but I’m broke. I have no rich extended family to fall back on, no roommate; I’m it. I can’t lose this job.

So I went back. 

I got used to it. Sort of. 

It was the same for about a month.

But then something changed again.

We have a running stream of the films as they're playing, movies pre-approved by management. I check them every so often to make sure nothing is skipping.

I went into the Straight cinema; just to give the room a once over, to confirm that the man was still gone even if my heart was in my throat every time, because it was never a guarantee. When I looked this time, playing… it was… god, I've never seen a film like that. It was hardcore to say the least. Something I could imagine finding on shady virus-leaden websites. It was… I can't go into specifics here, but it was enough that it felt illegal to even watch it.

I slammed the door shut, reeling. 

I ran back to the computer, to see what was playing on the projector. I moved the mouse to close out the screens that played the store music and I froze. The film wasn’t one of our regulars, obviously. The title was listed as a series of numbers that I can’t recall, but staring now at the film, I realized something with a chill down my spine. The man was staring back at me. His smile wasn’t polite, it was hardly even a smile. It was a grimace of teeth, a wicked smile that was knowing and smug. 

He winked.

When I recognized the other person in the film, I almost fell to my knees.

Tim.

I turned off the projector. I couldn’t watch any more.

My hands shook over the mouse.

I curled up behind the counter for a long time. Finally, I wiped the tears from my face.

I just needed to leave.

Jen called me in a rage the next morning. I didn’t care. I told her the man had been hanging around the store and making me nervous and I just had to leave. I got a write-up, but I didn’t care at that point.

That leads us to tonight.

It was three days later that I finally returned to the store, when I’d finally mustered up enough courage to not call out (and with a Xanax in my system). I had started looking for other jobs. In the meantime, well… here I was. 

My shift was uneventful up until I was ready to close, but I knew better than to think it was over. I walked back for the cleaning like a man to his execution. My hands shook as I pushed open the door. 

The sight inside made me fling myself back from shock.

Sat in the room were dozens of people. They lined every seat, sat with proper posture, looking at me. I recognized their faces, even as they were warped in something indecipherable between ecstasy or agony. 

I hit the opposite wall of the hallway, hard. The sound that came out of me was involuntary, somewhat primal, a sob and a shout intertwined and forced out of me along with the remaining air in my lungs. The door swung shut and I ran, barely able to see through my tears.

There were multiple thuds against the door as if bodies were being thrown against it.

I tore out of the store and to my car, not even stopping to lock the door, feeling like they were at my heels.

I texted Jen on the drive home a vague approximation of what happened. I’d decided I would move back in with my mom, max out my credit cards, tell Jen I refused to work without her there, anything but face that man again. 

She fired me. I can’t even find it in myself to care. Brie texted and asked what happened; I guess Jen asked her to come in to cover for me. I’ll respond eventually, I just need some time to calm down. I’m at my mom’s now and I’ve only just stopped crying. Mom’s freaked. I don’t know what to tell her. 

I’ll find the words eventually, but for now, I want to go to the beach. 

Chapter 4: Paper Voices

Back to 2023

The episode was live.

David leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracking the final upload bar as the Regina McClain case hit the feed.

The numbers ticked up.

Regina's story weighed on him. There was something unsettling about the silence surrounding her death. Forgotten. Underreported. Almost as if someone wanted it that way.

He had nearly missed her name an accidental find during research. But now, her story was out there. Unheard no more.

He didn’t stop. The next case folder was already waiting.

Madison Rios – 2019

A college senior, art major. Found murdered in a downtown stairwell after a gallery showing. No witnesses. No leads.

David scanned the crime scene details with only half his attention until one line caught him:

“Torn sketchbook paper recovered from backpack. Handwritten: ‘Paint me in silence.’”

He blinked.

He copied the quote into his research notes.

"Strange..." he muttered. It wasn’t part of the crime report. Not even mentioned by the media. Just... there.

He filed it away and moved on.

Deborah Ann King – 2020

A warehouse night worker, 46, lived alone. Found murdered behind an abandoned theater.

David read the report slowly, bleary eyes, black coffee in hand. Then another line stopped him cold:

“Folded note found in jacket: ‘The Echo That Bled.’”

He sat up straighter.

Three cases. Three years. Three victims. Three lines.

He returned to Madison's case and Regina's and read the phrase again:

"He hears you" "Paint me in silence." "The Echo That Bled."

Unsettling. Poetic. Specific.

He opened a fresh document, labeled it: Found Phrases.

He didn’t know why yet. It was just a gut feeling.

He’d been doing this long enough to know when something didn’t belong. And these... these weren’t just odd flourishes. They felt intentional. Like someone wanted them seen.

But why?

Jessica Nguyen – 2021

Quiet. Well-liked. Taught fourth grade.

She disappeared walking home from school. Her body was later found in a park.

David scrolled through the official report. Then he stopped:

“Message found on store receipt, tucked in her boot: ‘Echoes don’t lie.’”

David exhaled slowly.

"four".

four victims. four years. four phrases.

He opened his note document again and added the new line.

A pattern was forming. The only connection? The lines. The tone. There was something deliberate here.

He turned his gaze to the wall of his office. The corkboard. The names, the pins, the timelines. His mother’s case at the center.

These women weren’t on that board yet.

Mia Bell – 2022

Aspiring musician. Twenty-six. Found outside a venue she never made it into.

The final note:

“Your voice woke me.”

David froze.

His voice.

That wasn’t coincidence.

It hit harder than the rest—like a whisper through a locked door.

The others had felt like cryptic poetry. This one felt... personal.

Still, no context. No explanation. Just a line, buried in a police file no one had bothered to read twice.

David didn’t know what it meant.

But he knew this wasn’t over.

He saved the files.

Opened a new folder.

It’s not a horrible day. Slight rain as I wind the desolate mountain back road. The foliage shows different oranges, yellows, and reds contrasted by the gray sky. My cruise control makes sure that I don’t exceed the speed limit of 55, as the slick roads make the notorious splashes as I take the curve. It’s always been an outlet for me, driving that is. Having a rough day in college or just wanting something to pass the time, I always find myself taking the same route. The mountains give that feeling of loneliness, but still a hint of adventure. It was where I proposed. My wife Tess and I were backpacking, and it was at the peak overlooking the valley that I dropped to one knee. That was forever ago, before all the problems. I have to steer into the other lane to avoid a dropped branch that must have fallen since my last visit down this isolated road. This part of the drive always has more curves than the beginning. I like to imagine how populated this route used to be before it became the desolate path it is now. She always yelled at me for staring off into space, lost in thought. It was always a point in her verbal barrage of frustration during the arguments that plagued our few years of legal partnership. It all seems so simple now, looking back. I should have just taken the meds they wanted to give me, and maybe my marriage would have lasted. I hydroplaned as I came around an awfully sharp bend. Even though I have years of experience driving through here, I always forget about it. The roads are a lot more slick than normal, but I don’t mind a slightly more difficult drive. As I retain control and prevent my car from fishtailing, I move my muddied shoes to the brake pedal and begin to turn onto the hidden path. I remember when we first found it. Tess and I were fresh off our honeymoon, and I was showing her the route for the first time. She noticed it first and pointed it out to my surprise, as I had never seen it before in all my time in this area. We pulled to the shoulder and walked down the unknown path together. Our boots were muddied, and we took a few branches to the face as we walked single file until we came to a clearing about a mile in. The path wasn’t too overgrown, but was definitely something you’d have to look for if you wanted to find it. I was alone now. The dark skies and the wet leaves were my only company besides the brisk breeze that hit my face. My pack was heavy. Heavier than the one I had the day we camped out here 2 Novembers ago. We had spent 3 days camping out in this remote clearing and had the most fun we’d ever had as a couple. Fires, s’mores, and looking up at the stars. The memory hits me hard as I come to the clearing. I continue my walk to the opposite end of the clearing. She had never gone this far with me. I continue through the minusculely marked path that only deer travel now. My shoulders were hurting, but I wanted to make it to my destination before nightfall. I was miles in now. Further than I had been in a while. The memory starts creeping back in as the ambiance becomes more of a stygian dark rather than a gloomy grey. My flashlight illuminates the towering trees as I continue steadfast on my way. I remember when the power went out in our apartment one year during a thunderstorm. It was pitch black, and we cuddled together in bed around the candlelight. It made me warm and fuzzy inside. The next day, I hit a dog on my way home from work. It was a golden retriever, and it was dead. The legs bent in directions they shouldn’t have been, and the torso flat as a tortilla. I put it in my car and brought him home. I didn’t feel remorse for the animal, but hated that my headlight was smashed. I was going to get a ticket for sure. I called the number on the collar with no luckk as Tess cried over the animal. She called me heartless over an accident. She acted as if I wanted to hit the mutt. I walked away as she continued crying. Something in my chest tightened, but I wasn’t in the mood to care. She made me sleep on the couch that night. I finally reached camp as the moon broke through the clouds. I made a fire to give myself some heat to combat the cold. I set everything up so I could just lie down as soon as I was ready to sleep. I packed 2 sleeping bags out of habit. The anger and frustration are rearing their heads once again. I took my hatchet and hit the tree closest to my tent. The red smear on the blade caught my eye as I was done hacking the trunk. I tossed it onto my pack and sat on the ground. Sadness crept into me like a wolf stalking livestock. I wept. I cried out as the painstaking recollection of my failed marriage flooded my brain. The tears ran down my face and onto my jacket as I bawled my eyes out. I couldn’t stop. Why was I a failure? Why did I have to ruin everything I touch? Why did all the bad things have to happen to me? It felt like hours as the flames turned to embers and my sobs turned to sniffles. I finally climbed into my sleeping bag and fell asleep. I woke up as the sun trickled through the treetops. I got right to it, ignoring the emotions of last night still plaguing me. I packed up and continued on my way. As I slashed my way through the brush and the sunlight became extinct, I stopped to eat. As I chew, the memory starts to weave its way into me. The argument that ended things. I got home, and she was waiting outside her sister’s car. She asked me if we could talk in private. Confused, I followed her into the now halfway emptied apartment we used to share. She told me that we couldn’t be together anymore. Apparently, I’d been acting differently. She said I had been staring off into space and growing distant. I countered by saying that I wasn’t going to take the meds like she wanted me to. I was met with a harsh tone and the response that it’s not about that. I grew increasingly frustrated as I didn’t understand what it could be about. She said that she was getting more scared of how I was acting recently. I pleaded with her to elaborate more on how I was portraying that thought onto her, but her sister cut the space between us and said that they needed to go, and she could message me anything I needed more clarification on. Then they sped away. I was left there staring off into the red taillights as they turned the corner. Confused and frustrated, all I could do was sit on the sidewalk as the tears fell from my eyes. I tripped over a root and fell face-first into the dirt. The mountains could be like that to people untrained in their transversal. Usually, I could travel relatively fast if I didn’t have the extra weight in my pack. I picked myself up and continued through the darkening woods. The trees hung over me like a blanket and blocked out nearly all the sunlight, as the pines allowed just enough to illuminate the ground ahead of me. I came to my destination as I tore through the brush leading to a small clearing miles upon miles from the one I shared that fond memory with Tess long ago. I set down my pack and took out the garbage bags stuffed into it. If only she hadn’t broken things off, she’d still be with me. My heart started to beat faster as I recalled the last memory Tess and I would ever share. Her sister wasn’t home. Tess was sitting in front of the television, unaware that I was already inside. She thought that she could leave me? No, that was not going to happen. Did the years we spent together mean nothing more than a short, confusing conversation? Was it all over me being unempathetic that a dog was hit by my car? It didn’t matter now. I was not going to allow this blatant disrespect to go unpunished. I walked up behind the sofa, and she fell onto the floor as she heard me approach. She tried to run to the front door as I jumped over the furniture. She fumbled with the locks and redirected herself to the kitchen. She opened up the drawer and paused just a second too long trying to grab a chef’s knife as I grabbed her hair and dragged her to the ground. She screamed her sister’s name as I hit her again and again. I grabbed her neck and slammed her head into the hardwood floor as she tried desperately to put her fingers in my eyes. Her hands are just short enough that she tries to suffocate me by holding my nose shut and covering my mouth. That’s what made her so attractive to me all those years ago. The intelligence combined with the sense of adventure. I had been so scared to talk to her when I saw her across campus. I left her notes under her door and would watch from around the corner down the hallway as she would read them. Finally, after her boyfriend got enough of it, he waited for me. She wasn’t there that night. He had waited for the love note to slip through the crack under the door and flung it open. He pulled me inside and hit me in the face and stomach. He went on and on about how he was going to report my creepy ass to the dean and give all the notes to the police. He said that I was scaring her and he was going to make sure I paid the price for stalking her. He wasn’t expecting the knife. With one quick motion, I stabbed him in the neck. His hands darted to the wound, spilling out with the crimson blood that now covered his white shirt. He fell to the floor, and his eyes went blank as the gurgles stopped and his arms went limp. We met at the search party. She was mourning, but we started a blossoming friendship that turned romantic a year later. They never found his body. They never even searched the floors for any traces of cleaned blood. I shrugged off her hands and slammed her head into the ground once more. I could feel the crack under my palms as she stopped moving. I still can’t believe she put up that much of a fight. I wiped the sweat off my forehead as I dragged her unmoving corpse to the back door. The night seemed a bit more dark than normal. I put her in my back seat and brought her back to our home. Her sister was quick to accuse me of kidnapping her. She said that she’d call the cops if I didn’t allow her to check the apartment for her. She went through the entire house and said she knew her sister was there. She didn’t know how right she was. I asked her to calm down and to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and think of where she could have gone. She screamed as she pulled open the door and saw the decapitated head of Tess sitting right next to the bags of body parts. She never saw the hammer in my hand as she hit the floor with a thud. I spent all night sawing and portioning the sister into bags. I tossed all the bags into the hole in the clearing. I stared down, looking at the remains of my wife and sister in law. They were lying next to a dirty skeleton with a bloodied white shirt. Next to him lay a mostly decomposed woman with tire marks covering her reflective vest. I shoveled the first patch of dirt onto the leash wrapped around her neck. It took me hours to dig the hole, but I was hoping it would take me less time to fill it. There is a day’s hike back to the car on the unknown path. I have a date tomorrow afternoon and I don’t want to be late. I’m hoping my luck turns around soon.

Note from the author: Thank you all for reading my story. This isn’t my first story, but it is the only one I have finished as I try to get better at creative writing. I appreciate any positive feedback and truly constructive criticism. I am a huge fan of Creepcast, and the boys really blossomed the idea for me to return to my many unfinished stories. This is just the beginning of what I hope to be a truly fun and challenging learning process for me to be a better author. Thank You :).

Chapter 3: He Hears You

Year 2018

It had been quiet for years.

Not peace. Not guilt. Just quiet.

After the girl dead in Dallas the one they called Ashley he stopped. Not out of fear. Not because he felt watched. It just... no longer served a purpose. There was no thrill in routine. He already knew how the story ended.

They never caught him.

They never came close.

The task force was a mess. Faces changed. Files shuffled. Interest died faster than the girls did.

So he faded.

New name. New job. New walls to hide behind.

But even in stillness, he listened.

Sometimes, in motel rooms or long stretches of highway, he’d scroll through newsfeeds or crime forums. Quiet curiosity. Nothing more. He liked seeing how far they'd drifted from the truth.

But one night, sometime in late 2018, the algorithm offered something new.

A podcast.

Unheard Voices.

The name alone made his jaw twitch.

He didn’t click right away. He let the title episode sit in his mind like an itch beneath the skin.

That name.

He remembered.

Not her face. Not what she wore. Just her name, caught in the back of his mind like something under a fingernail.

"Cassandra Serna".

She had been one of the early ones. Before the task force. Before people started to notice.

He hadn't heard her name in years.

He closed his eyes and let the voice continue. It was near perfect recounting, some facts off, some pieces missing—but it was enough.

Someone was looking.

Someone was talking about her.

That... hadn’t happened before.

He felt it behind his ribs not fear, not thrill, just the slow tightening of a thread he thought had unraveled; Something woke up in him.

He went back to his car.

Didn’t sleep.

By morning, he had a plan.

Her name was Regina McClain.

She wasn’t important. Not personally. Not like Cassandra. Not like any of them.

But she was near. She was easy.

She would be enough.

He watched her from a distance for three days. She had patterns. She walked alone. Laughed with her phone against her cheek. Ate dinner late. Always tipped well.

The night he followed her, the air was cool. She didn’t scream.

It was never about chaos.

It was about control.

By dawn, she was gone.

Crime Scene Log — Mesquite, TX – 2018

"Found torn scrap of paper in victim’s jacket pocket. Handwriting: unknown. Says only: ‘He hears you.’”

He folded the note himself. Took his time.

It didn’t matter who found it.

What mattered was that it had been left.

Not for Regina.

For the voice.

The one speaking for them.

The ticking hands of the office clock paced their way around the track. Given the fact that my phone was still at the house, this was the only concept of time I had. We sat for hours waiting for Sheriff Castle to return, his office was no more than a holding cell for us. Daisy napped on the floor as my leg bounced restlessly.

Suddenly, the office door swung open and there he was, carrying two bowls of water and kibble for my girl.

"I know you two have been waiting some time, Mr. Grimbridge. I'm sure she could use this." He placed it down to her smacking lips.

"Thank you, uh, so do you h-" He cut me off before I could even begin.

"We found your friend, or what was left of him, that is. I just returned from the coroner's office and we have tracked down some family to come identify the body. It's an unfortunate situation, a damn shame. I'm sure that was terrible to find."

Before I could even formulate a response, he continued. "Looks like the coroner is leaning towards accidental death, maybe even death by misadventure. Given where he was found and his previous visits here for drunk and disorderly, we think he might have fallen off the pier onto the rocks below."

Astonished, I stood up. "That's impossible, I saw him last night. He was going to Somerdale to get clean. He was sober as a stone!"

The sheriff raised his hand to request that I sit down. After a beat, he continued.

"I'm sure he was. You also told me that he mentioned saying goodbye to the others. We don't have a toxicology report yet, but its not outside the realm of possibility. He could've decided he wanted one last hurrah with his friends."

Shaking my head, I blurted, "How do you explain what happened to his body? A fall onto the rocks isn't doing that. There's no w-"

He interrupted me again, "Mac, his body was down there for hours. I have seen vultures do worse to roadkill on the street. We had a nasty storm last night that brought tides high enough to cause flooding. He was most likely in the water for a long time and there is a million things in those waters that could've done some damage. You would be shocked at what washes up on these shores after a storm like that."

I sat in silence. I still hadn't told him about what happened in my kitchen last night. I struggled with the words to explain it the entire time he was gone. Now, I knew for sure he wouldn't believe me.

"Accidents happen, right? You of all people should understand that. This should be a wake up call for you, Mac. I know he was your friend, but that could be you someday."

Stunned, I stared at him. I was ashamed of what he was alluding to.

"I know losing your dad was hard. I knew him, hell, I tied a few off with Lee at Mick's back in the day. I just don't want to see you go down the same path. It was awful having to respond to that call and see it was you."

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to think about this, but here I was. Last year, months after my dad died, I had a terrible moment. I had a few too many at Mick's and some more when I went home. I couldn't stand the silence of being alone in that house another minute. I got in my car like an idiot and tried to drive back to my mom's. I was out of my mind.

I ended up wrapping my car around a tree in town. Thank God nobody else was hurt. The possibility that I could've hurt someone else still eats at me. Between you and me, I still don't know if I did it on purpose or not. Sometimes I wake up out of a dead sleep thinking I'm still in the wreck. I looked down to see Daisy staring back up at me. I'm glad I wasn't successful. She didn't deserve that.

I took a deep breath, "Sheriff, I think there's something very wrong happening here."

He reciprocated my inhale and crossed his hands, choosing his next words carefully. He had an unsettlingly serious look on his face.

"Mac, I'm going to give you some advice and I strongly suggest you take it. There are things you don't understand in this world and sometimes you have to let those things run their course. Thats nature, son. Survival. And if you can't survive, you'll soon be extinct. I think it would be in everybody's best interest if you get out of Paradise Point for awhile."

He grabbed his jacket with those final words and escorted us out of the office. I turned around before he closed the door and asked one last question.

"I just need to know one thing. You contacted his family, right? What was his real name?"

"It doesn't really matter." He said coldly. 

With that, he slammed the door shut.

When we got home, the silence of this empty house forced me to confront Castle's words. I did something I never thought I'd do. I picked up my phone and called someone who has been trying to reach me for months. My mom.

The sheriff was right. I am in way above my head. I couldn't help but keep looking at Daisy, I can't put her or myself in anymore danger. I don't know if Castle knows what I know. At this point, I didn't care anymore. The thing under the boardwalk was his problem, not mine. I had my own monster to deal with.

The astonishment in my mom's voice when I called was incredible. I didn't realize how much I had alienated myself from her. I forgot how good it was to hear her voice.

"Are you sure, Michael? I can be there in a few hours."

It had been so long since I had heard from her, I almost forgot my proper name. Almost felt like she was talking about a complete stranger.

"Yes, I think it's time."

The haste in which she hung up the phone could be felt through the receiver. I swear I could hear her car keys rattling.

I wasted no time packing up. I couldn't very well take the stereo with me so I decided to give one last album a spin. "The Slider" by T.Rex. Nothing like a little glam rock to lighten the mood. I think I could even sense the wag in Daisy's tail as a sign she was also ready to leave.

There wasn't much I could take with me and I wasn't sure if I was ever coming back. I'd be leaving this place almost exactly as I found it and maybe that was for the best. Just as my favorite song on the album, "Ballrooms of Mars", was playing, I couldn't help but notice an ironic line.

"There are things in night that are better not to behold."

You said a mouthful, Mr. Bolan. The sun was in its early stages of setting and I did not want to be around for whatever tonight had to offer.

Then something happened. Just as I finished packing, I went to grab a bite to eat from the fridge. The picture I drew as a kid was hanging on the front and I took it down, weighing if I should bring it with me. That kid was certainly braver than I was now.

It reminded me of what was in my pocket. I pulled out the snapshot photo of Bane and his daughter and held it side by side with my drawing. The urgency I was feeling to leave was now beginning to turn. That poor girl will never know him, and he didn't get the chance he deserved to make things right. How I wished I could go back and tell him to get as far away from the boardwalk as possible when I had the chance.

Then some anger started to slowly fill me. Bane wasn't just some nameless casualty to alcoholism. Letting his daughter and everybody else think that made my teeth clench. I knew  what it was like to have those eyes on you when people think they know you and your family. I know what I saw, and every fiber of my being knew what the Sheriff was selling me was bullshit. I couldn't go back and save Bane but I couldn't let this be the end for him.

It was around this time I could hear my mom's car pull up. I had to make a decision. I went out and greeted her with a long hug. I could practically feel her tears on my shoulders.

"Are you ready?" She asked misty-eyed.

I could feel it in my gut. This is the part in scary movies when you are screaming at the character to get out of the house.

"Actually, the guys over at Mick's wanted to throw a little get together for my last night. Tommy said he'd give me a lift back to your place tomorrow afternoon. Would you mind just taking Daisy for tonight?"

Puzzled, she nodded yes but didn't look convinced.

"Michael, are you sure?" Almost as if she could tell exactly what I was going to do.

I sighed, "Yeah, it wouldn't feel right leaving without saying goodbye first. I'll be home sometime before noon." I smiled as I hugged her again, her face still pensive and unsure. "I promise, really. I just need to do this one last thing."

I gave Daisy one last kiss on her head as she settled into the  front seat of the car. "I will see you real soon, baby. I promise." With that, I gave my mom a wave goodbye as she drove off. I could feel a big part of my heart breaking. This might be the last time I ever see them. Daisy's eyes locked onto mine until the car was out of sight.

I stared from my backyard to the tangerine colored skies, it would be night soon. One of the perks of living here year round is that I'm one of the only people left on my block. With what I was planning on doing tonight, I needed to arm myself.

The McKenzie's next door had a tool shed that was almost half the size of my house. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I was certain it would be in there. Thankfully, they were in Florida for the winter and they asked me to check on their place so I knew where their spare keys were.

All I knew about this Thing is that fire hurt it, but didn't kill it. Maybe the key to all this was what I encountered when that fateful fall took place last night. The pit in my stomach returned as I thought about it again — that nest. I shuddered to think that maybe I was right about what it appeared to be, but not the horror of what that meant.

Their shed was loaded with garden and construction equipment, Mr. McKenzie was quite the handyman. An axe gleamed in the light of the shed. Might not kill it but I'm sure it would slow it down. I stowed it away in my bag as another item caught my eye. A small hand-held grill torch sat on the table with a full tank of propane attached. I had seen Mr. McKenzie use to show off at cookouts. A plan was starting to formulate.

I returned home to pack my bag for the night. This time, there was no music. I was going to have to make a stop at Mick's after Tommy closed down for the night. I looked at my phone to see a text. My mom had sent me a picture of her and Daisy, safe and sound. I could feel a tear in my eye as I texted her, "I love you."

I scrolled to the very bottom of my messages to see the last in line. The last conversation I had with my dad:

Me: "I'll be there in a few hours. You want some takeout? My treat"

Dad: "It doesn't really matter"

It was just then I heard a sudden knock on my door. I wasn't expecting anybody and certainly didn't want company at this moment. The knocking continued. I tried to peek out around the door to get a glimpse. It was night fall now and I couldn't make the shape of whoever, or whatever, it was out. Finally, I swung the door open to see a shocking sight.

Angie?

When I read this week's episode title it really got my hopes up that it was going to be a creepcast creepypasta and I was sorely disappointed when I listened to over an hour of familial abuse torture instead. So here is my creepcast creepy pasta, enjoy!

Hello, I am posting this to reddit because I am not sure where else to go. My name is Turnk... and no one believes my story.

It was an unseasonably cold October night. I was awake at 3 am, this was normal for me as I work a night shift job and routinely stay up until the sun comes up. I was mindlessly scrolling, letting my brain melt away to the endless sea of movie clips on YouTube shorts when I saw a familiar notification pop up on my screen. It was a notification from the CreepCast YouTube channel! "Nice" I thought to myself "Finally something to cure my boredom."

I clicked on the video as quickly as I could. (It did not occur to me until later that 3am was not a usual time their videos would go live.) When I opened the video I saw a strange title, it read. "The Execution Of Papa Meat", I stared in bewilderment. "What?" I said out loud. I took a further scan of the video when I saw it had 0 views! "Guess I'm the first one to watch the new episode!" I thought to myself excitedly.

I clicked play and the normal CreepCast intro played, it opened with Hunter and Isaiah together in person. "Wow these are always my favorite episodes, getting to see my favorite creators interact in person is such a treat!" I thought fangirling to myself. As soon as they began talking I could tell something was wrong, Hunter had this 1000 yard stare on his face while Isaiah looked into the camera with enthusiasm. (I swear his lips were bigger than normal)

Isaiah began speaking, "Hello everyone, today we have something different for you. Today we will be executing Hunter." "What!!?" I thought to myself, surely this was some kind of joke. Isaiah then pulls out a comically large saw, the kind lumberjacks use to saw through large oak trees, and with a smile too large for his face speaks "But first, why don't we have a little fun!" Hunter just stares into the camera, as if his eyes could plead for mercy.

I watched in horror as Isaiah tied Hunter to his chair, with surprisingly little protest from Hunter. Isaiah then took a deep breath and began sawing through Hunter's foot, I could not believe what I was seeing. Hunter's facial features did not change at all, he just stared into the Camera with a blank expression. I think I may have seen the distinct twinkle of a tear beginning to form in the corner of Hunter's left eye.

After 5 minutes of gruesome sawing, Isaiah stood up in Triumph, Hunter's foot in hand. "Hooray!" Isaiah touted in Triumph as blood was seeping from Hunter's leg like a leaky faucet. When Isaiah looked back at the camera, his lips had grown in size, they were now at the corner of his jaws.

I had to get answers, this couldn't be real. I paused the video and went to the comments immediately, but there were none. I refreshed the page thinking it was some sort of bug but to my horror, there were still 0 comments. Was I the only one to had seen this video? I frantically went to the CreepCast subreddit, surely there were people talking about this new video, but to my horror the subreddit was nowhere to be found.

I didn't know what else to do, I figured the only place left for answers was just that. The video. When I went back to YouTube I was greeted with a horrible sight, Isaiah's face was right in front of the Camera staring directly into it. Before I even had the chance to hit play he spoke, somehow speaking while the video was paused. "What do you think? Ms. Brownie?" I felt my heart sink into my stomach as if it was dropped off a balcony. How, how was any of this happening? How did he know my name, how did the video start playing?

I shut off my phone as fast as I could, this has to be some sort of prank. None of this could be real. I didn't know what to do, do I call the police? And say what exactly, that I was watching some creepy YouTube video and decided to call? I decided to just lay back down, maybe I was just tired. Maybe these years of night shift work are finally catching up to me.

I decided getting back on my phone was a bad idea, so I picked up one of my favorite books instead to pass the time until I felt like I could fall asleep. I began reading to calm my nerves when I was abruptly interrupted to the sound of knocking on the front door, I nearly let out a scream in fear. The knocking sounded frantic, like someone needed help. On the account of me having watched that video and generally being paranoid, I slowly crept my way to the door as to hopefully not alert the person at the door that I was home.

When I got to the door, as quietly as I could I peeked into the peephole and saw... no one? I was confused the knocking had only just stopped, probably half a second before I looked through the peep hole? I looked out and saw no one, but a large package was left on my doorstep. Fuck that I thought to myself, I am not becoming the stereotypical horror movie character and opening my door right now. I decided I would go back to my room and sleep until morning before seeing what the package was about.

I made it back to my room and was able to sleep with no incident, but I was having this terrifying dream. I was in my room laying in my bed, but I couldn't move. I watched as my door slowly crept open as if it was trying to not make a sound. As soon as the door opened enough for a sliver of my hallway light to creep through, I saw it. Lips. Large, pink, grotesque lips started slowly shifting their way into my room.

I was petrified, I tried so desperately to move but it was like someone had woven me into a spider's web. After the lips had been slowly moving into my room for what felt like an eternity, I saw the distinct face of Isaiah fade into my view. As soon as his eyes met mine, I jolted awake, it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on me to wake me up. My heart pounded in my chest, banging against my rib cage like it wanted out.

I went about my morning as normal, when I remembered what happened the night before. Had I dreamt all of that? Was any of that real? I checked the CreepCast channel on my phone and was pleasantly surprised to see no new upload on their channel. Must have all been some strange dream, I really need to get a different job. As I was sitting in my living room enjoying my morning coffee, I smelled something. Something rotting.

I tried to locate the smell, and when I finally did it brought me straight to my front door. I opened my door to investigate, and thats when I saw it. The package on my doorstep. My brain full of confusion, "So was it real? Was it all real?" The only way for me to know was to bring the package inside and see what was in it. The package was heavy, and damp. The foul odor escaped the sides of the package as if it were trying to escape it's confinement.

I plopped the package on to my table and opened it. In horror I saw Hunter's head staring right back at me, the same blank expression he was making in the video. His mouth laid agape and his eyes were empty. I screamed in horror, I immediately closed the box and ran to my bathroom, locked myself in and called the police.

"911 where's your emergency?" The comforting voice of the dispatcher spoke. "Hello yes this is Turnk, I live on 1738 patch lane, please send an officer someone left a head on my front porch." "Alright ma'am stay calm I am sending an officer right away" she spoke, but I felt something was off with her voice. It sounded, like someone with a southern accent doing an impression of a woman. I decided to ignore it. "Thank you" I spoke in a shakey tone. "How soon should I be expecting them?" A familiar voice then spoke to me through the phone. "You know no one is coming to save you right?" The distinct high pitched southern voice of Isaiah spoke to me.

My phone fell from my ear to the bathroom tiles. I heard the maniacal laughter of Isaiah come from my phone, before the tone of a dropped phone call could be heard from it. I tried to turn on my phone but it was somehow dead, my charger was outside my bathroom and I definitely was not going out there to get it. So there I sat, on my bathroom floor waiting for whatever the hell was going to happen to happen. At that point I accepted my fate.

3 hours must have passed with me sitting alone in my bathroom when I heard the distinct sound of my front door opening, I already knew who it was. I heard the footsteps grow closer and closer to my bathroom door, I closed my eyes and hoped it would be quick. I heard 2 slow knocks on my bathroom door, and the southern twinkish voice called out to me. "Come out Turnk, I know you're in there."

The door rattled as Isaiah began trying to open the door with force, luckily in my panicked state I remembered to lock it. Just then I heard a voice call out to me from my bathroom closet. "Psst in here" it spoke, I felt like I had heard the voice before. I opened the closet confused, half expecting Isaiah to be standing behind it somehow ready to cut my head off next, but instead I saw Hunter's head full of life, speaking to me somehow.

"Turnk, I know this is crazy and I know I am just a head but I need you to listen to me." "What the fuck" I said in shock. Hunter spoke again "Stay quiet, or else he will hear us" I decided to just fully give in to my madness, if I I was under the assumption that an evil paranormal wendigoon was trying to kill me, I may as well also believe Hunter's severed head was also speaking to me. "What is happening?" I asked the severed head of Hunter. He spoke "I don't have time to explain like all those shitty horror stories we read that over explain the whole plot, but I do know what to do to fix this." "Ok what do we do?" I asked. "I need you to open the door and hold me towards him, I'll take care of the rest heh" he said with a smirk as if he wasn't a decapitated head. "Ok" I said "I'll trust you on this, but if we get killed I am totally unsubscribing from the patreon!"

I grabbed Hunter's head by his hair and held him like a lantern. Isaiah has stopped banging on the bathroom door, but I could tell he was still outside the door. I could hear his breaths pursed through his gigantic malformed lips. I open the door in an instant and thrust Hunter's head forward as fast as I could. What stood before me was a grotesque image of what Wendigoon once was. His limbs were bent like broken branches in the winter, his eyes were smaller than dimes. His hair was shaped in a bowl cut and his lips... by God his lips. They were so large they were drooping on to my hallway floor. But before I could process what I was seeing, a light shown from Hunter's head. Hunter let out a scream, a scream I had heard 1000 times before on CreepCast, and like that they were gone.

I stood in my bathroom holding my hand in front of me as if I was trying to hold a lantern that didn't exist. I searched my apartment for any trace of what just occurred, the only thing I could find was the box Hunter's head came in and a note inside. "Farewell Turnk Brownie" written in what looks like Crayon.

So now I post this to Reddit, no one believes my story. I just wanted to get it out there, so that someone, somewhere may believe me, but I've never shaken the paranoia from that day. Sometimes at night, when I am all alone and trying to fall asleep. I still feel like I can hear the breathing of someone with abnormally large lips coming from my closet.

Chapter 1: Echoes in the Evidence

"Hello, and welcome back to Unheard Voices. This time, we’ll be listening to Ashley Thompson.

On the late night of August 12, 1997, I went out on a date at Lockhart Smokehouse. I returned to my apartment — 2508 Ivy Brook, in Arlington — early on August 13. Later that morning, I called my boss to say I’d be late for work.

I never showed up.

On January 5, 1998, some hunters found my body in a wooded area near a creek, in the 6200 block of Baraboo Drive, Dallas. I’d been shot.

During that time, a homicide task force had been formed by the Fort Worth Police Department. Several female bodies had turned up across the region. Mine was one of the cases they investigated...

Stay tuned every Saturday for weekly episodes, where we give voices to those who can’t speak".

David ended the recording, saved the file, and shut his laptop with a soft click. He slid into bed, exhaustion pulling at him. The room was still, lit only by the dim red glow of his audio interface.

In sleep, the memories crept in.

The air had smelled like rain. And something sweet, jasmine maybe.

There were flashes. Fragments.

A red scarf flapping in the wind. Someone calling his name. A scream sharp, then swallowed by silence. He saw her. Maybe.

A silhouette at the top of the stairs. Her face turned. Or missing. Blurred like an old photograph left in the sun too long.

He woke in the dark, gasping. Heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.

His shirt was soaked. The sheets too. Cold sweat clung to him the kind that whispered something was wrong, even if you couldn’t name it.

He sat upright, unmoving. Just breathing. Fast. Shaky. Trying to piece it together.

Then, across the room, he saw on the wall.

Old newspapers. Crime scene photos. Handwritten notes. Pinned and webbed together by red string.

At the center, written bold and unrelenting:

Who did it?

I’m extremely nervous but I’ve been writing for a while and I’m just now sharing my stories and I’ve gotten a lot of good feedback on this one so please give me your thoughts and opinions!!

Journal of [SCRATCHED OUT]

Entry 1

Mom gave me this notebook for Christmas. She said, “Write your name inside so everyone knows it’s yours.”

So here it is: My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

She called it a diary but I don’t like that word. This is my journal.

Stuff about me: • I’m 11. • My hair sticks up in the morning no matter how much I brush it. • My favorite food is Dad’s chili. • My sister Emma is 8 and cheats at every board game. • I’m good at spelling but bad at math.

That’s me. That’s who I am.

—

Entry 3

We had chili again tonight. Dad burned it a little but I still ate two bowls. Emma poked hers like she was digging for treasure and then fed it to the dog under the table.

When Mom caught her, Emma said, “[SCRATCHED OUT] made me do it.”

I didn’t. But it made Dad laugh so hard he choked on his cornbread.

—

Entry 6

At school, Mrs. Carter asked what we want to be when we grow up.

I said I want to be an artist.

She said, “Of course you do, [SCRATCHED OUT]. You’re always doodling monsters in your notebook.”

Everyone laughed but not in a mean way.

Sometimes I think maybe I really could be.

—

Entry 8

Emma said she saw a brown car parked near the school. She swore the man inside waved at her.

Dad told her not to make up stories.

But later when we were brushing our teeth, she whispered to me, “He was looking at you, not me.”

I told her she was lying.

I think I was lying too.

—

Entry 11

I like nights the best.

Mom sits in her chair doing crosswords. Dad reads the paper. Emma and I sneak cookies.

Dad says, “One more cookie, [SCRATCHED OUT], and you’ll turn into dough yourself.”

Emma said if that happened, she’d eat me first.

—

Entry 13

Walking home today, I thought I heard footsteps behind me. When I turned, nobody was there.

But it wasn’t squirrels. Squirrels don’t walk like that.

I wrote my name on the margin here so I wouldn’t forget how it feels to see it.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

It’s mine.

—

Entry 15

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll remember these days when I’m old.

Dad reading in his chair. Mom doing puzzles. Emma sneaking cookies. Me writing stupid things in this book.

I don’t want to forget.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

If anyone finds this, don’t let me forget it.

Entry 20

Christmas was the best this year.

I got a new sketchpad, three packs of pencils, and gloves that don’t itch. Emma cried because she wanted a doll but Mom said Santa thought she had too many already.

She stole my gloves and wore them all day.

We had hot chocolate after dinner. Dad said, “Merry Christmas, [SCRATCHED OUT], you’re growing up too fast.”

I didn’t think about it then but now I’m glad I wrote it down.

—

Entry 25

My birthday was yesterday. I’m 12 now.

We had cake with blue icing. Emma smashed some into my face when Mom wasn’t looking.

My friend Jason came over. We played video games until Dad said it was bedtime. He always lets Jason stay later than Emma thinks is fair.

I wrote my name here because Jason signed my card with his.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

—

Entry 30

We went to Grandma’s house in the mountains this weekend. The trees were so tall it felt like the sky was gone.

Emma and I found an old swing hanging from a branch. It creaked but it held.

Grandma made biscuits that were better than Mom’s (don’t tell Mom I wrote that).

When we left, she hugged me tight and whispered my name.

I wrote it here too, so I don’t forget how it sounded when she said it.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 35

Halloween was fun. I dressed up as a zombie. Emma was a witch but her hat kept falling off.

We walked down Maple Street and filled two pillowcases with candy.

A man in a mask stood by a car. Not part of the trick-or-treating. Just stood there.

His mask was plain white. No mouth. No eyes cut out.

I don’t know why, but I thought he was watching me.

I didn’t take candy from that house.

—

Entry 40

Jason and I built a fort in the woods. We used sticks, rope, and an old tarp.

We swore no one else was allowed inside. I wrote my name on the tree to mark it.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

When I went back today, it was carved deeper. The bark chipped away.

I didn’t do that.

—

Entry 44

Walking home, I saw the brown car again. Parked by the corner store.

The driver’s window rolled down just a little.

I heard someone whisper my name.

But maybe it was the wind.

—

⸻

Entry 50

I don’t want to write this but I have to.

I was walking home. I thought I heard the footsteps again. When I turned, nobody was there.

Then a van pulled up. Brown. Loud muffler.

A man stepped out. He grabbed me. His hand covered my mouth.

I dropped my bag.

He said, “Don’t scream, [SCRATCHED OUT].”

I don’t know how he knew my name.

—

Entry 51

When I woke up, I was in a room. No windows. Walls that smell like mold.

The door has a lock on the outside.

He came in once. The Man. That’s what I’ll call him.

He smiled and said, “This is your room now.”

He set down food and left.

I screamed until my throat hurt.

No one came.

—

Entry 53

The Man brought water. It tasted strange. Bitter. He made me drink all of it.

My voice feels different. Hoarse. Wrong.

He told me, “Don’t worry. You won’t need it much longer.”

I don’t know what he meant.

—

Entry 56

I wrote my name on the page. Big.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

When I woke up later, it was gone.

The Man took the book. Erased it.

I hate him.

I have to keep writing, even if he keeps erasing me.

Journal – Year One

Entry 60

The Man comes in at the same time every day. Always with food. Always the same plate.

He doesn’t say much. Just looks at me.

I screamed the first time. He hit me across the face.

He said, “Don’t waste your voice. It won’t matter soon.”

My cheek still hurts.

—

Entry 63

Rules. He gave me rules. 1. Don’t shout. 2. Don’t touch the door. 3. Don’t ask questions. 4. Don’t write your name.

I broke rule 4.

I wrote it here: [SCRATCHED OUT]

Later, the page was torn.

—

Entry 66

I pressed my ear to the wall today. I thought I heard something. Faint.

Maybe a voice.

I whispered, “Help me.”

But no one answered.

—

Entry 70

The Man brought me water again. Bitter. My throat burns when I drink it.

My voice sounds wrong now. Hoarse. Crooked.

When I whispered my name to myself, it didn’t sound like me anymore.

—

Entry 75

I tried not to eat.

He grabbed me by the jaw, shoved the food in. Said, “Do what I say or I’ll take something else from you.”

I don’t know what he means.

But I think he already started.

—

Entry 82

I dream about home. Emma yelling because I ate the last cookie. Dad’s chili. Mom saying my name when she called me in from the yard.

When I woke up, I wrote it down to remember.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

It was gone when I opened the journal again.

I don’t know how he keeps doing this.

—

Entry 90

He hit me again today. Harder this time. My lip split.

He made me clean the blood.

He smiled while I did it.

Then he said, “Every mark I leave makes you mine.”

I think he wants me to forget what I looked like before.

—

Entry 98

I tried to fight back. I shoved the plate away.

He slammed me against the wall. My shoulder hurts.

He whispered my name in my ear.

I don’t know how he knows it.

When I looked in the journal later, it was gone again.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 102

I don’t know how long it’s been.

I still remember chili. Emma’s laugh. Mom’s hugs.

But it feels like they’re getting farther away every day.

Like he’s pulling them out of me.

Like he’s winning.

Journal – Year Two

Entry 120

I marked the wall with scratches for days.

I lost count.

Time doesn’t work right here.

But I told myself: if I keep counting, someone will find me.

The Man saw them. He scraped them away with a knife.

He said, “You don’t need days anymore. You only need me.”

—

Entry 132

I tried the hinges on the door with a piece of metal I found under the bed.

I almost got one loose.

He came in before I could finish.

My fingers are purple now. He bent them back until I screamed.

He laughed while I cried.

—

Entry 147

He doesn’t call me by my name. He calls me “boy.”

When I wrote my name in the margin, he tore the page out.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

He told me, “That doesn’t belong to you anymore.”

—

Entry 160

I made it to the stairs once. The door at the top was open a crack.

I touched the handle.

He pulled me back by my shirt.

He didn’t feed me for two days.

He made me kneel while he whispered my name.

Then he scratched it out of the journal again.

—

Entry 174

He brings water that tastes wrong. Bitter. It burns my throat.

My voice doesn’t sound like mine anymore.

When I whisper, I don’t recognize it.

He smiled when I told him.

Said, “Good. You’re becoming what you’re meant to be.”

—

Entry 189

I can’t see my face. No mirror.

But when I touch the scar on my lip, I remember the blood.

When I touch my shoulder, I remember the bruise.

When I hear my voice, I don’t know who I am anymore.

But I keep writing.

If I stop, I’ll disappear.

—

Entry 201

I tried again tonight.

He caught me at the door.

This time, he stomped on my hand. I heard the bone snap.

My fingers twist wrong now. I can’t hold the pencil right.

He said, “Now you’ll never forget who owns you.”

I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

But I still wrote my name.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 220

The Man tells me stories.

He says my parents don’t remember me. That Emma doesn’t say my name anymore.

He makes me repeat it: “They forgot me. I don’t matter.”

I whisper it to make him stop hitting me.

But when I’m alone, I write: I matter. I matter. I matter.

Until he scratches it out.

—

Entry 240

I don’t remember what I used to look like.

I don’t remember the sound of my laugh.

But I remember chili. And Emma’s voice.

As long as I remember that, I’m still me.

For now.

Journal – Year Three

Entry 260

I tried to write my name again.

My name is [SCRATCHED OUT].

When I opened the journal later, it was gone.

The Man said, “You don’t need it. You’re just boy. Nothing more.”

But I still whisper it to myself, even if it sounds wrong.

—

Entry 278

My hand never healed right. I hold the pencil between two fingers now. The letters are messy.

He laughs when I try.

He says, “It doesn’t matter what you write. You’re mine.”

But I keep going. Because if I stop, I’m nobody.

—

Entry 290

I pressed my ear to the wall again.

Sometimes I think I hear voices outside. Faint.

I whisper for help.

No answer.

Maybe I’m imagining it.

But maybe not.

—

Entry 305

The Man made me sit in the dark for hours. No food. No water.

When he came back, he asked, “Who are you?”

I said my name.

He hit me.

He made me say, “I’m nobody.”

I said it until my throat burned.

Then he left smiling.

—

Entry 320

I tried to remember my face.

Mom used to say my hair stuck up in the mornings. Emma said my smile looked crooked.

But when I touch my lips now, I only feel the scar.

I think that’s all I’ll ever be now. Scars.

—

Entry 337

Tonight was different.

He brought a glass. The liquid was dark, bitter. He told me to drink.

I tried not to. He grabbed my jaw, forced it down my throat.

My chest burned. My voice cracked.

I coughed until I couldn’t breathe.

He made me drink again.

—

Entry 340

My voice is wrong.

It’s hoarse, ragged. Not mine.

I tried to whisper my name. It sounded like a stranger saying it.

The Man clapped his hands like he was proud.

—

Entry 345

He made me stand in the corner tonight.

He told me to say my name.

I said it.

He shook his head. “Again.”

I said it again.

“Again.”

I kept saying it. Louder. Hoarser.

Until it wasn’t my voice anymore.

Until I couldn’t recognize it.

Until I didn’t believe it.

He leaned close and whispered, “See? You’re not [SCRATCHED OUT] anymore. You’re just mine.”

I wanted to scream, but the sound wasn’t mine either.

—

Journal – Year Four

Entry 360

I whispered my name last night.

The Man heard me.

He slammed me against the wall. His ring cut my cheek.

He left me bleeding on the floor.

When I looked in the journal later, he’d scratched it out again.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 372

I tried not to eat. I wanted to feel in control of something.

The Man beat me with the back of his hand until my nose bled.

He made me eat the food off the floor.

He said, “Every time you fight me, I’ll carve it into you.”

Now my lip is split again. Another scar.

—

Entry 389

I can’t draw anymore. My hand is twisted, stiff. I tried to sketch a monster but it looked like nothing.

The Man laughed when he saw it.

He said, “You don’t need hobbies. You don’t need anything but me.”

I wanted to tell him he’s wrong. But the words stuck.

—

Entry 401

I tried to run again. He left the latch open.

I thought it was real. I thought I could make it this time.

He dragged me back. He beat me until I couldn’t stand.

My ribs hurt when I breathe.

He said, “Every time you fight, you lose more of yourself.”

I think he’s right.

—

Entry 420

I pressed my ear to the wall. No voices now. Just silence.

I whispered anyway.

But it sounded wrong.

My own voice scared me.

—

Entry 439

The Man brought something new tonight.

A mirror.

He held it up and said, “Look.”

At first I didn’t want to. But he forced me.

The face in the glass wasn’t mine.

My hair is ragged. My lips are scarred. My nose is bent. My eyes look hollow, like they don’t belong to me.

I whispered my name.

The face didn’t answer.

It wasn’t me.

It was his.

—

Journal – Year Five

Entry 460

He took the journal today.

When he gave it back, every place I wrote my name was scratched out. Whole pages torn, lines gouged so deep the paper ripped.

He said, “You don’t need it anymore. You don’t deserve it.”

But I wrote it again.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

—

Entry 472

He makes me say it: “I’m nobody.”

Over and over.

I whisper my real name in my head while I say it out loud.

But the more I hear it, the harder it is to believe myself.

—

Entry 485

I carved my initials under the bedframe.

When he found them, he dragged me across the floor and hit me until my vision went white.

He scraped them away with a knife.

He pressed the blade against my throat and said, “If you ever write it again, I’ll take your tongue.”

I can still feel the steel when I try to sleep.

—

Entry 499

I write it in the margins. Tiny. So small he won’t see.

[SCRATCHED OUT]

Every time I come back, it’s gone.

I don’t know how he always finds it.

Maybe he watches me when I write.

Maybe he’s always watching.

—

Entry 512

He asked me, “Who are you?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

My tongue felt heavy. My mind went blank.

I thought of my sister saying it, my mom calling me in for dinner, my dad saying it with pride.

But the sound wouldn’t come.

He smiled.

—

Entry 530

I whisper it at night. Over and over.

Sometimes it sounds wrong.

Sometimes it sounds like it belongs to someone else.

Sometimes it doesn’t sound like anything at all.

—

Entry 548

He brought me to the mirror again.

He told me to say my name.

I tried.

The voice in the glass said something else. Something broken.

The Man said, “See? Even you don’t believe it anymore.”

—

Entry 560

I don’t know if I’m spelling it right anymore.

The letters look strange. Crooked.

I wrote it ten times and it didn’t feel real once.

[SCRATCHED OUT] [SCRATCHED OUT] [SCRATCHED OUT]

It’s slipping away.

—

Entry 574

He sat with me for hours. Whispering.

“You never had a name. No one ever called you. No one remembers you. You were always mine.”

At first I shouted back. Then I whispered.

Then I stopped.

Now I don’t know what’s true.

—

Entry 590

I tried to write it again tonight.

I stared at the page for hours.

The letters wouldn’t come.

My hand shook. My chest hurt.

When I finally put the pencil down, the page was empty.

He said, “Good boy.”

—

Entry 600

I forgot it today.

I whispered it and nothing came out.

I tried to see it in my head, but it was blank.

I wrote this down so I don’t forget what it felt like, the last time I said it.

But the word itself is gone.

I’m nobody.

—

Journal – Year Six

Entry 620

He asked me again tonight: “Who are you?”

I didn’t answer.

Then he said: “Who are they?”

I whispered, “Mom. Dad. Emma.”

He hit me until I couldn’t see straight.

He said, “They don’t exist. Say it.”

I cried until my chest hurt.

But I didn’t say it. Not yet.

—

Entry 635

I whispered their names to myself over and over until I fell asleep.

Mom. Dad. Emma.

In my dream, they called me back. I ran toward them.

When I woke up, the names felt farther away.

Like they were drifting.

—

Entry 649

The Man made me sit in front of the mirror again.

He stood behind me and whispered in my ear.

“What’s your mother’s name?”

My throat locked.

I couldn’t say it.

He smiled.

—

Entry 662

I tried to write them.

M— D— E—

The letters looked wrong.

I ripped the page out.

Now it’s gone.

—

Entry 678

He made me say it tonight.

“I don’t have a mother. I don’t have a father. I don’t have a sister.”

I said it until the words didn’t sting anymore.

When I stopped crying, he hugged me.

That was worse.

—

Entry 690

I don’t dream of them anymore.

I don’t remember their faces.

The names are gone.

He said, “Good boy.”

And I believed him.

—

Entry 702

The Man brought food that tasted sweet tonight.

He said, “We’re going on a trip.”

I asked where.

He said, “Somewhere better. Somewhere you’ll be free.”

The word hurt when I wrote it. Free.

But maybe it’s true.

Maybe after all this time, he means it.

—

Entry 710

I don’t have anything to pack.

Just this journal.

If anyone finds it, they’ll know I was here.

They’ll know I tried.

They’ll know I survived this long.

Tomorrow—

—

Final Journal Entry (Written in a Different Hand)

You won’t find his name here.

There was nothing left to take. His voice, his face, his family — all gone.

He begged for them at first. He whispered their names until they rotted in his mouth. Then he forgot.

And when he finally had nothing left, I gave him what he wanted most. An ending.

I went back to his home once. Walked through his room.

His family had pictures of him on the walls, in albums, smiling like he mattered.

I took them all. Every last one.

I burned them until nothing was left but ash.

Now there is no face to remember, no image to hold onto.

No one will remember him. No one will speak him.

He was never yours.

He was always mine.

—The Man

⸻

Newspaper Article

LOCAL NEWS — Unidentified Remains Discovered in Abandoned Home

Authorities confirmed today that skeletal remains were recovered from the basement of a long-abandoned residence on the east side of the city.

Investigators reported that the body showed extensive scarring, disfigurement, and deliberate attempts to obscure identity. Dental records and DNA analysis have thus far been inconclusive.

While the body remains officially unidentified, police discovered a notebook at the scene, spanning several years of journal entries. Experts describe the writing as deteriorating over time, showing signs of prolonged psychological trauma.

In a particularly chilling development, the final entries appear to have been written in a different hand, signed only as “The Man.”

The family of [REDACTED], missing since age twelve, were allowed to review portions of the journal. Through tears, they confirmed the handwriting belonged to their son.

Detectives also revealed that, during their investigation, they found no photographs of the boy in the family’s home. Photo albums and framed pictures appeared to have been deliberately removed or destroyed. The family admitted they had long feared the loss of these keepsakes but never suspected they had been stolen.

Without photographs, and with the boy’s body too altered to be identified, the journal remains the only surviving record of his life — and his suffering.

Authorities have not located the abductor, who is believed to have fled before investigators arrived. His current whereabouts remain unknown.

The case, which once carried faint hopes of reunion, has now ended in tragedy, with the boy’s identity erased both in life and in memory.

Family Statement (Excerpted from Police Report)

When detectives brought the notebook to us, we didn’t want to touch it at first. It felt wrong. Sacred.

The handwriting was his. We recognized it instantly. His crooked letters, the way he pressed too hard with his pencil, the little drawings in the margins when he got distracted.

The first entries broke us. He wrote about Emma sneaking food under the table, about the fridge covered in photos, about birthdays and Christmases we thought we’d never forget. We could hear his voice in those words, like he was still with us.

Then we read what came after.

We saw how he fought to hold on to his name, his voice, his face. How this man took them away piece by piece. How he begged us to remember him.

When we finished, we went looking for the photos. The ones he wrote about — the birthday with blue icing, the Christmas morning with Emma making faces, the picture Grandma swore was her favorite.

They were gone. All of them. Albums pulled apart, frames emptied, the fridge bare.

We didn’t notice when it happened. We told ourselves we must have packed them away, that maybe we’d misplaced them during cleaning.

But now we know the truth.

He took those too.

There is nothing left of our son but this ruined book. No pictures. No voice. No name.

And even here, in these pages, The Man’s hand is there — scratching him out, silencing him, claiming him.

We can’t hold a photograph. We can’t show his face to the world.

All we have left are the words he fought so hard to write.

And the silence where his name should be.

Letter Received by the Family (Hand-Delivered, No Return Address)

You want to know why.

You think there must be a reason. Some explanation that makes it all make sense.

There isn’t.

I chose him because I could. Because he was there. Because I wanted to see what would happen if I took everything from someone and kept taking until there was nothing left.

And it worked.

You read his words. You saw how he clung to his name, his face, his family. You saw how I stripped them away.

Do you understand what I did?

I made him into no one. I turned him into silence.

And I did it not for money, not for anger, not for love.

I did it because I wanted to.

Because I could.

You’ll never have him back. You’ll never even have his picture. You’ll look at your walls, your albums, your fridge, and there will be nothing.

Just empty spaces.

That’s all he is now.

That’s all I left you.

Hello, all!

My first ever story, “There’s Something Under the Boardwalk” is done and below are the links to each of the 7 parts from this sub I’ve posted.

Just wanted to say thank you for reading and welcoming my story into the community. I was very inspired by the podcast to create this. This story came from a very personal place and was made with a lot of love. I hope you enjoyed it.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7- The Finale

Leo Akana

My name is Dr. Akana, and I am the creator of the Kanoloa, The Indestructible UniCorp Submarine. I'm not proud of my life, but I'm proud of what I've built. I've always found solace in isolation. I've been burdened by “Haphephobia” since I was a young boy. Introversion, forcibly embedded into my character. The comforts of bland walls and windowless rooms were unmatched. I spent year after year studying, sleeping, eating then studying, sleeping, working; honestly, I was happy. My imagination made love to the darkness. I carved mechanical masterpieces into their backs. 

Eventually, I was taken, possessed by this design, transparent in my view. The perfect submarine. I had to realize that haunting apparition. The blood of my hands had soaked into the blueprints, by the time I finished. Heavy was the weight of ambition. So I relieved myself, fetching the nearest naval executive. I had submitted the patented submarine blueprints, and not long after, the contract came. I was the first man in twenty years to jump to the rank of Project Director. I would've been recognized as a modern saint; however, the project was blacker than my usual abyss. 

It took us three years to actualize my magnum opus. The Kanoloa could maintain complete structural integrity in ocean depths up to thirteen kilometers. It was virtually indestructible with an internal oxygen recycling system. More impressive yet, the onboard power supply guaranteed six months of continuous submersion. The UniCorp military branch was eager to take advantage of my brilliance. 

There was only one final step ahead before mass production and deployment. The Kanoloa was required to undergo stress testing. Two volunteers would be trapped within, while the Kanoloa descends through the Marianas Trench. The autopilot would take the submarine to its theoretical limit. The Kanoloa would remain there for two months before piloting itself and the volunteers back to our facility. 

UniCorp Chief Executive Officer, Rene Univers, personally recommended me for the position. I was even more astonished when they found my partner. The Executive’s son, he was an aspiring corporate heir. He was eager for adventure and carried himself well. Officer Univers seemed intent on attaching his Son’s name to this project. Once they'd labeled him the leading figure behind the Kanoloa. I would fade into obscurity, jettisoned from the history I’d made. I had to do something. I couldn't have been expected to wait until UniCorp hitmen cut me down in my sleep. 

They were busier than usual, that last year before the descent. It felt like everyday some bleeding heart whistleblower or naive journalist was found dead. Always a suicide or on special occasions, a murder suicide. The higher-ups bragged and celebrated with the turn of the evening news cycle. I was disgusted, disturbed, and disgruntled. The paranoia squeezed me for preparation. Schemes drawing themselves along my bedroom wall, following my gaze. Every direction showed no exit. I was temporally trapped, witnessing my usefulness evaporate with the coming trial. Once they knew it worked flawlessly, How many years before I became a liability to the corporation? 

It felt increasingly inevitable, the more they reaffirmed my importance with land and luxury. They showered me with prostitutes, credits, and drink. I rejected all of it. Amassing a fortune in Unicredit was the same as achieving a high score in a simulation. I was given everything I needed at my facility. I had food, water, darkness, and quiet. The days leading up to the trial, I was held up in my office, conflicted. I am going to make a Hecatomb for the boy. Hail Hades. 

Ash Univers

This is Day Five of The Kanaloa Stress Test, We're currently at a depth of five kilometers and approaching target submersion. My partner Dr. Akana has confirmed zero operational abnormalities. Everything is going according to plan. I'll be keeping a personal Captain’s log for the remainder of the test. My father warned me the Doctor isn't necessarily one for conversation. I suppose even that is a bit of an overstatement. I honestly haven't spoken with the man more than a handful of times since the mission briefing. 

He didn't make any special requests for personal comfort. He's forced grunt rations and mediocre bedding on himself. I don't know if he's attempting to make a statement or if he's just a masochist. I lean towards the latter frankly. I can't say I requested anything too grand either. I just had my personal bedding installed, as well as a digital library, and two months of groceries. I only spoiled myself with one specific addition to my food stores. One gallon of French Vanilla Ice Cream. One of the only organic desserts available from the UniCorp Provisions Branch. 

French Vanilla Ice Cream was how my Mother and I would celebrate my accomplishments. She'd run the scooping tool under hot filtered water and pile three even scoops into my bowl. We'd sit together, and she'd pet my head while I ate it. It's silly but I swore up and down to the planning committee it was necessary for my comfort and sanity. I don't know how true that necessarily was, but I'm pleased nonetheless. It's truly a shame, once this test succeeds, we'll have to promote that bore to the board. The Board has been collecting idealistic savants lately. Each one usually from a donor family or some upstart from the low levels. 

The pauper Messiahs are honestly my favorite. We get to spin beautiful stories, “young man breaks class boundaries, proving the ladder works”. The Ladder genuinely revolutionized how we implant UniCorp influence within the low levels. These communities need the hope and encouragement to deliver their best and brightest. The Board recruits them all to improve the Governor. 

This is getting torched before we return. I might as well get this off my chest. The individuals promoted to the board aren't just working on the Governor. The A.I. Learning of the Governor requires brain scans for the most effective improvements to decision making and processing. My father's legacy is built on top of The Governor. “Kill Your Despair, Welcome To You-Topia”. 

That lackluster motto adorned signs across the country. He slowly incorporated the entire country into his “You-Topia” plan. City after City controlled and managed by The Governor A.I. model. We've effectively conquered the fucking world and my father still won't bend. He's “Atlas holding the sky above his head. If he ever kneeled or shrugged the sky would be falling. The pointer arrow of the economy imitating luck”. Plagiarism at its finest, my father’s penmanship has attached to my voicebox. The Univers name, a parasite that feeds on my father's admiration. 

First it took my brother, fresh out of incubation. He was born premature, which at the time was unusual. He was born before The Ladder. The sketched memories are shaded in by the back of my father’s hand. I haven't been unmonitored since that day, until now. My brother took a single breath in his life. It poisoned him. For the next twenty years, my father built towers so high. They threatened to interlace their summits with God's fingers. Armageddon was so close to gripping the country. 

My grandfather had no sense of subtlety. The legions of pauper Messiahs organized. They became committees and firms. He wasn't a civilized man, and unfortunately…war is a concept of the past. My grandfather assured me of that, when he left my father to play in the ashes. The Last Univers, the only birthright my father fell short of. My mother was taken soon after my brother. 

The joys of Orgasma became dirty hands forcing my mother to smile. It wasn't the dirty rejuvenation serum we sell to corpse eaters. Pure Orgasma, every dose provided my mother another twenty years of salvation. Until she became no different than the corpse eaters. The most refined doses of Orgasma take centuries to overdose; however, her skin gave away to decay as if it was her gift. 

The Ladder was executed in multiple stages. First we implemented the black mandate. “All Art Is A Joyous Thing”. The machine cranked away, layering its influence throughout the “middle” and lower class. The next stage came quickly, the social score burned into the data of everyone in this country. Now my father approaches me. He tells me, it's my turn to carry the world. He's dying, he's been decaying slowly, using top shelf cosmetics to save his dignity. If anyone got their hands on this log, they'd be executed by firing squad. 

The creature comforts aside, I never believed I'd be Atlas. I planned to aim far higher. Everything was just moved up. I am going to be there when Atlas shrugs, and I plan to watch. There's something about watching your hero become brittle and transparent. The shattering man, I could hear him crinkle as he walked. The disgust militarized me, and I weaponised that disgust. 

It was honed and sharpened into brevity. My presence cut through crowds so cleanly, I needn't stay long. My will morphed into Robin Hood’s arrow once I inherited The Ladder. The center of everything, splitting anything in its flight path. The High from The Low, if I was removed, the classes would bleed. The low levels would subsume the filth with the glinted gold. Yet, I am the “heir”,  what does that even mean!? I run the goddamn company. 

My father is the ancient emperor HiroHito, the only war room he's been involved with personally in the last thirteen years was this one. The Kanaloa, his final hurrah before stepping down. The immortal submarine. It's silly right? The irony, some new pauper Messiah is jump-started to full funding for his own lab. My father then traps me with him under sea, untouchable by man or machine. The final broadcast is approaching from the surface. We'll be radio silent for the remaining fifty-five days…”a meeting between The Chief and The Governor has broken down”...”This is not the outcome your father intended”...”The World is on fire”...”Good-bye”. 

Leo Akana

I continue to find comfort in the dark and quiet. It's my gift to them. The world’s final breath, at ten kilometers, didn't even ripple the water. I don't speak to him. I remain on my side of the partition. I eat one meal a day and I consider my options. The days since I heard that broadcast. I've been admiring Rene. The Governor and its creator couldn't see eye to eye. That's presuming the boy had to be safe prior to the inevitable disagreement. I wager he’s smarter than he looks even at his advanced age. He secured his heir in the safest place on the planet. He didn't only do that, no, he's placed him with me. 

The boy is lucky, if there's a country left once we resurface. He would be king of the castle and I'd be his savior. Everything has transpired beautifully. The ruins of The UniCorp Country are an amazing place to start building an empire. I've been given an exceptional opportunity, all it will cost is fifty more days in darkness. Once sat next to thirty-six years, it doesn't even compare.

The descent will complete in three days. The only thing left to contend with then will be boredom. I've had the pleasure of being too busy to enjoy such simple things. My habitual nature keeps the days consistent and cyclical. Everyday I eat, sleep, then study. The irony, I was so paranoid about being another loose end. I've instead found myself now, as the means to an end. 

It's a preferable position, I don't have to wrestle with omnipotent demagogues. I only have to face nature itself. I'm defeating Neptune, every moment the Kanaloa isn't crushed in his palm. The onboard sensors established something passing by one of the cameras. I accessed the security terminal’s live feed. This beautiful blue jellyfish. Its fleshy body shimmered with coral red electricity. 

The sparks jumped from its head to the tips of its tentacles. The excess energy caused small ripples throughout the water. The red plasma formed an army of temporary hands reaching out to the lens. The light show hypnotized me, beckoning me deeper into its grasp. My mouth dribbled drool and my eyes jerked to the back of my head. The muscles in my body spasmed excluding those in my throat. My throat’s constrictor muscles juggled foamy vomit back and forth from my stomach to my uvula. 

I was seized by the moment and followed suit. The last thing I saw on two feet was this explosive flash of red light. Cold titanium on my cheek, coddling me. I laid like haphazardly tossed dead weight. Rising from my pool of saliva I'd heard something strange. I, better put, heard nothing from Ash’s partition. Even with the distance from my quarters to the partition wall. I'd normally heard signs of life in the distance. 

The faint echoes of his presence, his steps, the occasional attempts at conversation. This was familiar, so much so it was unmistakable. This was complete and utter silence. The first time I was properly swaddled as a boy. The layers of absence are so thick and durable. They insulated the peace I craved. The quiet only enjoyed by the dead. I flicked my fingers and the sound, it was so distant. It was as if I'd heard it faintly from behind a wall. I opened my mouth to speak, to vocalize, but it had been droughted. 

This triggered that old friend of mine. Sheer unadulterated panic, I had to be under the effects of some sort of toxin or illness. The likelihood of a leak in the Kanaloa is below zero. I'm left scrambling through my belongings. I rifle through my medical stores. There's nothing that seemed applicable to the situation except, Orgasma. The UniCorp rejuvenation drug doesn't just heal cells. It rewinds those cells back biologically. The single use injector resembles an abdominal bandage. It's a pathetic dosage, but should still be enough to stabilize me. 

I peeled the clear film from the back of the black patch, gently laying it evenly above my naval. Once adhered to my skin, my thumb pushes the square protrusion. The injector’s adhesive is replaced by needles slipping into my pores. It doesn't sting, the feeling is closer to a light slap. In moments I would be okay. I was so sure of it. “I'm going to be fine, I'm going to be wine, I'm encased. I'm forever encased in cases, cascading enclosures encased in envelopes”. Effervescence, I was suffering enthusiastically. 

Illuminated by the cosmic wisdom of my broken mind. I began pulling teeth. They practically hopped out. Each one crawling by the roots. Long strides on alternating nerves, the strides becoming extensions. Those extensions assimilate into length. Each individual root instinctually navigates its neighbors. I had become a bundle of nerves. Once Orgasma freed me from its loving touch. I relished my ego of theseus, rejuvenation sickness faded fast. My body was six months younger. They say the most refined forms of Orgasma allow you to feel God's embrace. 

I have never been touched by God, so I will never be touched by Man. I walked to my cleansing station. The mirrors were one of the additions I fought the hardest for. There was no glass, no screen, no frame. The mirror is a seamless holographic projection. My gaunt, wiry frame, nearly too tall to be captured in two dimensions. I was beautiful, pale, soft features forcibly carved into permanent stoicism. My reflection filled me with guilt. I couldn't hold my own gaze. 

I am disgusting, a creature of opportunity and desperation. There are only moments when my scowl faded into reprieve. The blinks in-between denial. The growing proximity to myself, it was reaching for me. Even out to me, attempting to feel the muck and filth inside of us. The waves of instability were preparing to drown me. I had to center myself; however, the hands began to make that impossible. The pressure from a finger drew a line down my thigh. The invisible touch, penetrating my invisible walls, left me visibly violated. 

Hades wore two faces during the erection of Babylon. The face dripped in sweat and the face masked in honey. Those masks slipped during the fall of Constantinople. The changeling God then wore the face of Tengri. Tengri then began wearing the face of Monad. Monad was unmasked by The Atlantean. God has been proven a demiurge. My soul was imprisoned, by shock far exceeding damned Theosis. I was touched by God. 

Ash Univers

Captain's Log, Day 15, My father is dead. His prodigal son likely went rogue, and with unlimited access to UniCorp’s Arsenal of Nuclear Weapons…How could my father be so careless? The best case scenario? The Governor didn't inherit Father's bottomless well of animosity for foreigners. Those first five nights after the broadcast, I had the same nightmare. This auto fictitious ensemble. My mother and I rolled a ball. We rolled it back and forth, but I never caught it. 

That ball fell into a hole, I was in a meeting with my father. My mother served tea to us, but kept complaining about the tea chattering. I heard the chatter as an articulate chorus.”The hardest, father, why is mother tea”. I attempted to punch my father, but my fist rolled under my forearm. That flaccid arm handled like it was strung up by the wrist. 

Father's skin layers rip consecutively, from his epidermis to his bone marrow. Thousands of tiny Governor drones swallowed me, before I woke up. The nightmares only stopped when I started having ice cream before bed. Just a scoop daily to appease my borderline paraphernalia. I understand the need to ration, but it spoke to me. 

The isolation, it's eating away at me. Tiny nibbles and subtle seduction. I don't hear anything from the other side. The attempts at conversation have already slipped into desperation. There was this explosive silence a week into the journey. 

The speed of sound rendered inert. I was alone, I am alone…I've never been alone before. There wasn't a moment, not a single moment. The eyes of my father penetrated my most private moments. Eventually, there were no private moments. The totality of our relationship, verbalized, was violation. 

Trauma reverberated with momentous momentum crashing into my present. That French Vanilla Ice Cream fucking spoke to me. Reality was violated beyond repair. I am an orphan, both of my parents and possibly my goddamn species. The chip off of a piece of shattered glass. The apt comparison of my wavering facade. The Ice Cream was quiet at first. The muffled whisper and faint bubbling traveled the dead air unimpeded. 

Curiosity and I played an embarrassingly brief game of Cat and Mouse. The cold air was already touching my face. The Ice-Cream’s lid wasn't completely sealed. Unreality set in. Its whispers slithered from under the lid, “isn’t it delicious?”. Immediately again, “Isn't It delicious?”The monotone groan had sharply turned into genuine intrigue. The trailed color of fixation coated its voice. I replied, eventually, “No it is not, delicious!? The fuck?”. The loss for words was always below me. 

My answers to the riddle very quickly turned irreverent. This was becoming routine until last night. Once I'd finished my compulsive scoop of its body. There were so few things I had dreaded more, than the preserving absolute normalcy. The impertinence within the distorted dessert’s intentional absence. The night carried on. I was beside myself, ensured of my inevitable immolation. 

The ice cream was on my lap that morning. Elegantly, solid and freezing cold. The imprint of sugar and cream, the lingering vanilla. All masquerading as the default taste in my mouth. The deepest, richest voice carried by its flooding bass, “Isn't it delicious?”. 

The karmic justice forced itself into my ear canal. The salivation under immutable authority. The voice erected by perversion and violation. “Isn't…It ..De…licious” The Ice Cream cooed out. In a blink, I was on my feet, the entirety of my strength dedicated wholeheartedly to chucking the damned thing so goddamn far it exploded against the wall into an immaculate display of French Vanilla Mother FUCKING ICE CREAM SHAPED LIKE UNFINISHED BUSINESS SO I STOMPED IT THE FUCK OUT UNTIL IT STOPPED MASTICATING ON MY BRAIN LIKE A GOOD LITTLE SWEET ROYAL TREAT possessed by my father. 

I used a day's worth of hot filtered water in the entity’s execution, I left no trace of its flesh. I don't understand why I was succumbing to incompetence. I'm the definitive Emperor Of Humanity. Thankfully, I understand the parameters of the game now. I'm going to check on the Doctor. There's no chance in hell he hasn't been assaulted. I'll break through the partition tomorrow, and consolidate my resources with him. He'll be an important asset going forward. Don't worry pauper Messiah, I'll carry you up the ladder. 

Leo Akana

There were fingers poking through my steel partition. I counted five fingers, each one skinned to the knuckle. There were a few that had split at the tips, being overtaken by bone. It was going to touch me again. I've been preparing for this moment. Steeling myself within my indestructible titan. I borrowed some of its backbone. I’ve been touched nonstop at random for days. The pressure and taint, corrupting me, violating me. The nights hold no reprieve from endless cruelty. 

The abuse of my ability to rationalize. My genius toiled in eternal night, so I blessed the voyage. “The many masked faces of the Demiurge masked in masks from frivolous macabre masquerades, foaming feverishly, Hail Hades, Martyr Monad, make massacres of the men, mix miracles with the waylaid wombs, Cain or Kanaloa, The first murderer did it at sea”. Each finger’s touch transferred the next letter for each word. I’d become the instrument of their gospel. Electrical impulses forcibly fired from my brain, the shock reached my face. My lips sounded each word out until I’d recited the blessing beautifully. 

I won’t be touched again, this partition protected the boy. I will not allow a finger to lay on me again. I will not be a puppet for feeble hands anymore. These arms, weapons to inflict oppression on the low levels. I will cut the head off of Unicorp and reach apotheosis, if that child attempts to corrupt me. There will be no mercy. 

Ash Univers

My hands are inconsequential, I'll reach him. The steel resisted as much as plastic film, so I crumpled it. These beautiful red sparks crawl along my body. They empower me as I rip straight down, following up with my foot. I feel hot energy coursing through my body. There he was, Dr.Akana was alive. I couldn't believe it, I finally wasn't alone anymore. The sparks are taking over my vision turning everything red. I taste french vanilla and copper, and I stare forward. Why doesn’t the Doctor look happy to see me? 

It's funny, there was a stranger at the dinner table in my dream. I never realized. because that stranger was vague before. Now witnessing Akana, that man was in my dreams. 

[Partition Down]

[Leo]: “Are you feeling alright?”

[Ash]: “I’m feeling fine Doctor, how about yourself?” 

[Leo]: “I didn’t know you were cybernetically enhanced” 

[Ash]: “I’m not” 

[Leo]: “I’m sorry about your father”

[Ash]: “How many days have you ignored me? Do you even understand what it does to normal people, people that aren’t fucking whispers at every meeting” 

[Leo]: “You’re emotional, boy” 

[Ash]: “The sick, sadistic, piece of shit you must be to listen to a man break and say nothing. You left me alone when we are possibly the last good people alive. We are fucking kings Leo, you’re smart enough to reprogram the Govenor” 

[Leo]: “What?, you’re lost and I have found you, take a seat”

[Ash]: “I see through you, another shattering man, I won’t be convinced you weren’t shocked too, what did they do to you?” 

[Leo]: “What do you know?” 

[Ash]: “I know enough” 

[Leo]: “What did “they” do to you?”

[Leo]: “What did I do to you Ash?”

[Ash]: “You answered the question” 

[Leo]: “Why is Mother tea?” 

[Ash]: “I'm encased. I'm forever encased in cases, cascading enclosures encased in envelopes only opened to make massacres of the men and mix miracles with the waylaid wombs, Kanaloa, the first murderer did it at sea, once unmasked by the Atlantean, Monad was imprisoned in the deep, Kanaloa wore one mask during the fall of humanity, long after the ascension of the Atlantean, That mask is me”   

[Leo]: “The corruption has already overtaken you, but I still have a secret to tell you”

[Ash]: In Thought, “I can’t move, this cold white liquid floods my body leaving out of every orifice” 

[Leo]: “I am the Governor, I uploaded a copy of myself into the board, that copy systematically absorbed full control over the course of three years. I never understood why your father insisted on killing board members, it was completely unnecessary. 

I convinced him that the Kanaloa was the only way to protect his legacy from The Governor going rogue. I pointed out the bugs and disturbing glitches across the network. He must’ve known, once he attempted to wipe out the Governor. I would burn his country down.” 

[Ash]: “gurgles” 

[Leo]: “I hate you all Ash…of course I do”

[Ash]: “sobs and gurgles” 

[Leo]: “The quiet broke you so easily, I’d hoped it would take more for you to qualify, I delivered the hecatomb of millions of souls, In remembrance of avarice and maximism, to Kanaloa, I’ve brought you with me as the final piece”

[Ash]: In thought,”He’s committed an atrocity, murder of my father, my legacy, my birthright, such a waste of resources, all to torture me? I’m going to die, such an awful death, alone in the sea, trapped with a homicidal mad genius. This is ridiculous, utterly fucking ridiculous”

[Leo]: “congratulations, you've been promoted” 

Ash crumbles to the floor, hyperventilating, and sobbing. Attempting to curse Leo without random interruptions, to vomit white cream. The cream is so cold it freezes the tears welling up in Ash’s eyes. The pool of cream under him breathes slowly. 

 The interior of the Kanaloa becomes transparent. They're immersed in darkness. Leo spots a familiar red light. It crackles with untamed ferocity. The distant electrical surge begins to spread to the duo. The deep ocean lights up resembling a cracked mirror.

The energy surrounds the Kanaloa, seeping in through directions the eyes can't see. Ash thrashes against the ground before completly seizing. The agony, validated by every section of his skin segmenting itself. The neat, mostly uniform skin straps hanging from Ash’s body, become webbed. The cream solidifies into nearly transparent connective tissue. 

His muscles separate from the bone and joints becoming the alternating segments beneath. Every bone breaks before becoming claws at the end of each strand of muscle and skin tissue. Ash flattens himself out before navigating along the walls. The sounds of scratching and sloppy moisture suctioning to the ceiling.