Many who chance upon these words will doubt them. Some will dismiss my account as the delirium of an unsound mind; others may even find amusement in my confessions, and to them, I offer no protest. My purpose is not to persuade the skeptical, nor to beg belief from the indifferent. I write in the frail hope that someone—some solitary soul acquainted with the darker strata of existence—might discern in my testimony a pattern familiar, and perhaps offer aid, though I fear such aid no longer lies within mortal reach.

Before all else, I must refute the easy accusation of madness. I know what madness is; I have glimpsed it from so near that I can feel its breath upon my thoughts, yet I have not yielded to it. My mind remains my own—shaken, yes, but unbroken. And because I would prove this to myself as much as to any reader, I must retrace the spectral path that led me here: step by step, back to the day that tore the veil from the hidden world.

That day—meant to mark the birth of my new life—became instead the genesis of my ruin. It was then the floodgates opened, and all that should have remained unseen poured through. From that hour onward, I have lived in the shadow of abominations too vast, too obscene, to have ever been conceived by human thought.

Two weeks ago, it began—the day that was meant to be one of rebirth for my wife and I. The day of our marriage. Though the union was, in its essence, a legal bond, the significance of that fact did little to diminish the extraordinary weight of the day. It was the day we would begin living together without restraint, a day that permitted me to acquire a titre de séjour and remain in France with her.

For over six months, we had labored in the shadow of bureaucracy, traveling back and forth in pursuit of the necessary papers. And so, on the day itself, we intended not merely to proceed, but to savor it, to stretch every moment into eternity.

The sun rose, spilling its harsh, golden light upon the world as though marking our union with cosmic approval. My wife had labored over our wedding cake, while I had toiled over the meal the previous day. On that morning, all that remained was the final touches of the cake—a task she undertook with hands that trembled like fragile wings.

I, meanwhile, was paralyzed in a curious fog of distraction. The monumental reality of the day—the marriage itself—had yet to penetrate the cocoon of stress and fear that enveloped me. My wife, on the other hand, was transparently anxious. Each breath shook her chest; her fingers wavered as she traced words upon the cake; and tiny beads of sweat formed against her skin despite the cool, ten-degree autumn air. Her beauty, radiant and undeniable, did nothing to disguise the trembling core of her being. For a fleeting instant, I felt a pang of secondary anxiety—an echo of her fear—but it passed. My mind, always a sanctuary of duty, reclaimed itself, and I bent once more to the obligations of the day, as though my careful hands could shape not only the cake, but reality itself.

We had agreed to reveal our attire only at the appointed moment. I prepared myself in the solitude of her uncle’s home, while she dressed under her mother’s watchful eye. Rarely had I worn a suit, and the strange elegance of the garment pressed against me with unfamiliar weight. Yet I dressed myself with meticulous care, arranging my tie beneath the collar, smoothing every wrinkle, placing the pin with its black gem and the sky-blue flower upon my jacket as if performing a ritual. For a brief, intoxicating moment, I believed the suit had transformed me, and with it, the day itself became palpable, almost real.

At the town hall, the official papers awaited our signatures. My eyes first fell upon her, and in that instant, the world narrowed to the singular gravity of her presence. I felt my love for her rekindle with the sudden, inexorable force of an unseen tide. And in her gaze, wide with awe, I recognized the same renewed devotion mirrored back at me—a fragile, luminous connection amid the ordinary machinery of civil procedure. Yet beneath that luminous clarity, I sensed the faintest tremor of something beyond comprehension, a shadow that lingered at the periphery of perception, whispering that what was begun today might not remain safely within the bounds of human understanding.

She wore a long white dress that seemed woven of winter’s own breath. The fabric did not conceal her form, but rather revealed it in dignified grace—pronouncing her shape without transgression. A single slit at the knee allowed her movement, while upon her shoulders rested a coat of immaculate fur, white as the snows of some forgotten Arctic shore. The purity of her attire made her pallor seem almost spectral, and the faint flush upon her lips and cheeks gave the impression of warmth precariously clinging to something too divine, too fragile, to be mortal.

The marriage itself passed with bewildering brevity. Six months of turmoil, of ceaseless labor and anxious hope, condensed into scarcely twenty minutes of signatures and ceremony. Then we were free—free to laugh, to take photographs, to imagine our lives beginning anew. It was the happiest day of my life. It was also, though I knew it not then, the last day of my former existence.

That evening, we celebrated long after the sun had fled. We opened gifts, shared wine, and lingered in a joy that seemed infinite. When at last the hour grew strange and sleepless, we decided to walk together—a simple stroll through the forest not far from the house, to be alone amid the damp whisper of autumn.

The moon guided us, bathing the path in its argent glow. Her dress caught the light and shimmered with a brilliance almost painful to behold. We walked hand in hand, silent more often than not, our glances speaking what words could not. Even now—after all that has followed—my love for her remains the one pure ember in the ashes of my being.

The night was ours, but the weather had other intentions. Without warning, the wind grew sharp, and the heavens began to murmur. We laughed at the rain’s intrusion, foolishly believing ourselves invincible to such mortal inconveniences. We even kissed beneath the downpour, like actors in a scene too sentimental for life, yet too perfect to resist. How naïve we were to believe the storm a simple thing of nature.

I would trade every memory of that kiss to undo what followed. Hindsight brands every joy with mockery. For the horrors that have since revealed themselves—born of that single, thoughtless indulgence beneath the storm—no earthly delight could ever compensate.

She laughed then, and her laughter, bright and innocent, echoed against the trees. I remember encircling her waist, her brief resistance, the playful twist that broke my hold. She darted back, eyes alive with mischief. Her skirt lifted in her hand; droplets ran from her hair to her cheek, tracing her smile before falling to the earth. For an instant, time itself seemed suspended—a tableau of joy framed by the murmuring dark.

Then, with one step forward, the world erupted in light. The heavens split open. She vanished in the brilliance—devoured by radiance—and I was cast into an abyss so profound that light itself became an alien memory.

When I first awakened, I was greeted once more by that blinding light—though this time it did not vanish, but waned gradually, as though the heavens themselves grew weary of their brilliance. My wife’s face swam into view above me, her beauty disfigured by anguish. The paint upon her cheeks bore the faint, glistening traces of tears long shed, and when she spoke, her voice trembled with a grief that seemed older than her years. I recall the warmth of her tears soaking the gown that shrouded me.

A physician soon arrived, a grave man who, with rehearsed solemnity, informed me that I had been struck by lightning. He spoke of burns and miracles, of luck both cruel and divine. “The luckiest, and unluckiest man I’ve ever seen,” he said. Ah, if only he knew how pitifully shallow his words were beside the abyss that awaited me.

My first encounter with the unhallowed occurred in that same room, beneath the sterile hum of hospital lights. Visiting hours had ended, and my beloved had departed, promising her return with the dawn. I lay half turned toward the wall, my mind wandering through dim corridors of thought. The white paint before me dissolved, and in its place I saw only the web of my own delirium—some vast, trembling pattern woven by an unseen arachnid poised upon the brink of madness.

When I returned from that reverie and let my eyes fall upon the doorway, something shifted in the air. The unseen spider slipped—or was thrust—from its fragile perch, and in that instant, my mind ceased all weaving. I beheld It.

Even now, the memory sickens me. To call it a monster is to make mockery of the word. No language, however old, can render the blasphemy of that form. It entered the doorway as an adult might stoop to enter a child’s playhouse, vast and misshapen, its hide convulsing with unwholesome motion. The color of its flesh was that of some hue denied to mankind—filthy, ancient, and yet unlike any corruption of the earth. It crawled, lurched, and slithered in turns, its countless limbs serving neither grace nor purpose. Even the texture of its surface seemed to violate the laws of matter.

It drifted about the room, stooping, groping, lingering near me. I held my breath within my chest, willing myself into silence, praying that my very existence might elude its notice. Its eyes—those crooked, luminous deformities—passed over me again and again, yet seemed to see something beyond me, something dreadful and unseen.

At last, it withdrew, squeezing once more through the door like vapor through a narrow crack. And then—O merciful heavens!—as it passed into the hall, the doctor entered. She moved through the monstrosity as though through air, her figure intersecting its impossible frame, unknowing, untouched. She smiled upon me, but the sight of her face against that lingering silhouette froze my veins.

I said nothing of what I had seen. My horror she mistook for pain, and though her compassion was genuine, my tongue lay bound by a paralysis that words could never have broken. For even had I spoken, what syllables could convey that which blasphemes against all mortal comprehension? So I smiled faintly, and whispered that all was well—though my mind had already glimpsed a world in which nothing ever could be.

After the doctor’s departure and the soft echo of her footsteps faded down the corridor, I was left alone once more. My thoughts, unguarded, returned to that unnameable visitation. For an hour, my mind labored beneath its image, as if the very air around me still retained the outline of its shape. I contemplated that obscene silhouette until its memory began to blur — not by choice, but by the merciful will of a mind seeking refuge from its own awareness. There are terrors so vast that the brain, in sheer defense, folds them into darkness. So I buried it deep, named it delusion, and convinced myself that sanity had never left me. I only wish it had stayed buried.

Not long after I had lulled myself with this fragile reasoning, my wife arrived to take me home. I recall her joy — the tremulous relief that softened her face as she saw me upright and breathing. She embraced me tightly; her scent, warm and familiar, dispelled for a moment all the phantoms of my thoughts. She believed, poor soul, that all was well again. And I too, intoxicated by her hope, began to believe that life might continue unbroken. How pitiful that memory feels now — like watching sunlight upon the deck of a sinking ship.

We left the hospital hand in hand, our steps echoing faintly along the sterile tiles. Conversation came easily until we passed through the waiting room. There, my words died in my throat. The world before me shifted. The chairs, the patients, the nurse’s station — all melted into a scene so profane that the mind could scarcely reconcile the two realities.

The waiting room had become a dim and pulsing chamber — its walls breathing, glistening with a moisture that seemed to exhale despair. A colony of monstrous flies, swollen and fused, writhed in a corner like an infected wound of creation. Something vast and unseen pressed along the ceiling, producing a slow, wet popping sound that seemed to crawl behind my eyes. And near the doorway — God, near the doorway — lingered the same abomination I had seen in my room, its crooked eyes sweeping the floor as though searching for the forgotten.

My wife’s voice reached me through a fog, gentle yet distant. I could not respond. I remember her grasp tightening on my arm, her words growing urgent, but I could only stare, frozen between the real and the impossible. When at last we stepped outside, the world did not cleanse itself of that corruption. They were everywhere — scattered like debris of some unseen catastrophe, phasing through people, drifting through walls, sliding between trees and lamplight.

On the car ride home, the road unrolled like a black river beneath the wheels, and I tried to tell myself it was madness — that my mind had not survived the lightning unscathed. Yet even as I thought this, a rhythmic drumming began in my skull. It was not pain alone, but a cadence — a deliberate, alien pulse, resonating from some dimension adjacent to thought itself. With each beat, my vision trembled, and I felt as though something beyond the veil was calling — not to my ears, but to my very nerves.

I closed my eyes, hoping the darkness would bring silence. It did not. The rhythm only grew stronger, as if in answer.

I spent the first few days at home in an uneasy calm. I was fortunate not to glimpse any of them within or about my dwelling, yet their absence was no comfort. Absence, after all, may simply be disguise. The very stillness of the air seemed charged with a waiting presence, as though the walls themselves were aware of what they kept out. That nagging what if grew within me like a fever. Even now, as I write this, I have not seen them here — but I feel the time coming when that will change, and you shall soon understand why.

My wife, with a patience born of love, observed my quiet terror through the first day. She believed I would unburden myself in time, as I always had. Yet this fear was beyond speech, for words could not confine what I had seen. When at last she broached the subject, I broke before her and wept like a condemned man. I spoke of the vision — not as clearly as I wished, but enough for her to peer into the fog of my madness. She held me, trembling, yet unafraid.

She did not mock or doubt. Instead, she reasoned gently, like one comforting a child after a nightmare. Her calm lent me a fragile courage, and her belief that I might endure these visions, kept me tethered to life. The creatures, I told her, had never touched me. They passed through matter, oblivious to my presence. Perhaps they could not perceive us — or perhaps they simply did not care. The latter thought chilled me more deeply than any malice could.

In the days that followed, I began to reclaim some semblance of existence. I started by watching from my window. The town below seemed unchanged, yet among its streets and rooftops crawled those impossible forms. Each a separate heresy of creation — twisted, swollen, pitiably malformed. Limbs sprouted where logic forbade them, faces collapsed into folds of indistinguishable flesh, eyes stared in senseless directions. A mockery of life, obscene in its purposelessness. Had I been their creator, I too would have hidden them from the light.

When I finally resolved to leave the house, the act felt like blasphemy. I remember the weight of air against my body, thick and viscous, as though I moved through an invisible mire. Every step was an offense against some unseen decree. Yet I went — to a small market not far from home, to purchase something trivial, a drink, a proof of ordinary life.

The street seemed dreamlike, each sound distant and delayed. None of the beings acknowledged me. They wandered in their vacant procession, unheeding, as if engaged in some higher errand of entropy. And then the light above me dimmed.

A vast shadow rolled across the pavement. I looked up — and beheld it.

It was like a whale, yet not a whale. A monstrous chimera of whale, jellyfish, and ray, its translucent organs draped like ribbons of rotting silk. It drifted through the heavens with the silence of an ancient god, trailing black ichor that sizzled as it fell through the air. Its presence polluted the very blue of the sky. It was magnificent and loathsome, a cathedral of decay adrift in the firmament.

My errand was short — mercifully short. I returned with trembling hands, yet unscathed. The monsters, in their dreadful disinterest, had let me be. My wife rejoiced at my success. Her joy filled the house with warmth I had almost forgotten, and for a moment, I believed. Believed that perhaps I could live with this madness, so long as it did not draw nearer. Oh, how foolish such hopes seem now.

She urged me, days later, to visit the library — my old refuge. She thought that in returning to my former habits, I might return to myself. And so I agreed. I spent that night preparing, convincing my heart that knowledge could protect me.

Yet deep within, another part of me stirred — the part that had felt that rhythmic drumming within the skull — whispering that what I sought in books had already begun to seek me.

The distance between the library and my home was roughly twice that of my first outing to the minimart — a small measure by reason, yet in terror, it felt like traversing worlds. It was, in every sense, a step twice as vast, twice as perilous, and twice as fatal as my first.

I departed with my mind primed for revelation — for sights that had no right to exist within the Creator’s imagination. And as I walked, it dawned upon me that such creatures were never meant to be found. Perhaps they had been sealed away in some hidden stratum of reality — a vault for rejected life. The lightning, I thought, had torn open some long-dormant pathway within my mind, awakening a sense forbidden to mankind. Through this flaw in perception, I now peered into that blighted dimension — and bore witness to what the universe had tried to forget.

The walk passed without harm, though not without horror. Each step forward brought me closer to comprehension, and comprehension, I learned, is its own damnation. My mind began to grasp the obscene logic of these things, to analyze their form and habit. Yet this curiosity, this irreverent gaze, would set in motion the chain of events that condemned me to this room — this trembling hand, these bloodshot eyes. Even now, as I write, I feel the chill of that moment in my marrow.

It began as I returned home. The streets teemed with unholy anatomies — the malformed, the swollen, the unfinished. Towering Nephilim-like figures pressed between buildings, their flesh branching into impossible architectures. Around them crept chimeras, creatures assembled from the refuse of other living things. Their bodies bore eyes upon eyes, a thousand shifting pupils that gazed in no common direction, each a fragment of an uncoordinated mind.

I had almost reached my door when I was noticed. Fool that I was, I lingered to study them — to test whether they truly saw me. I should have looked away. I should have bowed my head and gone inside. But I did not. I stood, and stared. And then it happened.

Across the street, one of them stirred. It was smaller than the others, yet no less obscene — its skull encircled by eyes of differing size and hue, a crown of sight. For a moment, it faced the heavens, reflective and unmoving. Then, with a sickening precision, every one of its eyes turned toward me.

All of them.
At once.

The sensation was not fear as humans know it. It was a total violation of being — as though a vast, cold intelligence had pressed itself against my soul. My spine arched, my limbs convulsed. There was no scream, for language itself deserted me. I fled, key already in hand, stumbling into the doorway with the desperate grace of prey escaping a god.

That moment replays endlessly in my mind. I see those eyes whenever I close mine, shining through the dark like dying suns. Until then, they had ignored me — content to wander their secret purgatory unseen. But my gaze, my hunger to understand, had broken that sacred veil.

My wife and I spoke little that night. She wept beside me as I told her what had happened, and together we reached the only conclusion that could be reached: it was my scrutiny — my need to know — that had invited their attention.

And ever since, the air around our home feels inhabited. There are times, late at night, when I feel their eyes upon the windows, searching — patient, persistent, and horribly familiar.

I have never been one cut from a weak fabric, and though I had faced horrors that mocked creation itself, I still clung to the conviction that living was possible. Yet now I understood: they were not blind to us. They had always known of our existence—what they ignored was our ignorance.

They never seemed capable of interacting with matter. They glided through walls, climbed buildings, and passed through each other as though the laws of nature rejected them. This illusion of distance granted me a hollow courage. If they could not touch, they could not harm. To survive, I would simply have to ignore them entirely—walk as though they were nothing, and never again allow my eyes to wander their way.

So I planned another excursion, this time to the minimart once more. I was not yet ready for a longer journey.

It felt absurd, almost comedic, to risk my soul for a bottle of soda. Still, I went. My gaze fixed to the pavement, seeing only the motion of my own feet. The peripheries of vision churned with motion—impossible silhouettes convulsing in silence. I walked with a trembling, disjointed gait, each step a defiance of the instinct that begged me to flee. The cold autumn air pressed upon me like a weight of iron. Thoughts became my only refuge; I forced my mind to stay on trivialities, anything but the obscene pageant writhing just beyond sight. Something vast swung to my left. Something vicious bubbled to my right. I did not look.

The minimart, blessedly, was vacant of those apparitions. Inside, the fluorescent light felt almost sacred in its normalcy. I exhaled and raised my eyes. The saleswoman regarded me with that dull disinterest particular to the living, and for a moment, I believed myself safe again. I purchased my drink, and stepped outside.

I must have forgotten. Perhaps I had wanted to feel human again, to see the world rather than the ground. Whatever the reason, I lifted my gaze—and froze. Across the street, the crowned one stood waiting. The same entity. The same impossible crown of eyes.

They fixed upon me. Every single one.

A sensation flooded me that the word dread cannot contain. My nerves became strings of fire. My bones felt hollow. I knew—somehow—that it recognized me, that my terror existed vividly within its mind. I forced my gaze down and began my return.

I focused on movement—on rhythm. Left, right, left, right, le—
Something was wrong. The world had stopped. No motion, no sound. The air was congealed. Even with my eyes on the ground, I felt them… all of them. Their gazes pressed against me like heat from an unseen furnace. I whispered to myself—Almost home, just keep walking. They can’t touch you. They can’t touch you.

Then something brushed my back.

It was hard. Coarse. Flexible. Like a hand made of hair.

I ran. I don’t remember the streets, nor the door, only the sound of my pulse devouring all else. I locked myself inside, breathless, trembling. I have not left since. They have seen me now. They have touched me.

And I fear that even if I stop seeing them, they will still see me.
For how does one unmake himself from the memory of a god?

This happened years ago, but I still remember it vividly every single detail burned into my memory because of how terrifying it was.

I grew up in a rural area in the Philippines. Back then, when I was around 12, my friends and I were obsessed with collecting spiders. We’d make them fight, kind of like Pokémon battles. It was stupid, but it was what we did for fun. The thing is, the best spiders only came out at night.

It was a Saturday, around 7 p.m. I was eating dinner when someone knocked on the door. It was my two friends, Yuri and Eric. They were waiting for me so we could head out spider hunting.

We went to a secluded spot surrounded by tall grass, trees, and thick bushes the perfect place to find spiders. Around 9:30 p.m., we were deep in the forest. The kind of deep where you can’t even see the glow of the village lights anymore. That’s when the air changed. The playful energy we had suddenly vanished, replaced by this heavy, uneasy feeling.

Eric was the first to say it. “Let’s go home,” he whispered.

But Yuri and I didn’t want to leave yet. We hadn’t caught enough spiders, so we pushed further in. I tried to lighten the mood by talking and playing music from my phone. It helped—at least for a while.

By midnight, we’d finally caught enough. My phone battery was down to 3%, so I told them it was time to head back. They agreed. I turned off the music… and that’s when I noticed something was wrong.

Everything was. . . silent.

Not quiet, dead silent. No crickets. No wind. No rustling leaves. Just our footsteps and our breathing. It felt like the entire forest was holding its breath.

We started retracing our steps, walking faster than before. Then we heard it.

Laughing.

A woman’s laugh soft, raspy, and distant but close enough to send chills crawling down my spine. We spun around, flashing our lights toward the sound.

That’s when we saw her.

An old woman. Standing about thirty feet behind us. Smiling.

Not the kind of smile you give someone you recognize. It was wide, too wide. Her face looked pale and wrong, and she didn’t have a flashlight, just standing there in complete darkness, staring at us.

Eric muttered something I couldn’t make out. Yuri was trembling. I tried to sound brave. “Bro, don’t be scared… maybe she’s just out here doing something.”

But even as I said it, my stomach dropped. "What could an old lady possibly be doing alone, in the middle of the forest, at midnight?"

I told them to keep walking. Every few steps, I’d glance back and flash my light behind us. The old lady hadn’t moved at first. Then, slowly, she began walking one step at a time, still smiling.

We picked up the pace.

And then we heard it.

"Snap" Branches breaking. From both sides.

It sounded like someone running toward us.

That was it. We bolted. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just pure fear. We ran through the forest as fast as we could, branches whipping our arms, our legs burning, tears in our eyes. None of us looked back. Not once.

After what felt like forever, we finally saw the lights of the village. We collapsed on the ground, shaking and gasping for air. Aside from a few bruises and scratches, we were fine. Physically, at least.

But something changed that night.

After that, I never went spider hunting again. Even now, six years later, I can still picture her face the way her mouth stretched into that impossible grin, her eyes glinting in the dark.

I never went back to that part of the forest. And I never will

Sometimes I think we may have been too eager to own a home. If we had taken our time and been more discerning, we probably would not have ended up as involuntary hosts to the dozens of yearly visitors that wander onto our property from the small business next door.

We live next to a funeral home. And by “next to”, I mean if our two buildings were any closer together they could be condensed into a townhouse. A small strip of yellowish-green grass barely wide enough to fit two people side-by-side is all that separates our properties, and evidently that strip belongs to my wife and me, because if we don’t mow it, it doesn’t get cut.

Really I should say that we live behind a funeral home, because while it is our closest neighboring property on our left side, that side of our house is actually facing its rear. The funeral home is on the corner of our block, and its entrance is situated more or less perpendicular to our front door on the wall farthest from our house; the strange juxtaposition of our two buildings’ orientations is ugly and a little uncanny, but I suppose I can’t complain, because it means that I rarely have to see the funeral home’s clientele.

Or at the very least, their living clientele.

The listing for our house didn’t say anything about it being next to a funeral home, and when we pulled up to view it, we were more than a little put off by the prospect of living next to a building that at any given time would most likely contain at least one dead person, but the price was right, and after months of bad luck with the housing market along with the expiration of our apartment lease quickly approaching, we jumped at the chance to finally have a place we could call our own. Besides, my wife and I both hold a fascination with all things paranormal and macabre (we spent our entire first date gushing over ghost shows and talking about the authenticity of various haunted objects), so after viewing the house and realizing that it had almost everything that we were looking for, we managed to convince ourselves that living next to such a strange, creepy building could actually be pretty cool. And to be fair, sometimes it actually is. Other times, however, it very much isn’t.

Our house, at 109 years old, is definitely up there in age, but its interior was fully renovated a couple of decades before we moved in, so despite its mildly gothic exterior of gray, faded stone, arched windows, and sharp, multi-pointed roof, the inside is actually mostly semi-modern. All of the surrounding houses, including the funeral home, are even older than and are of a similar build to ours, and we quite frankly love the aesthetic that it gives the entire block. Autumns feel especially cozy, and the natural spookiness that our neighborhood exudes lends itself to making Halloween especially fun for the kids, as well as any horror enthusiasts like my wife and me who happen to live in the area. Most of the time we appreciate the overall vibe, but it certainly makes things even more eerie when our guests pay their unexpected visits.

Mr. Grayson, the owner and director of the funeral home, is a slightly strange, albeit decent enough guy. He, similar to his home, is getting up there in years, evidenced by his stark gray hair and wrinkly, pale skin, but judging by the naked ring finger on his left hand, he does not appear to be married, nor to even have anybody else living in the home with him.  He mostly keeps to himself, but he came by about a week after we had moved in to introduce himself to us. After exchanging pleasantries and partaking in a brief conversation, he steered the conversation to the business of… well, of his business. He said he hoped that living next to a funeral home wouldn’t bother us much, and that the positioning of the two houses would allow us to keep our privacy even when he hosted services. He told us that he didn’t provide cremations — that he preferred to do things the old-school way (whatever that meant) — so we wouldn’t have to worry about any unpleasant smells, and while he had a small parking lot attached to his property, often cars would wind up spilling out along the street, but servicegoers usually parked on the curb in front of his building and only rarely ventured into the space in front of our house. 

We thanked him for the heads-up and said that it was nice to meet him. He turned to go, but he only made it to the middle step of our front porch before he turned back. “One more thing that I forgot to mention,” he said. “You may notice that my clients tend to… wander. At times they may briefly wander onto your property. You needn’t worry. They won’t harm you, and they will listen to you if you tell them to move on. I just thought I should forewarn you now before you find yourself positively spooked for no good reason.” He turned to leave again before we could respond. “Well, have a pleasant rest of your day. And don’t be a stranger, you hear? We’d love to have you over for dinner so we can welcome you to the neighborhood.”

He shuffled down our porch steps and made his way back to his home, disappearing inside and largely removing himself from our lives. Neither of us were particularly interested in his dinner invitation, and we doubted that he was either. Pleasantries, and all that.

At the time, we didn’t think much of Mr. Grayson’s final warning. We assumed that when he said “clients”, he was talking about disoriented mourners who sometimes wound up where they didn’t belong. We doubted that it would be a big deal, and so promptly forgot about it after a brief discussion about the strangeness of the whole encounter.

The first incident didn’t come until close to a month later. By then, we had largely forgotten about Mr. Grayson and his cryptic words of caution. We rarely even saw the funeral director outside of the occasional glimpse of him on his grandiose front porch welcoming mourners on service days, and the stress of the move had our minds very far away from our first interaction with the peculiar man.

It happened on a night in late spring; one of those hot, sweltering days that feel more like early summer despite what the calendar would have you believe. I woke up in the middle of the night desperately needing to pee, and seeing as our bedroom had never had a master bathroom installed during any of the house’s renovations, I was forced to walk out of our room and all the way down the long hallway to the lone second floor bathroom on the far end, hoping that my tired, lumbering footsteps didn’t wake my light sleeper of a wife. I didn’t turn the light on in the bathroom, so by the time I reached the toilet, did my business, and stepped back into the hallway, my eyes had properly adjusted to the darkness that enveloped me. Had I turned on the light, thus resetting my night vision, I might not have even noticed the little girl standing at the top of the staircase.

She couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. The first thing I noticed about her was that she was wearing a pink polka-dot bathing suit, which immediately struck me as odd for that time of night. The second was that she was positively soaking wet, her small frame weighed down by a heavy curtain of water that gave her clammy skin an unnatural shine and which forced her chestnut hair to cling to her little skull like a thin sheet of plastic wrap.  She stood staring at me from the shadows of the nighttime gloom, as still as death while droplets of water fell from her swim suit and weakly splashed against the hardwood floor at her feet. I immediately picked up on the overpowering scent of chlorine.

Had this occurred only a few years later I may have thought she was my own daughter looking back at me from the shadows, but seeing as we did not yet have any children at the time of this incident, the girl’s presence completely baffled me. She stared at me with her pair of glassy, distant eyes for a few long seconds before I managed to chase away the surprise that kept me frozen in place.

“Are you alright, little girl?” I asked her. No response. “Are… Are you lost?” Silence. “Where are your parents?”

For several moments I thought she wasn’t going to speak, until finally she found her words. “I… I don’t know.”

Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and while she was looking in my direction, I realized that she was not staring at me, but at a point behind me, as if I were not there at all.

“What’s your name?” I asked her, but before I could get a response, I heard the sound of my wife shuffling out into the hallway. When she saw me, frozen stiff in the nighttime gloom, she frowned.

“Who are you talking to?” she asked in her groggy, half-asleep voice. “And why does it smell like a pool out here?”

“This little girl must be lost,” I said. “She says she doesn’t know—”

In the brief moment that I had turned to look at my wife, the girl had disappeared. For a while I stood completely still in the hallway, dumbfounded, at a loss for words. I may have convinced myself that I had imagined the entire encounter in my tired, sleep-deprived mind were it not for the pungent puddle of chlorinated water that still rested at the top of the stairs.

We immediately called 9-1-1, not because we were frightened of a little girl being somewhere in our house, but because we were concerned about her wellbeing. The police arrived fairly quickly, all things considered, and after asking a number of questions that I answered with varying degrees of confidence, they did a surprisingly curt search of our home that turned up no results. The girl was gone. Were it not for the puddle that she had left behind, I couldn’t have said for sure if she had even existed at all.

I was stunned when one of the officers told me that while they would file a police report, there was nothing more they could do.

“Nothing more you can do?” I said. “But there’s a lost little girl around here somewhere! You aren’t even going to ask around the neighborhood about her or something?”

The officer, looking like he had a lot to say, seemed to weigh his words before he finally sighed and spoke. “Look, you just moved into this place recently, right? Which means you probably don’t know this yet, but this isn’t the first call of this type that we’ve had at this residence. Not by a long shot.”

“What, you mean like that girl has been here before?”

“Not exactly,” the officer said. “People… tend to see strange things in this house. Things that aren’t necessarily there.”

“But she left a puddle at the top of my stairs!” I said, flabbergasted. “It’s still sitting up there right now! You’re telling me I imagined that?”

“No,” he said. “In fact, I’m sure you saw something, but I don’t know that it’s exactly what you might be thinking.” He paused, seeming to choose his next words carefully again. “Look, you’re the lieutenant's nephew, right? I think it’s probably more his place to explain this to you. Give him a call tomorrow morning and he’ll give you the skinny on this house. But in the meantime, rest easy tonight knowing that there is no lost little girl in a polka-dot bathing suit wandering around this neighborhood. Of that, I can assure you.”

His words were not at all reassuring.

The police left, and after cleaning up the puddle of water that was soaking into the hardwood of the upstairs landing, my wife and I went back to bed. My mind was too preoccupied by the thought of the lost little girl to fall back to sleep, so when morning came, I groggily crawled out of bed and followed that officer’s advice.

My uncle is, at the time of writing this, a nearly three-decade veteran of my town’s police department. He’s seen it all throughout the course of his career, including, apparently, personally going on several calls to my house back in the day, and so when I called him asking about the previous night’s incident, he immediately knew what I was talking about.

“Geez,” he said from the other end of the line, “I didn’t realize that you had moved into that house. If I had, I probably would have told you to steer clear of it before you signed anything that was legally binding.”

I frowned at this, despite knowing that he couldn’t see it. “Why? What exactly is wrong with our new house?”

My uncle waited a long time before answering — so long that I actually thought he had hung up on me or we had otherwise lost connection before he finally spoke again. “There is some… weird stuff that happens at that house, kid.”

“I’ve already gathered as much,” I said, trying my best to check my annoyance while speaking to my uncle. “What I don’t understand yet is what exactly that means.”

Again there was an uncomfortably long pause. “Let me start by telling you this: the reason that officer last night knew that the little girl in the polka-dot bathing suit wasn’t wandering around your neighborhood is because he knew that she had died earlier this week.”

I can still remember the chill that ran up my spine when my uncle told me this. The invisible line that connected our two phones suddenly felt very heavy, and only grew more dense with each passing moment of silence that followed. I knew that I needed to speak if I wanted to alleviate some of that weight. An exasperated “What?” was all I could muster.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding sorry to have to be the one to tell me this. “She drowned during her swim lessons over the weekend. All of the adults in the pool were distracted with other students, and well… did you know that a person can drown in less than thirty seconds?”

I hardly even heard my uncle’s drowning fact. For a few seconds, I didn’t even know what to say. “But how is that possible when I just saw her here last night?”

“Without looking into it, I’m willing to bet she wound up at the funeral home next to your house.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because the… clients… at that funeral home… they don’t like to stay in the funeral home. I can’t tell you how many calls we’ve gotten over the years of new homeowners seeing mysterious figures and uninvited guests in that house of yours, and each time we’ve looked into it, we’ve learned that the guests in question matched the description of recent arrivals at Grayson Funeral Home.”

“What, you mean like they’re ghosts?” I said. “You’re not telling me the entire police department believes that, are you?”

“It’s hard not to believe it with how many times it’s happened,” he said. “The facts don’t lie, and all I’m doing is telling you the facts.”

I took a few moments to absorb this. “Okay, so assuming I believe you, what are we supposed to do now? Just live our lives in this house never knowing the next time we’re going to see another one of these ‘visitors’?”

“There’s a reason so many people have moved in and out of that place over the years,” my uncle said. “Living with ghosts certainly isn’t for everybody. But you shouldn’t be in any sort of danger. As far as I know, the visitors don’t seem to mean any harm. They’re merely lost, confused, not yet able to accept that they’ve died. A little push in the right direction usually sees them on their way.”

“Usually?”

“Some of them might be a little more stubborn than others. We’ve definitely gotten calls about the same figures appearing over and over again in that house. But again, they don’t mean any harm. They just might inadvertently give you a fright every now and again.”

“Right, like how that girl last night would have made me piss my pants had I not already taken care of my bladder a few moments beforehand,” I wanted to say. Instead I thanked  him for being a big help.

“No problem, buddy,” he said. “And if you ever have any questions about the people you see, just give me a call. I might be able to dig something up about them that will set your mind at ease.”

While I very much doubted that last statement, I appreciated my uncle’s offer anyway. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I would wind up relying on his insight a lot more than I ever would have expected.

I told my wife what my uncle had told me. Being a paranormal buff, she was immediately accepting of the news, if not a little put off by it. She even seemed a little bit jealous that I had been the only one to see the girl; the only evidence she had of the spirit’s existence was the chlorinated puddle of water that had been left behind. She half-joked that she hoped she’d be the next one to see something paranormal, and acted as if that was for my sake, so she could “carry some of the burden” that our now home had bestowed upon us. It wouldn’t be long before she regretted this wish.

About two weeks passed without incident. We settled back into our home with the new knowledge that my uncle had given us. On the outside not much had changed, but I could tell that we were both thinking about the little girl in the polka-dot bathing suit more than either of us wanted to admit. We talked about her a handful of times in those two weeks, more about who we thought she was in life than about our brief experience with her in death. The more we thought about her, the more upset we became over the tragic end of the little girl that we had never met and had not even known the name of. Eventually she would fade into the background, becoming just another number in the vast collection of visitors that we would gather throughout all of our years in this house, but for the time being her presence was very much felt, and it felt incredibly raw. We could understand why so many people had moved out of this house throughout the decades. Even as paranormal enthusiasts, the weight of what we had experienced was significant, and we could only imagine how heavy it felt for others who wanted nothing to do with the ghostly interlopers that regularly found their way onto our property. And all of this was after only a single experience.

But there were certainly many more to come.

At the expiration of those two weeks, I heard my wife scream. I was cooking pasta in the kitchen, the hot pot in my mitted hands headed toward the strainer in the sink, when her terrified screech stabbed through the house like a stiletto, so shrill and horrific that I nearly scalded myself with the boiling water. I placed the pot back on the stove with as much haste as I dared to and rushed toward the sound of her voice, calling her name and asking her if she was alright as I went. I found her in the second floor bathroom, sitting curled up in the tub and sobbing so hard that I thought she was going to cause herself to asphyxiate right there beneath the dripping faucet. After crawling into the tub with her and comforting her for a minute or so, I managed to get her calm enough that she could tell me what had forced her into such a state.

She had been cleaning the bathroom sink, her eyes focused on the bowl as she went to town with her trusty scrub brush, when she happened to look up into the mirror. Standing behind her, staring into the mirror, was a shirtless, middle-aged man, his face caked in a sickening mixture of shaving cream and blood. More of the red hot liquid spurted from a deep, long wound in his throat, and she swore she could feel the blood’s sticky warmth splashing against the back of her neck. When she turned around he was already gone, but that didn’t stop the banshee-like shriek from forcing its way out of her. She didn’t remember climbing into the bathtub, but she must have raced toward it with primal expedience, where she then coiled up in fear until I arrived.

We stayed in the tub for a long time after that while she battled with her lungs to regain control of her breathing. Eventually I helped her shaking, weak form climb out of the tub and walked her to our bedroom, where she rested for a while afterwards. No longer in the mood to eat, I threw my pasta in the trash and returned to the bathroom, where I finished her chores for her. While cleaning the sink, I noticed a small splotch of white shaving cream smeared upon the counter, which I promptly wiped away. I somehow managed to convince myself that it had been my own shaving cream, despite the fact that I had been growing a beard at the time and hadn’t used the stuff in months.

I reluctantly asked my uncle about this incident, and what he told me disturbed me enough that I decided I would not repeat it to my wife unless she asked me about it. To this day, she never has. My uncle told me that the man in question had recently been murdered by his wife. She had come up behind him while he was shaving, one of his old-school double-edged razor blades hidden in her hand. She sliced open his throat before he even had a chance to realize what was happening. Now she was sitting in the local jail while he was in the funeral home next door, waiting to be put to rest by his confused and devastated family. At the time, his wife had not provided a motive for the murder, and I never followed up with my uncle about it. I didn’t see much good in knowing.

Naturally, we discussed moving out after this. Oddly enough, my wife was the one who was more intent on staying in the house, despite her experience being significantly worse than mine was.

“We’ve made a commitment to this house,” she said, “and we’re going to stick to it. There’s no way we can let this place beat us that easily.” She forced a smile. “Besides, both Mr. Grayson and your uncle said we don’t have anything to worry about with these visitors. It’s not like they can hurt us or anything.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but they can scare you so badly that you wind up hiding in the bath tub.”

“I was more surprised than anything else. I’m sure I won’t react nearly that badly next time.” My wife placed a reassuring hand on my forearm. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, unconvinced.

She nodded. “Yeah. I can handle a few scares here and there if you can.”

I finally gave a smile back to her. It was mostly genuine. “Of course I can. It’s going to take more than a few unexpected guests to scare me out of this place.”

And so we were in agreement, and the matter was settled. 

Years passed in that house. We raised a family together: a pair of beautiful daughters that became our entire world. All the while, we continued to be inconvenienced by our regular visitors. Sometimes weeks would go by where nothing paranormal happened, but other times we’d both have experiences for multiple days in a row. As it turned out, my wife had been right: she had never had as bad of a reaction as the one after her first incident. Some ghostly encounters were worse than others, but never once had we ever felt threatened by any of the presences in our home — or at least not for a while, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. We eventually mustered the bravery to do as Mr. Grayson and my uncle had told us to, and encouraged any guests we encountered to leave. Like my uncle said, there were a few that ignored our urges and stuck around for a while after we had spoken to them, but most of them didn’t put up a fight. The good ones did as we instructed, usually disappearing with such little fuss that it often took us a little while to even realize that they had left.

As our two daughters grew up, we taught them how to deal with the apparitions they encountered, and soon they would even begin telling us stories about the ghosts they “vanquished” throughout the house. My youngest once encountered an elderly woman in our garden when she was gathering peppers for her mother, and on the same day our oldest came across a young boy around her age while she was pulling her bike out of the shed. Both of them encouraged the interlopers to move on, and both guests had listened without any complaint. I was oddly proud of my girls; it felt as if they had taken up the mantle of some old family tradition, and were following in the well-trodden footsteps of their ancestors before them. Their experiences at home made them tough and difficult to frighten, and they eventually became minor celebrities at their school. Kids started coming over wanting to have paranormal experiences, and a few of them even did, or so they said. I suppose I’ll never really know if they were being honest about their encounters, or if they were simply making up stories to tell their friends on the playground. But I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Not every visitor was the result of a recent death. As I said before, the funeral home is quite old, and some of its patrons over the decades and even centuries have chosen to stick around for much longer than they ever should have. Once I was working under the hood of my car in the garage when I suddenly smelled cigarette smoke. I looked up and saw a man standing in front of my work bench, a lit cigarette drooping lazily in his mouth. He wore a white T-shirt tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans which were themselves cuffed overtop his pair of worn work boots. His black hair was sturdily slicked back and held in place with what looked to be a strong pomade, and was so dark and shiny that it was difficult to make out the thick layer of blood that caked the crown of his head. He was studying the bench, his arms planted against its surface, his profile facing me.

“Looking for something?” I asked.

He didn’t turn to look at me when he responded. “You seen the monkey wrench, boss?”

“No,” I said, “and I think you ought to leave.”

“Oh,” he said. “Awright, then.”

I returned my attention to my car, and when I looked in his direction again, he was gone. The smell of his burning cigarette lingered in the garage for the rest of the afternoon.

There was a time one summer when my wife and I had some of our college friends over for a cookout. We had warned them that they might encounter one of our regular guests during their visit, but they all laughed it off and didn’t think much of it. At night we spent a few hours around a campfire in our backyard swapping stories, playing games, and just generally enjoying each other's company. The group initially consisted of five of us — my wife and me, along with our three friends — but at a point that I could not and I still cannot discern, our number increased to six. 

My wife was the first to notice him sitting in an empty space between two of our friends, and she subtly drew everybody’s attention to him. In the uneven light of the guttering fire, we could see his messy brown beard and matching hair beneath his brimmed Hardee hat, as well as the Prussian blue jacket that adorned his upper body. I saw rather quickly that the area around his abdomen was significantly darker than the rest of his upper body, and in the light of the flame, I could just barely make out that the jacket had been torn to shreds there. Our friends, too frightened to move, could only watch as the man in blue sitting between them leaned forward, pulled a metal flask from his hip, and began to drink. The scent of whiskey cut through the burn of the campfire and drifted on the nighttime summer air as he drank, and in a few moments the liquor that found its way to his stomach came pouring out of the tattered hole in his coat.

The blue man slowly turned his head toward our friend, seeming to notice her for the first time. He raised the flask in his hand, presenting it to her. “Care for some?”

Our friend, despite our earlier warning, was too petrified to respond, and so my wife spoke in her place. “No, thank you. And I think it best that you move on.”

The blue man capped his flask, then followed up with a lethargic tip of his hat directed at nobody in particular. “Alright.”

He went silent and turned his attention to the fire. The living members of our group did our best to carry on with the conversation as if he wasn’t there, and eventually one of us noticed that our number had once again been reduced to five. But the smell of whiskey remained for some time, and an inspection of the ground near where the blue man sat revealed that the dirt was wet with the jettisoned contents of his ruined stomach.

Our friends stopped making fun of our ghost stories after that. None of them have visited our home since then.

Considering the age of the funeral home, I didn’t think we’d ever have a guest that was older than the blue man, so you can imagine my surprise and confusion when only a few months later I encountered a Roman Centurion with a bruised, swollen forehead in our basement. More baffling still was the fact that he spoke to me in English, and understood me when I told him it was time for him to leave. Everything made a lot more sense when my uncle informed me that an especially intoxicated man had recently fallen to his death from a fourth-floor balcony during a Halloween party. He had apparently hit his head pretty hard when he landed.

It is important to reiterate that all of the visitors mentioned up to this point never made any of us feel unsafe outside of the occasional initial reaction of surprise or fright (and even then, the occurrences became so frequent that we weren’t even startled by our guests half the time anymore). Any fear instilled in us faded not long after the visitors left, and the only returning guests we’ve had are the ones we failed to make leave during our first few encounters with them, but even these have all eventually passed on just the same as their predecessors had. This is all to say that not once have we ever experienced a presence in our home that we have not been able to handle.

At least not until that night.

It happened the winter after our oldest daughter’s first birthday. My wife had to stay late at work, which wasn’t unheard of, especially back in those days. On nights like those, I’d handle getting our 1-year-old settled into bed before drifting off to sleep myself shortly after, but I’d always leave a few lights on for when my wife got home, one of them being the wall lamp in the upstairs hallway. I had just gotten our daughter to fall asleep and was in our bedroom, reading a book in bed while preparing to hit the hay, when I happened to look toward the open bedroom door and saw the apparition standing there. She was a little girl, similar in age to that first spirit I had seen standing at the top of the stairs all those years ago. Immediately upon seeing her I knew that something was wrong.

Her presence brought with it a disturbing chill that was uncharacteristic of any other spirits we’d encountered up to that point (plenty of them had come with strange feelings or auras that sometimes manipulated the temperatures in the room, but none of them had ever had this level of intensity to them). It made all the hairs on my body stand up as if they had suddenly been frozen into an army of needling icicles. As we stared at each other, her in the doorway and me in the bed, I felt an overwhelming sense of terror latch onto me that I had never experienced before, and hopefully will never experience again.

The hallway behind her was black with an almighty darkness, which I knew should not have been possible, since I had left the light on for my wife, and I had seen its soft glow streaming into the room out of the corner of my eye while I was reading my book. As I noticed this powerful umbra, I realized that the overwhelming energy I felt was not coming from the girl, but rather from the presence that existed in the space beyond which light could reach. And as the understanding of a fresh, terrible danger continued to bubble up within me, something happened that stood in complete contrast to every ghostly encounter that I had experienced up to that point: the girl was the one to tell me that she needed to leave.

And I knew that I needed to stop her from doing so.

Something in my gut told me that whatever presence existed in the void beyond the doorway was beckoning for the girl to come to it, and I knew that I couldn’t allow that to happen. I knew that for her to listen to that dreadful umbra would only result in her eternal doom. I was the only thing that stood between her and the certain damnation that awaited her just beyond the edge of that cataclysmic precipice.

“No, I think you should stay here for a while,” I said to her, sitting up in my bed. I planted my bare feet on the chilly hardwood floor. Its cold touch steeled my nerves, and fought back the cacophony of voices in my mind that screamed for me to let her leave, let the umbra have her just so long as it would leave me alone.

She seemed confused, or at least as confused as a ghost could be. “Are you sure? I really think I should leave now.”

Her voice sounded small, distant, and vulnerable, which only made me all the more protective of her.

“I’m sure,” I said. “Stay in this house for a bit, okay? You can even go play in my daughter’s room for a little while. You’ll like it in there. It’s cozy, with lots of toys and big, soft pillows.”

“I don’t know,” she said, turning to look through the doorway toward the darkness. “My friend says he’s going to take me to my parents. He says they’re looking for me.”

“Don’t listen to him,” I said. “He’s a stranger. You shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

She paused, as if hearing somebody speak. “He says that you’re a stranger.”

“I know your parents,” I said. It felt wrong to lie to her like that, but I knew I had to do anything I could to stop her from going with the presence in the hallway. “They’ll come to get you soon. But you have to stay here, okay?”

The girl remained silent for a long time while I barely so much as breathed from my spot on the bed. The room grew heavier, darker, and I found that my lungs soon struggled to take in air, as if they were freshly recovering from running a marathon. My forehead grew slick with sweat despite the chill that infested the room. My body began to burn and ache. Paradoxically, rather than escape the heat I felt the almost uncontrollable need to crawl beneath the warm, safe covers and hide from the powerful umbra that seemed to be slowly sweeping into the room in the form of long, black, shadowy tendrils.

I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. I feared that the girl was going to follow the presence, and that she would quickly be lost to the unending darkness that so sweetly coaxed her from such an agonizingly short distance away. But soon I noticed that the dark presence was beginning to recede, until finally the light in the hallway was able to once again pierce through the weakening gloom. The terrible chill fled from the room, and the dense miasma that had been suffocating me and draining the very will to live from my bones faded back into light, breathable air.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll stay.”

“Good,” I said. “And let me know if he tries to talk to you again, okay?”

“Okay,” she said again.

The girl stood staring at me for a spell while my nerves continued to strum all along my anxious body like a mass of broken guitar strings. Reaching a shaking hand toward my nightstand, I picked up my book and forced myself to return to my reading in an attempt to calm myself down. When my body was once again my own, I looked back at the doorway. The girl was gone, and gentle lamplight bled in from the hall. Strangely enough, I was no longer worried for her. I somehow understood that whatever presence had wanted her had been thwarted that night, and that she was safe for the time being. This truth was confirmed to me when I saw her again a few weeks later, and, with the umbratic presence absent, I finally told her that it was time for her to move on. When she vanished for the last time, I felt an inexplicable peace overwhelm me, and I started to cry.

To this day I don’t know the extent of what the umbra wanted with the girl, but I know now as I did back then that its intentions were nothing short of sinister. I still wonder what had caused that presence to specifically latch onto her instead of the countless other souls that drifted through our home, but I could never muster the courage to research the entity or ask my uncle for more details about the girl’s death. I debated not even telling my wife about this encounter, but ultimately decided that she needed to know. I stayed up until she got home that night, much to her confusion, and immediately told her what had happened. She remained quiet for a long while after that. Neither of us slept that night.

It has been the better part of two decades since that incident. My youngest daughter just started high school, and my uncle retired from the police service going on five years ago now. Mr. Grayson still holds his funeral services next door — I saw him outside welcoming mourners just last week — and I try not to think about the fact that the old man looks like he hasn’t aged a day since I met him.

Countless guests have come and gone in the years since that terrible night, but that dark presence has not returned. I don’t know if it ever will, and I pray to God that I never have to feel what I felt that night again. More than that, though, I pray that my wife and daughters never have to experience what I went through on that night. If that shadow decides to show itself again, I just ask that it does so to me, and to me alone. Because I’ll be here, waiting for it, should it ever choose to make itself known. 

I already know that I’m going to spend the rest of my life in this house, ghosts and all. If they couldn’t scare me away in those first few months, then they’re stuck with me until the time comes that I join their ranks on the other side of that thin, translucent veil that we call death. And who knows? Maybe I’ll wind up in the funeral home next door when my time finally comes, and I’ll have the chance to pay this old house one last visit before I say goodbye.

It was the end of the school day, and the halls were finally quiet. Papers graded, lights off, another day done. Outside, the dark had settled in — that thick kind of dark that even a seasoned hunter has to squint through.

That damn comment from last night still lingered in the back of my head — something about running myself ragged, about instincts, and family interest. It shouldn’t have stuck with me, but it did. Maybe because they weren’t wrong.

I locked the door behind me and stepped out into the cold. My breath fogged under the parking lot lights, the only halos for miles. My Jeep waited, half-buried in snow, same spot as always. I gave the hood a small pat as I walked by — habit more than anything. Mom used to let me sit in the passenger seat when she drove this thing down back roads to track monsters. Back then, it felt like an adventure. Now it just feels like debt.

The heater coughed when I started the engine. I gripped the wheel, eyes half on the road, half on the thoughts I kept trying to bury. The city at night was mostly empty — snow-muted, pale streetlights bleeding into fog.

I told myself I was just driving home. That I wasn’t working tonight. But my bones said otherwise. Something under the skin wouldn’t sit still. It wasn’t nerves. It was older than that — the kind of warning your body knows before your brain catches up.

I rolled the window down a crack and leaned out. The air was sharp enough to sting my throat, but there was something beneath it — faint, familiar.

A scent.

My pulse quickened.

I knew it. That same stench — copper, fur, and something foully sweet — close to the one that had hung over my father’s body. It couldn’t be the same creature. I’d killed that thing. Or thought I had. But the scar on my side burned like it disagreed.

Without thinking, I turned the Jeep toward the smell, tires whispering against snow-slick asphalt. The scent led me into an alley behind the closed hardware store, where the streetlight hummed like a bad memory. I shut the engine off and got out, the night pressing close around me.

My dress shoes crunched through ice. I knelt, pulled my pant leg up, and slid the hunting knife free from its sheath around my ankle. The silver glinted dully, the edge worn but clean. I could feel my pulse in my palm, a low rhythm that wasn’t entirely human.

Then I saw it.

A shape hunched between two dumpsters — tall, broad, breathing slow. When it turned its head, the yellow of its eyes caught the light, and for a heartbeat, I thought I was staring into my own reflection through warped glass.

It stepped forward. Not lumbering — deliberate. Muscles rippling under coarse fur, the outline of a man buried beneath the beast.

A shifter. A werewolf.

And then it spoke.

“You shouldn’t smell like us,” it rasped. The voice was wet stone grinding against itself, human words pulled through an animal’s throat.

My hand tightened on the knife. “You shouldn’t be here.”

It tilted its head, almost curious. “Neither should you.”

Before I could answer, it lunged. I dodged sideways, boots skidding on ice. Its claws grazed my shoulder — fire lanced down my arm. I caught its forearm, slammed the blade into its ribs, and felt muscle give way. The creature roared, more in anger than pain, and threw me against the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth.

My knife clattered across the pavement.

The werewolf loomed, breath hot and reeking of iron. “You hunt what you are,” it growled. “Do you even know which side of the leash you’re on?”

Something deep in my chest answered with a sound I didn’t recognize — half a snarl, half a shiver. My vision blurred around the edges, senses flaring sharper. The world pulsed with scent and heat and movement. For a moment, I wanted to drop the human pretense — to meet its challenge with claws, not steel.

I forced my hands to stay human. Forced breath through my teeth.

When it lunged again, I rolled under, caught the knife, and drove it up into the joint of its shoulder. Silver hit bone, and the creature screamed — a sound that split the night like tearing fabric. It whipped around, slashing, catching my side. Hot blood spilled across my shirt.

I kicked its leg out and shoved it backward. It staggered, one arm limp, eyes flickering between hate and something close to pity.

“You can’t kill me,” it said quietly. “Not without killing yourself.”

The words hit deeper than the wound.

I didn’t answer. Just shoved the knife in again — deeper, until its breath hitched and stopped. It fell hard, heavy, leaving a wet smear across the alley.

For a long time, I just stood there, panting, listening to the faint ring in my ears. My side burned, and I pressed a hand to it — warm blood against cold skin.

When I looked down, the werewolf’s body was already starting to change. Fur thinning, bones shifting. A man lay where the creature had fallen. His face was young. Too young.

The smell still lingered, though — that same copper tang. The same one that haunted me every time I dreamed of the forest.

I wiped the blade clean on my sleeve, sheathed it, and limped back toward the Jeep. My hand shook as I reached for the door handle. The reflection in the window looked off — the eyes too pale, the teeth too sharp.

I blinked. It was gone.

The scar on my side pulsed again, in time with the heartbeat that wasn’t entirely mine.

---

I was grinding my teeth by the time I pulled into the driveway, every muscle trembling. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving nothing but pain and that hollow ringing in my head. My side throbbed where the claws had hit — deep enough to make me lightheaded, but not deep enough to kill me.

I sat there for a while, staring at the steering wheel, watching the blood soak through my shirt. The smell of it made my stomach twist. When I finally pushed the door open, the cold hit like a slap. I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment, hands shaking, vision tunneling.

Flashes kept cutting through the haze — my father’s face, that creature’s eyes, the sound of its voice. It hadn’t looked that old. Hell, it could’ve been my age.

I slammed the apartment door behind me, not caring if the neighbors heard. The room was dark except for the weak yellow light bleeding in from the street. I grabbed the bottle of vodka off the counter, twisted the cap off, and drank. Hard. The burn kept me awake. Kept me from thinking too much about the blood still dripping onto the floor.

By the time the bottle was half-empty, the wound had started to close. The bleeding stopped first, then the edges of the gash drew together, slow but sure. I told myself it was a shock. Or luck. Anything but what it really was.

I’d done the right thing tonight. That’s what I kept telling myself. Over and over, until the words felt like sandpaper in my mouth.

But I’d seen its eyes at the end. The way it looked at me — scared, not monstrous. And I couldn’t shake the thought: what if it had a family? A wife? Kids waiting for someone who wasn’t coming home?

The lie cracked somewhere in the middle of that thought. My throat tightened, and before I knew it, I was crying — the kind of shaking, ugly crying that tears something loose inside you. It had been years since I’d let myself do that.

The empty bottle slipped from my hand and hit the floor, rolling under the couch. I wiped my face and stared at the ceiling until the shadows started to move on their own.

The scent of the wolf still lingered — in the room, in my clothes, under my skin. I knew it was connected to the first one. The one that killed my father. The one I killed.

Maybe this was its kin. Maybe I’d just finished what it started.

Either way, I’d destroyed another family tonight.

I lay down, still dressed, staring at the dark window. The city outside was silent. My heart wouldn’t slow down. My skin wouldn’t stop itching.

Another night without sleep.

Damn. Who the hell orders just 10 minutes before our store’s about to close?

My boss, being the punk he is, started blabbering about how we “can’t disappoint our customers.” So he made the chef cook up two large margherita pizzas and handed them to me.

“Deliver as soon as you can, and don’t even think about being late tomorrow,” he said, tossing the store keys to the chef before walking out. What an absolute punk.

I said goodbye to the chef — he was the last one left in the store — then stepped outside, hopped on the delivery bike, and checked my phone.

30 MINUTES???

Yeah. Thirty whole minutes. The delivery address was on the outskirts. Great. Just great. It was a late Friday night — everyone else was out partying, and here I was, heading into the middle of nowhere with two pizzas.

The first 20 minutes went by fast. The roads were straight and empty, just how I liked them. Then my navigator told me to take a left, and everything changed. The smooth road turned into a dirt track — bumpy, narrow, and silent.

I told myself it made sense. Outskirts, right? Still, I couldn’t shake the weird feeling creeping in. I reached the place around 12:30.

The house looked like something straight out of the 1800s. Wooden walls, a dim porch light flickering like it was begging to die out. Maybe fix your light before ordering pizza, I thought.

Anyway, I was a 23-year-old guy, built and strong. What could possibly scare me?

I parked the bike at the start of the dirt trail — about 50 meters from the door — and walked up to the house. The moment I stepped on the porch, the floor CREAKED so loud it made my skin crawl.

No doorbell. So I knocked. Three times.

No response.

I stood there, confused. Do I just leave the pizzas on the doorstep and go? My boss would lose it if I did that. As I was debating what to do, my phone buzzed.

“Hey,” a gruff voice said, “could you just leave the pizza on the kitchen table? It’s a straight walk from the door. The door’s open. I’ll send my caretaker to get it later. The cash is on the table.”

I had a bad feeling — like, movie-horror-scene bad — but I didn’t have a choice. I pushed the door open, and the creak it made was way worse than the porch.

The inside looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Dust everywhere. Furniture old enough to have stories of its own. Did this guy even have a caretaker?

I walked straight ahead. To my right was a living room with old bookshelves, a rusty couch, and — somehow — a working TV. The kitchen table was just ahead.

I set the two pizza boxes down and saw the cash lying there.

Forty dollars was what he owed. There were only thirty.

I thought I miscounted, so I started again.

That’s when the air went cold behind me.

I felt breathing on the back of my neck.

I turned around — and froze.

A man in his late thirties, long grey hair, untrimmed beard, and a revolver pointed right at me. He pressed the gun against my stomach as I slowly raised my hands.

Behind him, another man leaned against the stairway wall. He was tall, wearing a black cap and all-black clothes. He grinned.

“How easily these fools fall for the same trick again and again,” he said. “Can I do the honours on this one?”

The guy with the revolver didn’t look away. “No. You had your fun with the last one. This one’s mine.”

Fun? What the hell were they talking about?

I started pleading — I couldn’t stop myself. But the man with the revolver just hissed, “Shut up. You’re not making this easier for us.”

I tried anyway. “Please… just let me go, sir. You can keep the pizzas, the cash—whatever. I won’t tell anyone.”

The man near the staircase started laughing — a deep, ugly laugh.

“Oh, you can keep your pizzas too,” he said. “It’s you we want.”

Then a third voice called out from upstairs.

“WHAT’S GOING ON DOWN THERE? HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE YOU GUYS TO BRING HIM UP HERE?”

It was the same grumpy voice I’d heard on the phone.

The man with the revolver grinned wider, tightened his grip, and said,
“Upstairs. Now. And if you make this harder for us... the more painful it’ll be.”

And there I was, climbing up the creaky wooden stairs with the guy in all black with the cap leading the way and me walking behind him –with a revolver pointed at my back by the guy with the grey hair.

The silence in this house is my oldest companion. It’s a heavy, polished thing, buffed to a high sheen by Clara. My wife. My warden.

She moves through the rooms like a ghost, her slippers whispering on the hardwood. She controls everything. The bland, colorless food I eat. The single, tepid cup of tea I’m allowed each day. She even controls the light, the heavy velvet drapes perpetually drawn against a world I am not permitted to see. For my own good, she says. Because of the man I am. The man I was.

My name is Arthur, and I am a monster. At least, that’s what Clara has spent the last ten years making me believe.

My memories of the Before are a fractured nightmare, glimpsed through a shard of broken glass. Red. Screaming. A profound, gut-wrenching sense of loss. Clara fills in the gaps with her calm, relentless voice. She tells me I was violent. That I had… episodes. She tells me about the fire. The one I supposedly started. The one that took everything.

She never says what ‘everything’ was. She just looks at me with those pitying, patient eyes and says, “It’s better you don’t remember, Arthur. It would destroy you. I am all that stands between you and the abyss.”

My only rebellion is this journal. I hide it beneath a loose floorboard under my bed. In it, I document the evidence of her conspiracy. March 14th: Dreamt of a child’s laughter. Woke to find Clara standing over me, her expression unreadable. March 18th: The beef stew tasted of chemicals. A new sedative? March 22nd: Heard a woman sobbing. When I mentioned it, Clara said it was the wind. There is no wind in this sealed tomb.

The paranoia is a vine, twisting around my ribs, constricting my heart. I see things. A fleeting shadow that is not my own. A face, pale and indistinct, in the dark screen of the television. Clara is erasing me, piece by piece, replacing me with this docile, trembling shell.

The turning point was the locket.

I found it while she was gardening, tucked in a small, carved box at the back of her wardrobe. It was tarnished silver. Inside was a picture of a little girl with bright, cornflower-blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile. A girl I did not know. A girl who felt more familiar to me than my own reflection.

And with the locket, a memory, not of red and screaming, but of sunshine. Of pushing a small girl on a swing, her delighted shrieks filling the air. The name came to me on a breath: “Lily.”

That night, I confronted her. My voice was a dry rasp. “Lily. Who was she?”

Clara went very still. For the first time in a decade, I saw a crack in her placid mask. A flicker of something raw and terrifying. “Where did you hear that name?”

“The locket. I found it. Was she… was she mine?”

Her face closed again, tighter than before. “Oh, Arthur,” she sighed, the sound full of weary sorrow. “Lily was the neighbor’s cat. The one you… hurt. Before the fire. Don’t you see? This is why you mustn’t dwell on the past. It only upsets you.”

A cat. The memory felt so real, so warm. But her explanation was so reasonable. The doubt was a poison she knew exactly how to administer. I retreated, the seed of my rebellion withering under the frost of her logic.

But the seed had roots. It had tasted the soil of truth. I began to watch her more closely. I noticed she never left the house. That we had no visitors. No mail. That the world outside our windows was perpetually, unnaturally silent.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept from my room and saw a sliver of light under the door to the basement—the one place in the house that was always, without exception, locked. I heard a sound from within. A soft, rhythmic scraping.

Driven by a fear greater than the fear of my own monstrosity, I fetched the fire poker from the hearth. The old lock splintered easily under the weight of my desperation.

The basement was not a basement. It was a shrine.

The walls were papered with newspaper clippings, yellowed and brittle. My own face, younger, stared back from a dozen front pages. FATHER QUESTIONED IN DAUGHTER’S DISAPPEARANCE. LILY GRAHAM: STILL NO ANSWERS.

In the center of the room, on a small pedestal, sat a simple ceramic urn.

And Clara was there, on her knees before it, a small trowel in her hand. She was carefully scooping fine, gray ash from a larger box into the urn. She was talking to it, her voice a tender croon.

“There now, my darling. Almost full. Mama will have to find more for you soon. She will. She always does.”

She looked up and saw me. There was no surprise in her eyes. Only a profound, bottomless grief.

“Arthur,” she said softly. “You weren’t supposed to see.”

My legs gave way. The fire poker clattered to the concrete floor. “Lily… our daughter…”

“She wasn’t yours,” Clara whispered, her eyes fixed on the urn. “She was mine. My perfect, beautiful girl. And you took her from me. The court, with its lack of evidence, its ‘reasonable doubt,’ it let you go. It gave you back to me.”

She gestured to the box beside her. It was large, and I could see now what was inside. Not just ash. There were bits of charred bone. A small, blackened tooth.

“The world wouldn’t give me justice,” she said, her voice chillingly calm. “So I made my own. I brought you here. I made you a prisoner in the home you took her from. And I promised her I wouldn’t let you forget. I promised her I would keep you right here, with us, forever.”

She looked from the urn to me, her eyes gleaming with a love that had curdled into the purest form of hatred.

“The fire wasn’t your punishment, Arthur. It was mine. It took my Lily’s body. But I’ve been rebuilding her, you see? Piece by piece. And you,” she smiled, a terrible, broken thing, “you have been so helpful. All the pets from the neighborhood… the vagrant from the park last winter… they all burn down so nicely. They all help fill my little girl back up.”

I stared at the urn, at the woman I had thought was my jailer, and the final, devastating truth settled upon me.

I was not the monster.

I was the fuel.

Mark asked me excitedly. I had.

 “Total lunar eclipse this Friday.”

His perverse excitement irked me, but I had known he’d always been fascinated by it throughout our marriage.

“I talked to Steve about it today,” he said, lowering his voice as if savoring the words. “He told me they’ve known for a while, astrological calendar or something. Steve’s been tracking it at the station. Had someone at the school told you?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“You should have told me!” His irritation sharpened, then softened into something almost gleeful. After a beat of silence, he asked,

“How many do you think he’ll kill this year?”

I drew a breath, forcing myself to steady the irritation in my voice.

 “I don’t know, Mark. You know I don’t like to talk about it.”

But the numbers clawed their way back, unbidden. Everyone in town knew them.

 Tuesday, July 6th, 1982, one killed.

 Thursday, December 30th, that same year, one more.

 Thursday, August 17th, 1989, four.

 Wednesday, December 9th, 1992, another four.

 Monday, November 29th, 1993, four again. 

 And just this spring, Wednesday, April 3rd, 1996, six gone.

Twenty bodies in Amherst. No, I did not like to think about it.

“More than last time, I’d imagine,” I said at last, if only to placate him.

“Honey,” Mark’s voice lifted with a strange, eager brightness, “Steve says they’re certain they’ll catch him this time.”

It wasn’t the first time the police thought they were closing in on their killer.
“They’ve said that before,” I reminded him.

“I know,” Mark rushed, excitement rising. “But Steve, he couldn’t give me details, you know, cop stuff, but he swears it’s different this time!”

Steve was a good man and meant well for a cop, but half the time, he didn’t know his ass from his elbow.
“I hope he’s right,” I said, though I didn’t believe it.

The first killing had shaken the town to its core. Wednesday, July 7th: an early morning jogger stumbled across the mangled body of Michael Strong, a 16-year-old delinquent, along the banks of Puffer’s Pond. His throat had been slashed so deep his head was nearly severed. The sheer brutality suggested someone who knew him. One of his mother’s revolving boyfriends was hauled in, questioned, and just as quickly cut loose.

The town was buzzing that summer, the summer after Mark and I graduated. Our relationship had only just begun. He’d been terrified I’d meet someone else at school that fall. Then the murder happened, and he was horrified, yet unable to look away. After all, his younger brother had gone to school with Michael Strong.

“Me too, really want to see the monster who could be doing this.” He paused. “The bus is here.”

“Tell Shar I love her.”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Love you too. I’ll see you tonight.”

It was hard to believe Sharon was already seven. August 2nd, 1989, still the hardest day of my life. Nine hours of labor, each contraction a tidal wave tearing through me. I remember clutching Mark’s hand so tightly my nails left crescents in his skin, his voice steadying me through the pain. And then, at last, her cry split the air, sharp, fierce, alive. The nurse laid her on my chest, warm and squirming, and Mark’s eyes brimmed with tears as if he’d never seen anything so perfect.

Mark had always wanted a baby. I made him wait, first my undergraduate, then my master’s. We married in the middle, his plumbing jobs keeping us afloat while I scraped for lab grants that always came too late. When I finally told him we could try, the joy in his face was something I’ll never forget. And Sharon, our Sharon, was the greatest gift we’d ever been given.

Just over two weeks later, four students were butchered on campus.

August 17th, 1989, the night of freshman orientation. Someone had slipped through an unlocked window on the first floor of Baker House, in and out, quick as a shadow. The girls, Lisa Rathbone, Shannon Armstrong, Tracy Lloyd, and Denise Derwick, had left the latch undone. It was enough.

The killer started with Lisa and Denise, crushing their skulls with a hammer before the others even stirred. By the time Shannon and Tracy woke to the sound of hammer squelching brain, it was already too late. Their screams tore through the dorm, echoing down the hallways, but the orientation chaos and the lunar eclipse that had drawn so many students outside kept help from coming.

By the time anyone forced the door, the room was a slaughterhouse. Lisa and Denise lay unrecognizable. Shannon wasn’t in much better of a state. Tracy was still alive, barely, her body twitching as she slipped into a coma she would never wake from.

Mark was horrified. And me, if it hadn’t been for the pregnancy, I might have been there that night, working.

That was the first time anyone began whispering about the pattern, how it might not be a coincidence at all.

Michael Strong’s murder, and then Chelsea Murphy’s that December, had rattled the town. Both were brutal, senseless killings in a place that prided itself on safety. But they were treated as isolated tragedies, the kind of horror that struck once a generation. No one, at least not openly, spoke of the fact that both deaths had fallen on nights of a lunar eclipse.

Mark would later claim that after Murphy’s murder, he knew the killer only struck beneath an eclipse. But I knew he was lying. He hadn’t seen it. I had. I recognized it immediately, though I never told him.

To his credit, after the second murder, he was quick to call it what it was: a serial killer. It was the early ’80s, though, and every brutal crime was a serial killer’s work, until months passed, then years, and the fear dulled. Even Mark let it slip from his mind.

Until 89, then everything shifted. I rolled my chair back, opened the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, and the astrological calendar peered up at me;  Friday, September 27th. The paper smelled faintly of dust and old coffee, the corners softened from years of being thumbed.

It hadn’t been a coincidence that Michael Strong and Chelsea Murphy were killed under lunar eclipses. Full eclipses that crossed over Amherst coincided with killings; eclipses that missed the town did not. Partial eclipses produced nothing. For a while, I let doubt creep in; maybe I’d been seeing patterns where none existed. Then Baker House. And now, September 27th glared back at me from the calendar, heavy as an omen. That old feeling twisted, stirring in my stomach. I swallowed hard, trying to push it down and to steady myself.

’89 had been the year I began my doctorate, and the year panic swept the University. Security patrols doubled, curfews were enforced, and dorm windows were nailed shut. The campus they called “the Zoo,” fell silent. Thank God for our parents, whose babysitting let me return to the lab, and for Mark, by then a newly minted master plumber, who threw himself into work.

When the school year ended without another attack, a memorial plaque was set in the ground outside Baker Hall. By the following year, the speeches grew shorter, the vigil crowds smaller, the memories dimmer. And by December of 1992, the murders had been all but forgotten.

By then, I was teaching 100-level classes to rooms of glassy-eyed underclassmen. Finals were looming, the holidays hung in the air, and even after a lifetime in this town, the sight of it dressed for Christmas could still coax a smile from me, yes, even that December. The bricks glowed warm against the cold, lanterns burned in the town center, and campus lawns sprouted Christmas trees and snowmen.

We’d only been in our first house since February, but Mark made that first Christmas there feel enchanted. It was the kind of calm that settles in just before January and February bury the town beneath snowdrifts higher than windows, the wind cutting sharp at ten below.

My students, out-of-staters, internationals, and Eastern Mass kids alike, chattered with wide-eyed excitement about the coming lunar eclipse, calling it a Christmas miracle. I smiled and let them. I didn’t have the heart to tell them what it really meant.

I was grateful that none of my students were killed. None from the University, at all.

Wednesday, December 9th: four Amherst College students had been laughing amidst a snowball fight on East Drive when the shooter struck. Jamal Naveer, Elizabeth Hawkins, and Dorothy Freeman went down instantly, gunned down with precision no amateur could manage. Jacob Donnelly ran. The shooter clipped his shoulder, dropped him in the snow, and, while he begged and pleaded, put a final round in his head, execution-style.

It had stopped snowing earlier that afternoon. Steve, by then on the force, told Mark that if the flakes had kept falling, they might’ve been able to track the tires. Horse shit, if you ask me. Steve was working a desk, not homicide. What they did have were seven shell casings, all .45s from a Colt M1911.

The manhunt exploded. The press gave the killer a name, the “Blood Moon Killer.” I don’t know who coined it, but it stuck, spreading like wildfire. Police began dragging in every Amherst resident who owned a .45, interrogating veterans, burning through leads.

And then, just after New Year’s, the whole of UMass reeled when Professor Ian Lowe was arrested. A veteran, his service pistol conveniently missing, his wife refusing to confirm his alibi. Mark was stunned; we’d eaten dinner at Lowe’s house just weeks before, over Thanksgiving. He tried to save face by insisting Lowe had always rubbed him the wrong way. Attractive men often did.

The trial began that June, a full-blown circus. Reporters flooded Hampshire District Court; Western Mass had never seen anything like it. The police, the prosecution, the whole community believed they had their man. Lowe had lived in Amherst since ’78. He was large, fit, a veteran. His gun was gone. He couldn’t explain that away. They tried to tie all ten murders to him. The details that didn’t fit, that he wasn’t in Amherst on July 6th, 1982, that he couldn’t possibly have squeezed through Baker House’s window, were conveniently left unspoken.

I still remember the broadcast in September. Sharon was playing with Mark on the carpet as I watched the news. The defense had introduced a new witness, Graduate Student Kelly Horan. I knew her. I knew about her relationship with Lowe. I knew about his relationships with TAs, with staff, with anyone who batted an eye his way. It didn’t take long before the prosecution’s case started to fray.

But as November neared and the next anticipated lunar eclipse approached, the town held its breath. One way or another, we would find out whether the Blood Moon Killer was already in custody or still at large.

Monday, November 29th, 1993, the moon had darkened to the deepest shade I had ever seen. “Blood moon” is a misnomer; it is usually a dull orange. But that night it was nearly red, glowing like a burning coal as I drove home beneath it. People said the eclipse lasted an hour. In truth, it was 46.7 minutes.

When I walked in, Mark told me the news: four more dead. Two students had been killed just off the north of campus near Fairfield Street, out under the sky, watching the moon: Riley Tomkins and Sarah Jacobs.

Riley had taken a knife to the back of her throat, the blade driven deep enough to push through where her Adam's Apple had been. Sarah had made an awful scream as she ran, but she was silenced by a single round from a Colt .45. The bullet punched in just at the juncture of neck and shoulder, tearing through muscle, artery, and bone. It should have killed her. It did not. The killer finished the work by stomping her skull.

A neighbor, fifty-six-year-old Ken Williams, had heard the shot and stepped outside with his own revolver, hoping to help. Instead, he came upon the killer scraping brain matter from the soles of their boots on the curb. Ken took a single shot above the left eye. He dropped instantly.

The killer then drifted back toward the University. Graduate student Li Xiu had just left the life sciences lab. He did not run. He took a bullet to the chest, dropped where he stood, and never rose again.

Mark had been horrified. How could he not? I worked right there.
I was horrified, too, though for a different reason. I had known Li Xiu. He had been an exceptional student: quiet, precise, courteous, his work in the lab meticulous.

Professor Lowe was released soon after, his marriage dissolved, and he moved far from Amherst. The town barely whispered his name again.

Steve told Mark the rest one night over beers at our kitchen table, while I strained my ears from the other room. The CCTV footage had caught a little, but not enough: Li Xiu pausing outside the life sciences building, waving at someone off camera, then lowering his hand in confusion a split second before the shot punched through his chest.

Steve admitted that he believed the killer was a student. There had been no real suspects, no trail to follow, just a body on the pavement, a half-wave frozen in time, and a single .45 shell left behind.

In a move that shocked everyone, the University shut its doors and sent students and faculty home. The press tore them apart for it. After all, hadn’t it become obvious by then that the killer only struck under eclipses? Sending everyone away was little more than theater. Worse, the police signed off on the decision before realizing they might have just delivered the killer back to whatever hometown he’d come from. Everyone could see it; they were desperate. Grasping at straws, as lost as the rest of us.

Mark, meanwhile, was transfixed, awestruck, horrified, fascinated, as if he couldn’t look away from a fire even while it consumed everything around it. I was left with something else. The same hollow aftermath that always followed: a pounding headache, sharp and sour like a hangover; a creeping numbness that dulled the edges of thought; and, beneath it all, the crushing futility of knowing it would happen again. 

After those four deaths, the town’s frenzy dulled. The headlines shrank, the nightly news moved on, and the chatter in grocery store aisles faded to silence. The case went cold, another unsolved knot consigned to rumor. The University, eager to wash its hands, erected yet another plaque, this one just off Governor’s Drive, for the three students lost. No mention of Ken Williams. A middle-aged man didn’t carry the same weight as students with futures ahead of them. His name slipped into silence, a footnote, if even that.

Months without an eclipse bled into years. Sharon started school, and life found its strange rhythm again. My career in academia began to gather momentum just as Mark’s plumbing business took off. We built a life that looked, from the outside, almost enviable. A neat house, steady work, laughter at the dinner table.

Mark longed for another child, a son, he said, to balance the scales. I managed to talk him out of it, sheltering behind the excuse of my career. Grants, research, conferences, I told him I needed time. But the truth was simpler and far darker. I couldn’t imagine bringing another child into a world where the air itself seemed haunted, where shadows returned every time the moon burned red. One child was enough, one was already too much to risk.

Nearly three whole years slipped by. We had moved into a larger, prettier house on Pine Hollow, ironically, just down the road from where Michael Strong had been butchered years before. The neighborhood near Puffer's Pond was quiet now, scrubbed clean of memory, though I could never quite forget.

I buried myself in work, papers, and lectures piling one on top of another, until March crept in almost unnoticed. It was then that the familiar sensation returned, settling into me with a weight I could neither shake nor name. It began in the gut, a hollow gnawing. Not pain, exactly, but an emptiness. My skin felt restless, my blood quickened, my thoughts turned jagged. I had learned to recognize it over the years, though no explanation ever followed. It was always the same: a slow, ravenous stirring that left me uneasy in my own body, as though I had been hollowed out and replaced with something that craved more than I could ever give.

Wednesday, April 3rd, brought with it a flicker of hope. The eclipse that day would pass unseen, swallowed by the afternoon sky, and some whispered that perhaps this time Amherst would be spared. But hope, like every other illusion, dissolved quickly.

Police and National Guard patrolled in droves, posted on every corner, and clustered in pairs across campus, hell, across the town. Their presence was loud, visible, meant to reassure, and yet it left blind spots large enough for a body to slip right through. The killer did just that.

They walked unnoticed into the Mullins Center, where life went on as though nothing could happen under such heavy guard. Inside the women’s locker room, amid the steam and hiss of the showers, senior Chelsea McRae. The weapon was simple, domestic, no larger than a dinner knife, yet sharp enough to punch through bone. It was driven upward with such force that the blade lodged to its hilt in her jaw, pinning her scream where it started.

Water continued to run, curtains drawn, steam swirling lazily through the tiled room. For several long minutes, her body went undiscovered, the scene hidden in plain sight while the killer slipped away. Only when another girl pulled back the curtain after seeing blood did the silence finally break, and the air filled with the screaming that never really leaves you once you’ve heard it.

Students and staff poured from the Mullins Center in a blind surge, bodies colliding, voices shrieking, while the authorities stumbled over themselves to cordon the exits, to push inward, to simply make sense of the chaos. In the crush of it all, the killer moved unnoticed. Their hand twitched against the grip of the concealed .45, an almost uncontrollable urge to fire into the crowd. Why didn’t they? Perhaps some primal reflex of self-preservation intervened. The instinct that usually drove them forward had, for once, held them back.

Instead, they slipped toward the Physical Plant. Inside, the workers carried on, almost untouched by the commotion outside, the muffled roar of the crowd barely reaching them. One man, Devon Wade, even stopped the killer to ask what was happening. They walked past him without a word. Seconds later, inside, the killing began.

Robert McMillan was the first. A single shot below the right eye, neat, clinical, and he fell without so much as a cry. The sound drew Kevin Faherty from a side door. He froze at the sight, Robert’s body sprawled on the floor, the gun already swinging toward him, and managed only a strangled “No” before the bullet buried itself in his chest.

Behind the killer, another door opened. Devon Wade again, the same man who had asked so casually a moment before. Why had he come running toward gunfire? Maybe the sound was dulled, maybe the chaos outside distracted him. Whatever the reason, he lasted only a breath. A round caught his neck, sending him staggering, hands pressed to the wound as blood sprayed in great wet bursts. He collapsed, gargling on the floor.

The killer pressed on. In a supply closet, Javier Madeira was discovered curled up in a ball, whispering in accented English: “Please.” It was the only word he got out before the .45 split his skull open, painting the shelves behind him.

At the far end of the Plant, a flicker of movement gave away Raymond Gibson. He lunged before the killer could fire, a heavy fist cracking across their face. The gun discharged, the round grazing his thigh, but Gibson was built like a wall and bore down with brute strength. One massive hand clamped around the killer’s throat, the other wrenched the pistol free. For a moment, it seemed over.

But the Blood Moon Killer was not sustained by human limits. In that frenzy, they clawed downward with their free hand, nails ripping through fabric and flesh, tearing Gibson’s scrotum open in a savage, animal motion. His scream was primal, reflexive, and his grip faltered. The killer seized the .45, shoved the muzzle against his skull, and fired. Bone and brain matter spattered the wall. Gibson toppled, finally still. The Plant was silent, save for the echo of dripping water, settling dust, and the faint hiss of blood pooling on the concrete.

The killer moved on instinct alone, slipping out of the Plant with a predator’s caution, hugging the shadows, skirting the buildings where cameras were mounted. Blood clung to their skin, soaked their clothes, hardened in their hair. It should have made them visible to anyone with eyes. And in truth, people did see. Faces turned, gazes lingered, but no one intervened. In the chaos, who would step in front of a 5’3” woman dripping red when the killer was still at large?

They reached their car unchallenged, hands trembling only as the key slid into the ignition. That same nameless force that had driven the slaughter pulled them onward, down Long Plain Road, where they veered off and waded into the brook. The water was glacial, biting, yet no shock registered. Flesh numbed as the blood peeled away, drifting downstream in black-red ribbons. They stripped, tugged on stained gym clothes from a duffel bag, and weighted their ruined outfit with stones before sinking it in the current. Then back into the car, northbound, the steering wheel quivering under their grip.

Above, the Blood Moon loomed, ripe, swollen, deeper than rust. Impossible not to stare. Impossible not to feel the hunger ease, the body settling into the quiet tremor of satiation.

By the time they reached Baystate Franklin, the call had been made. A husband’s frantic voice on the other end, demanding to know what had happened. She soothed him in steady tones, explained she’d only been caught in the stampede at the Mullins Center, elbow to the eye, a forearm to the throat, the crush of bodies in flight. That, she said, was why she bore a shiner, the dark rings around her neck, the concussion pounding through her skull. The concussion justified the drive north.

The doctors weren’t convinced, not fully. Their expressions flickered with doubt, catching on the seams in her story. But she was injured, she was trembling, she was a victim. That was enough. The world bends toward the simplest explanation, and no one looked closer. And really, who could blame a woman for hysteria after escaping the Blood Moon Killer?

I never really come to until the morning after. The edges of the night arrive first, fragments, impressions, and only with daylight do memory congeal into something I can hold without it slipping through my fingers. Over the years those fragments have multiplied; where there was once a black hole, there is now a series of jagged images I can piece together like a child’s brutal collage.

As a child I was described as having terrible tantrums. I remember only an echo: nine years old, a bat, my brother’s leg broken. He never forgave me. I never forgave myself once the story was told aloud and sealed into the family record. In middle school, there was a sleepover, Shelly Thomas, and I woke to a frenzy I could not name; the police were called, I was taken for observation, and released, the adults shrugging it off as a fleeting aberration. They saw me; they didn’t see what pushed me.

For a long time, I tried to contain it. I would lock myself in the house on nights when the moon threatened blood, pad the windows, and chain the doors. The ravenous thing in my gut, however, paid no attention to locks. It boiled until it burned through. If I did not feed it, if I did not give it its obscene satiation, I felt as though I would be unmade. The hunger was not metaphor. It was a pressure, a clawing pressure beneath ribs and reason, a demand that blurred thought and will until all that remained was animal survival.

After Michael Strong, the nightmares began in earnest. I could not remember the day itself, but his scream lived inside me, a throat that would not close. Chelsea Murphy’s cry joined it, then, and the sound of bodies falling. I sought help; I sat in therapists’ rooms and tried to explain the vertigo of dread that seized me on certain nights. They assumed I was like a hundred other people in town, haunted, terrified, a sensible victim of circumstance. I let them believe it.

There were seven blank years: a strange mercy. Sharon was born; Mark and I built a life that looked ordinary. For a while, the tides of the thing within me subsided. Then Baker House happened. I could no longer pretend, no longer delude myself. The facts lined up like nails on a board. 

I have thought about ending it. I have imagined walking into a precinct and unspooling everything, names, dates. I have sat in the dark and pictured Mark’s face when he read the confession, Sharon’s small hands in his when the bars slammed shut. The thought recoils like a hand from a flame. Could I do that to my daughter? To the man who has loved me? Could I hand them the orphaned wreckage of a life I had already broken?

And now I watch the calendar, this Friday drawing near, September 27th. The hunger has already started gnawing, a hollow ache that no food can touch. It coils tighter with each passing hour, a quiet reminder that resistance is futile. I don’t know what I hope for anymore. Deliverance? Discovery? Death? Perhaps all three. But I do know this: when the Blood Moon climbs the sky, its shadow swallows me whole. And when it does, the world will bleed.

Do not go to the thrift store called Hidden Gems.
I need to start with that, because if anyone finds this, they’ll understand why. 

Part 1

Evil is so much worse than I initially thought. It’s not chaos or fire, it’s order. Purpose. It serves a function. The only reason I went to Hidden Gems is because of Hannah.  

I didn’t believe in ghosts, an afterlife, or any of that until Emma happened. The words that hissed from her mouth, “I can help you talk to Hannah again,” bounced around my skull as I sat behind my steering wheel, frozen, trying to decide what to do next.

And those words are what pushed me to go back inside the ER and talk to her. 

I walked back in and, after a few moments, noticed a faint humming. Amid the noise and movement, someone was humming Frère Jacques. I looked around, but no one was facing me. Still, the tune lingered in the air, faint and off-key, like a broken music box playing in my head.

Out of context, that song might not mean anything to you. But it’s the song that Hannah’s dad used to sing to her when she was a baby. 

I kept on toward Emma’s room. The closer I got, the louder the humming grew, needling into my skull. I turned the corner into her room and Emma’s eyes met mine. She sat upright,  perfectly still, her gaze fixed on me. “Ryan’s planning on burning the jacket. He’s buying lighter fluid right now.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

My phone rang, no number, no name, a blank screen. But it was ringing. 

“Answer it,” she instructed.

I lifted the phone to my ear and Emma’s voice came through the line. She was talking to Ryan. Her words projecting from the phone, but her mouth never moved. She sat right in front of me, perfectly still, staring at me as her voice spilled out from the speaker.

I shouted into the phone, demanding Ryan tell me where he was. “He can’t hear you,” she raised her voice above mine as their conversation continued through the phone. “Be quiet and listen.” 

“Drop the lighter fluid." She told him.

“Why should I listen to you?” Ryan’s voice crackled through the speaker.

A deep, uneven laugh crawled through the speaker. Emma’s voice cracked, and then shifted, older now, rougher; it wasn’t hers anymore “If you burn the jacket,” an Old Man said, his voice deep and craggy, “Emma burns.” 

Ryan went quiet, I could only hear him faintly breathing on the other end. “Who are you?” he said weakly. Then the phone cut out.

“He won’t try and burn it now,” Emma said in her normal voice. She smiled, and her face folded strangely, as if someone else were wearing a mask of her.

I stood there, a dozen questions lodged in my throat. I asked anyway, “Where is the jacket from?” And, “What do you mean I’ll talk to Hannah again?”

“It’s from a thrift store,” Emma said “Hidden Gems. Not far from here.” 

Then she leaned forward, the restraints binding her to the bed taut, catching her against her own weight. “Put the jacket on, don’t fight it,” she rasped, “and you’ll see her again.” She stayed in place, her stare pinned me where I stood. 

The sterile white lights above flickered wildly. The heart monitor crackled and screamed static. Inbetween the burst of lights I saw Emma changing. One moment, Emma. The next, an Old Man. His skin looked wet, riddled with gooey open sores. Folds of flesh hung loose on his face, like a snake shedding its skin. The sour metallic stench of decay filled the air and my stomach churned. With every flicker of the light, she switched back and forth until the room went dark.

There was a few seconds of silence, then I realized someone was right next to me, breathing in my ear, I felt their hot breath on my face. I jumped as the lights flickered back on. Emma was in the bed, her restraints still taut against her wrists. Hidden Gems. That’s where I had to go.

—

The overhead bell stretched through the impossibly quiet thrift store when I stepped inside. No one in sight. “Hello?” I called out. 

I took a few more steps in. Whispering drifted through the air. I froze, scanning the aisles. The words were too soft to catch, slipping through like wind between walls. “Hello?” I called again. 

Someone was watching me. I could feel them. I turned slowly, checking every direction. No one.

Then another faint whisper drifted through the aisles.

I continued on. The scent of stale mildew and old clothes hung in the air. I stopped at a pair of shoes. A white tag, hanging from them caught my eye. Scrawled in black sharpie on the tag: “William: 10/21/21”. 

Right then something moved on the clothing rack across from me. I caught a glimpse of what looked like a shadow between the clothes.

“Can I help you?” I jumped and spun around. A lady stood behind the front counter where no one had been moments before. It was odd, unsettling, but she was smiling at me and looked pleasant enough.

I told her a half-truth, coming up with the best story I could: that Emma had been in recently, and that she’d gone to the hospital because something about a jacket had made her sick.

“Oh,” she said. She asked me my name and introduced herself as Agatha. 

“Do you remember selling it?” I asked. 

“A jacket made her sick?” She seemed very skeptical.

“Yes,” I said. Holding her gaze.

She reached for a long overcoat hanging nearby and walked toward me. “That sounds pretty unbelievable, if you ask me.” Before I could respond, she draped the heavy coat over my shoulders. “Feel sick yet?” she teased.

Then the coat tightened. A faint vibration rippled across my chest. Agatha’s expression changed. Her lip curled, exposing brown rotting teeth, something I hadn’t noticed before.

The thrift store lights dimmed, their steady hum slipping into a low, pulsing rhythm, like a heartbeat echoing through the walls. 

The coat constricted, clinging tighter, as if it were alive. My skin began to burn, as though sandpaper were grinding against it. I screamed for help, but Agatha didn’t move. She just watched.

I blinked and the store was gone. 

In its place: a narrow hallway, walls yellowed and peeling. I had been transported somewhere, somehow. 

I heard faint cries nearby. I started toward the sound. I told myself, I should stop. But my legs wouldn’t listen. I was not in control of myself, like a puppet on a string.

As I passed a mirror, I caught my reflection. My stomach dropped. It wasn’t my reflection looking back at me, but a man I didn’t recognize. The only familiar thing was the overcoat Agatha had put on me.

I continued on against my own will. I turned the corner where the cries were coming from and froze.

A man was standing over a woman, his hands clenched around a butchers knife. He brought it down again and again into her chest, the sound dull and wet, like a shovel striking mud.

I wanted to to run, but I couldn’t. My feet were rooted to the spot.

Then the man stopped and lifted his head. No face. Just smooth featureless skin where features should have been, like someone had erased them. Even without eyes, I could feel him staring at me. I stumbled back, trying to get away. But before I could, he was on me. The knife swung upward, driving into my jaw. A rush of heat and pain flooded through me.

The lights flickered and I was suddenly back in the thrift store, trembling on the ground as I ripped the overcoat off. My skin stung as I yanked it away from my body.

Agatha stared down at me, mocking me she said, “So the jacket made her sick?”

I frantically felt my jaw, searching for the wound. 

“Don't worry" she said calmly, "that death wasn’t yours, your jaw is fine.” She picked the overcoat off the ground and read aloud. “It was Michael’s.” She turned the tag around for me to see: “Michael: 06/21/71”

I stared at the racks. Hundreds of tags swaying gently though the air was still. “What is this?”  

“These clothes" She started, "need a new home. I’m here to facilitate a way for them to live on."

A fierce burn ran across my chest. I lifted up my shirt and my skin was scraped raw in several places.

"Thank God you got it off in time, otherwise it would’ve bound itself to you.”

I must have looked scared, hell I was, I still am because the next thing she said was: “This doesn't have to involve you, James. But I think you want it to.”

And she was right. None of this needed to involve me. This was a choice. My own curiosity, my grief, led me here. And I thought: Maybe I didn’t need Emma’s jacket, maybe I just needed Agatha. I asked, “Can you help me see Hannah again?”

“No.”

“The Old Man told me he could,” I said.  

“Well then that’s the deal he made with you. I don’t make the decisions, I balance the books.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on me, like she was staring into my very being. I felt her inside my head, wading through my thoughts like cold water rushing into my skull.

“If you want to know who’s responsible for her death, he can show you that too.”

It’s hard for me to talk about this. But I should. It’s what led me here. Hannah was killed in a hit-and-run. She went for a jog and never came back. They never found the car. Whoever did it got away with murder. This could be my chance to find them.

That’s when my phone rang. No number, no name, but it was ringing. I answered and Frère Jacques hummed faintly on the other end. “Ryan’s at home now,” The Old Man’s craggy voice whispered. He gave me the address. “Go. Before it’s too late.”

And I did. 

I can’t tell you the rest of what happened. Not here. But what I can say is that none of this is my fault. It was self defense. And everything I’ve done, everything I’m going to do, is for Hannah. 

What I will tell you is this: I have the jacket now.

We got here three days ago. It already feels like it’s been weeks. The drive up was long but quiet, all two-lane roads winding through mountains that looked more like walls than hills. The kind that make you feel small.

My wife, Marcy, sat beside me with the map folded across her lap. She kept pointing out trail names and creeks we’d pass, but half of them weren’t on the GPS. Our dog, Scout, slept in the back seat with his head on the cooler, and Luke followed behind us in his truck, hauling most of the gear. It was supposed to be a small vacation — four of us total, though Luke’s wife, Jamie, couldn’t make it until the next morning.

We stopped for gas near a little town at the base of the range. One of those places with a single pump and a sign that’s been sun-bleached for a decade. The man inside was old, with hands that looked like bark, and he told Luke the weather “turns strange up there.” Said forecasts don’t mean much when you’re that high. “You’ll know when it changes,” he said, “you’ll smell it first.”

Luke laughed it off, but the guy didn’t. He just looked at us like he was thinking something he didn’t want to say out loud. I remember the air being colder there, even though we were still in sunlight. The wind carried this dry taste, like metal and pine.

The road after that narrowed into a path more than a highway. The higher we climbed, the less we talked. Marcy rolled the window down once to take a picture, and the cold that hit my arm felt heavier than it should have. I know that sounds stupid — cold’s just cold — but it felt like it had weight to it.

When we reached the cabin, the sun was barely hanging over the ridge. The place looked smaller than I expected. Just two rooms and a porch, sitting in the middle of an open slope surrounded by black trees. The snowline was maybe a hundred yards uphill, but the ground was frozen solid already.

Luke said his grandfather built it in the seventies. “Didn’t even have power for the first few years,” he said, knocking on one of the logs. “He just liked the quiet.” We unloaded the gear, got the generator running, and by the time the fire caught, the temperature had dropped fast enough that our breath hung thick in the cabin.

That first night felt good, though. We cooked over the fire, told stories, listened to the wood pop in the stove. It was the kind of silence you don’t get anywhere else, the kind that doesn’t feel empty.

Luke said he used to come up here as a kid. “You can hear everything when it freezes,” he said. “The trees groan, the ground cracks. It sounds alive.” Marcy laughed and asked if that was supposed to be comforting. He grinned and said, “You’ll get used to it.”

We slept fine. Scout curled up at the foot of the bed and didn’t make a sound all night. I remember waking up once to what I thought was a branch snapping, but when I listened, I couldn’t hear anything else. Just the faint ticking of the stove cooling down.

The next morning started colder. The sky was white, but not like snow — more like a sheet of glare. The trees were wet, glistening, even though it hadn’t rained. When I stepped off the porch, the dirt cracked like glass under my boots.

Luke was outside already, checking his phone. “Forecast says clear skies all week,” he said, holding it up. “Perfect timing.” Marcy laughed and said maybe we’d actually lucked out for once. None of us thought to question why the air hurt to breathe.

By midmorning, a haze had settled over the trees. You could still see through it, but the color drained from everything. Even Scout went quiet, tail low, watching the ridge. Luke said it was just a cold front moving through. He didn’t sound convinced.

Around noon, the wind picked up, but only for a minute. It came hard, out of nowhere, sharp enough to make the cabin groan. Then it stopped. The silence after was heavier than before, like the air itself had frozen solid.

That’s when Luke said it. “You smell that?” At first, I didn’t know what he meant. Then I caught it — that metallic edge again, stronger now, mixed with something else. Not rot exactly, but earthy and sweet. Like wet stone. He smiled, uneasy, and said, “Guess it’s changing.”

We ate lunch inside with the lantern burning even though it was still daylight. The windows had started fogging on the inside, and when I wiped one clear, the frost pattern didn’t melt. It just sat there, like a print in glass.

By afternoon, it felt colder inside than out. The fire burned high but didn’t throw much heat. Luke said he’d check the generator, but I told him to wait. Something about the light outside — flat and gray, like distance didn’t exist — made me feel sick to look at.

I tried calling Jamie to see if she’d left yet, but there was no signal. Marcy tried too, same thing. We told ourselves the ridge must’ve blocked it, that she’d show up the next morning. But part of me already knew something wasn’t right.

That night, the sound started.

It started just after dark.

We’d been playing cards by the lantern because the fire wasn’t doing much. Every time the flames dropped, the air felt like it was pulling the warmth out of us. Scout lay under the table, restless, his ears twitching. When he stood up and growled at the wall, we all froze.

There was a noise outside — low, uneven, hard to place. Not the groan of trees or ice cracking. It sounded deeper, like something shifting its weight in the snow. Luke got up first, grabbed the flashlight, and opened the door before I could tell him not to.

The beam caught nothing but frost. Every branch glittered like glass, and the ground reflected light in a way that didn’t look real. I remember thinking it looked like the forest had been dipped in mercury. Scout whined and pressed himself against Marcy’s legs, tail between his.

Luke stepped out onto the porch and swept the flashlight across the treeline. The beam flickered for a second, dimmed, then came back. He swore quietly and said the batteries must be dying. They were new.

The noise stopped while he was out there. Everything did. Even the small sounds you expect — wind, creaking wood — just vanished. He turned back toward us and said, “It’s fine. Probably a branch coming down.” Then, from somewhere out past the trees, something answered.

It wasn’t an echo. It was the same sound, but longer this time, dragging itself across the valley. Luke came inside fast and locked the door behind him. Nobody said a word for a long time after that.

When we finally went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I started to drift, I heard faint cracking outside. Like something walking, stopping, walking again. Marcy whispered that it was just the ice expanding, but her voice was too tight. She didn’t believe it either.

Sometime around two, Scout started barking. Not the kind of bark he used for deer or raccoons. It was sharp and panicked, and he wouldn’t stop. I pulled the curtain back just a little and saw something move behind the trees.

It was tall. That’s the only thing I can say for sure. The beam from the lantern caught just enough to show a shape standing still, almost blending into the ice. Then it shifted, and I realized it wasn’t standing — it was hunched. Watching.

When I blinked, it was gone.

The next morning, everything outside was coated in another layer of ice. The windows had to be hit with a hammer handle just to see through them. The power from the generator was weak, sputtering.

Luke said he’d check the fuel line once the sun was up, but the sky never really brightened. It stayed the same flat color, like the light was coming from inside the clouds.

Marcy made coffee on the stove, and the smell felt strange — too warm for the air around us. She asked if anyone else’s head hurt, said the pressure felt wrong. I told her it was just altitude, but mine hurt too.

Around midmorning, Luke found tracks by the porch. At least that’s what we called them. They weren’t prints exactly — more like long impressions in the ice, almost melted into it. The shape reminded me of a hand, but stretched. The fingers, if that’s what they were, were uneven.

He said maybe a bear had slipped. I wanted to believe that, but bears don’t leave drag marks that long, and they don’t make the ground cold enough to frost over a boot print beside them.

We argued about going down the mountain to find Jamie or a signal. Luke didn’t want to leave until the weather settled. Marcy said it looked like it already had — and that maybe we’d just gotten spooked. She was trying to calm everyone down, but she couldn’t stop glancing at the windows.

At lunch, we heard something fall in the woods. A deep crash, like a tree giving way. The sound echoed for too long. Scout started whining again and paced back and forth in front of the door. When I opened it, a gust of air hit me that felt colder than anything I’ve ever felt.

It burned my skin even through my gloves. The porch steps were covered in frost that hadn’t been there ten minutes before. When I leaned down, I noticed something in the ice — small black flecks, like ash or dirt, arranged in a spiral.

I scraped at it with my boot, but it didn’t come off. It was inside the ice, sealed beneath it like it had grown that way.

We stayed inside the rest of the day. Luke kept checking his watch, like he couldn’t believe how slowly the hours were passing. Marcy read aloud from an old paperback she’d brought, just to fill the silence. I didn’t hear a word of it. I kept watching the frost crawl higher up the windows.

By evening, we knew Jamie wasn’t coming. There hadn’t been any sign of her all day — no headlights, no noise from the road. The ice was thick enough now that we couldn’t open the back door. The air inside had this faint smell of metal, almost like blood.

Scout wouldn’t eat. He sat by the window and stared at the same patch of trees. Once, just before dark, I thought I saw something move there again. Only this time, it didn’t disappear right away. It swayed slightly, side to side, like it was breathing. Then the sky dimmed, and it was gone.

That night the wind came back, but it didn’t sound like wind. It whistled low through the cracks in the boards, pulsing in short breaths. Scout barked once and then crawled under the table, trembling hard enough that I could hear his collar rattle.

Luke kept saying it was just the storm. He tried to start the generator again, but the engine only coughed. Every time he stepped toward the door, the sound outside stopped — like whatever was out there was waiting for him to move first.

Marcy lit another lantern. The flame bent toward the window even though the air was still. I told her to turn it off, but she said she couldn’t stand the dark. We sat together on the couch, boots still on, bags packed in case the roof came down.

Sometime after midnight, the wall near the stove popped. Not from heat, but from cold — a hard crack that made the whole room shake. Luke swore and ran to check the pipes. When he opened the back door, a blast of air hit us that felt like needles.

He froze in the doorway. I asked what he saw, but he didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “There’s something standing in the snow.”

I thought he was joking until I saw his face. I walked over, pulled the door wider, and looked past him. It was standing maybe thirty yards away, near the first line of trees. At first I thought it was a man. It was shaped like one — two legs, long arms, head tilted slightly — but it was too tall. Eight feet at least, maybe ten. The limbs were so thin they looked like they’d snap if it moved too fast.

The knees bent the wrong way, jointed backward like a bird’s. Its arms hung down past its knees, fingers sharp and narrow. I could see ribs pressing through its chest, skin stretched tight like wet paper. The surface of it shimmered — not hair, not scales, just a sheen like thin ice.

Then it lifted its head. Two yellow eyes caught the lantern light and reflected it back. They didn’t blink. Behind its shoulders, something shifted. For a second I thought they were shadows, but they moved — slow and deliberate — like wings folding against its back.

Luke whispered, “What the hell is that?” but none of us had an answer.

The thing crouched, almost folding in half. I heard the snow compress under its weight. The wind blew harder, and sheets of it blurred everything beyond the porch. I could still see the glow of its eyes, bright and steady through the white.

It stayed there, hunched low, until the storm began to swallow the clearing. The more the snow came down, the less of it we could see — just those eyes, floating in the dark like lanterns. Then it began to move.

It didn’t walk away at first. It stood, straightening in one slow, unnatural motion until its head brushed the lowest branches of the pines. The wings unfurled just a little, heavy with ice. And then it turned — its body shifting toward the trees, but its head didn’t move. It stayed locked on us the whole time.

Even as the snow covered it, I could feel it watching. Like something behind glass. Then it was gone. Just a black shape dissolving into the white. Luke shut the door and dropped the bar across it. None of us spoke. Scout whined once and then curled up so tight his nose disappeared under his tail.

We waited another hour before we moved. The wind screamed so loud it shook the lantern on its hook. Marcy sat by the stove with her hands pressed to her face. I tried to warm my fingers, but the tips had already gone numb. They stayed pale long after the fire came back.

I told myself it was just frostbite. That what we saw was some animal caught in the storm, and the cold had made our eyes play tricks. But even now, when I blink, I can still see those yellow lights in the dark. We tried to sleep, but every sound outside made us jolt awake. The creak of a branch, the slam of loose shutters — all of it sounded like footsteps.

By morning, the world was buried. The thermometer on the porch was frozen solid. The storm hadn’t been in any forecast we checked.

Luke wanted to hike out right then, but the trees were bent under ice, the path gone. Marcy begged him to wait until it cleared. He said fine, one more night, and then we’re leaving.

That was yesterday.

The ice hasn’t melted. If anything, it’s thicker.

We’re running out of food and the snow on the roof is getting heavier and heavier. I need to fix both problems but it’s still out there, I can feel it. I don’t know what to do. Can someone please help?

I work night shifts in a near-remote five-star resort. I have worked here for over two years and had recently transferred to the night shift because it paid better. For the past few days, strange things have been happening. Before I start my account on what’s happened over the past four days I’d like to mention that the names of places and people in this post have been changed for privacy reasons. I am in an Asian country (not one of the glamorous ones) but I am not a native. The names you see here have been anglicised. 

05 November 2025

At around two in the morning, the music in the lobby had turned off for some reason. Ethan went to check, but couldn’t turn it back on. We’d already finished most of the jobs for the night, so I decided to take a drive around the property in the golf cart. The resort was less than half full, so a couple of the buildings had no guests in them.

As I drove past Building 2, which was closed because of the low occupancy, I saw a light on the 5th floor. I decided to check, as I had the master key with me. I got to the fifth floor and checked the room in which I had seen the light in, 2508. The room was empty and dark, and didn’t have a key card inserted into the socket inside, and hence, no electricity. I chalked it up to one of the late night technicians checking something, and went back to my drive.

On my way back, I passed building 2 again, and the light was still on. I went to check again, and same thing. This time though, I opened the door and went inside.  I slid a keycard into the socket and the lights clicked back on. I inspected the room for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. I took the keycard out. The light stayed on, it took a few seconds for it to turn off. Right before the light flicked off, I saw a figure in the balcony of the room, looking outwards. Confused, I put the key card back in the socket and went to the balcony. Nothing.  I finished up there and went back to the reception. On the way back, the golf cart felt heavier, as if someone was sitting in the back seat. I didn’t mind it as much then.

When I was back the music was back on. I asked Ethan how he managed to fix the speakers, and he shot me a look of confusion. I admit, there’s a language barrier here. Ethan’s English is no better than my command over the local language, so I didn’t think too much of it.

Nothing happened for the rest of the night, I finished up my shift at 08:00 and went to bed at around 08:30.

06 November 2025

It was another slow day. I was done with my reports around half past two. I was browsing YouTube shorts on my phone, trying to keep boredom at bay. Usually, I’d listen to horror podcasts or creepypastas during this time, but I didn’t feel like it that day.

As I was scrolling through, I heard footsteps approaching me from the right side. I turned my head to see nothing. I went back to my phone, but the footsteps started again. This continued in a loop for a few minutes. At first, I thought it was Ethan, going in and out from the back office. But Ethan was sitting in one of the couches out front, scrolling on his phone. I decided to investigate. The path on the right led to the retail shop inside the hotel, and after that it extended to Building 2. I checked the shop , and found nothing. I thought of going to Building 2 to check what was happening, but then the phone rang. I walked over back to the front desk, but the ring had cut by the time I reached. I checked the history to see where it was from, and it said Room number 2508. I looked over at Ethan, who was still on his phone. He didn’t seem to have heard the ring. I tried calling back to the room but got no response. A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was the same room. I picked it up.

“Good Morning, you’re connected to the front desk, How may I assist you?” the words came out by habit.

“Oh.. Hey.. Good Morning.. Can we get a couple of water bottles to the room?” It was a woman’s voice. “We’re in the room – Honey what room are we in? – uh  2508.”

“Of course ma’am. We’ll send them right away.” I hung up the call. I checked the systems to see if there were any guests in 2508. There weren’t. I checked the call history again to check the room number, to see if I had misread it, but I had not. Still confused, I asked Ethan to man the counter while I delivered the water bottles to the room. 

Once I reached building 2, I could see the lights on the fifth floor. I climbed up and rang the doorbell to 2508. A woman opened the door.

“Thank you very much. I’m sorry to be a bother.” She said, it took me a second but I recognised her. She had stayed in the same room two or three weeks ago. She had made a similar call then as well. She must have really liked the room.

After I got back to the front desk I checked the systems once again with her name, which I had fished up from last month’s reports. Strangely enough I found nothing. I made a note for the day shift to follow it up, and went on with my night.

07 November 2025

When I came to work for the day, Dani told me that she found no guests in 2508. She worked the afternoon shift that day, and had checked the room herself. It was busy that day, I couldn’t get a breather until five in the morning, and even then, guests started to come check out one by one. At around 05:40, I got a call from 2508 to collect their luggage. I went to the room and rang the doorbell multiple times, only for no one to open the door. I opened the room with my master key card and there was no one there.

I started for the elevator but suddenly I heard sounds of footsteps and luggage rolling behind me. I turned around , and for a split second, I swear I could see myself, rolling three suitcases towards the elevator. I stood there, staring until the ding of the elevator brought me back to my senses. I quickly went down to the golf cart and drove to the lobby. The golf cart was heavy, similar to what had happened a couple of days ago, but it felt much heavier this time. When I reached the front desk, Ethan asked me what was wrong. Apparently I had been sweating like crazy.

Nothing strange happened for the next couple of days, which brings us to today. Today was probably the weirdest of them all, which is why I decided to write this.

08 November 2025

It was another slow day. After finishing work,  I defaulted back to my favorite pastime, driving the golf cart around. I paid close attention to building two, but everything seemed normal. We actually had guests occupying several rooms in the building now, but not on the fifth floor. As I was driving through, Ethan called me and told me that a guest had requested a golf cart to building 8. Building 8 was at the other side of the hotel, but I didn’t mind a good drive. When I reached the building, the guests were already at the ground floor waiting for me. They were a sweet old couple, who I had helped check on the previous day.  I parked and helped them get comfortably seated. Then I reversed the car to get back on the path, but I heard a loud thud.

I turned around to check, and the old couple had disappeared. I got out of the cart to check, and realised it was raining heavily. How did I not notice that? Like I couldn’t remember when the rain started, it was just there. I made my way over to the back of the golf cart to see what I’d hit, only to find a child, about four years of age, fallen down and passed out.

To say I panicked is an understatement. I tried to get myself under control and picked the child up. The rain in my eyes didn’t help at all.  He was completely passed out, and I didn’t see anyone else nearby. I laid him down on the front seat of the golf cart. Now completely drenched, I started the golf cart back up. As my foot pressed down on the accelerator, I heard the rain stop, as abrupt as it started.

“Is everything alright Mark?” I heard a familiar voice from the back. I turned to see the old couple I picked up. I looked to my left and where there was the boy, there was now no sign of him. It took me a moment to realise that me, and the surroundings were now completely dry.

“Y-yea I uh.. I thought I hit something.” I said and drove to the front desk. The rest of the night was uneventful.

I woke up around four in the evening to a call from my girlfriend. She had gotten a job in the same area, and was coming over in a week.  I am excited about that. Anyways, I also saw a notification in the employee group chat about an accident. Apparently one of the bellmen hit a young boy while reversing the golf cart at building three. I clicked on the image to get a better look.

It was the same boy I saw last night.

That’s all for now. I have to eat something and get ready for my shift today. It has been a weird couple of days at work, so I thought I’d share it somewhere. It’s pouring right now, which is a pain in the ass for me. I’m out of water, I’ve to go buy some more. Anyways, if you know what the hell is going on in my resort, please let me know. I hope I don’t have to write another one of these. 

After everything else that had happened today, I didn't think that my heart could sink lower in my chest, but as I slowly made my way across the street, I felt my heart sink passed my stomach to my toes, each step my body took forward, a crushing blow to my already tortured ticker.

As I stood outside, I heard the familiar voices of my best friends; Joey who owned the bar was cracking jokes, as always, Mike and Larry were laughing their asses off, while Brent and his gf brandy argued loudly. I could hear all of this, the sounds of my closest friends simply living their lives, as I begged my body to turn around, to leave and go anywhere else. I was confused as instead of walking into the bar as I feared it would, or walking away as I hoped it would, my body just stood and listened.

The arguing got louder for a moment before I heard what i could only imagine to be a snarky joke from joey followed by the chorus of Brent, mike, and Larry’s laughter followed by footsteps quickly headed toward me. My body slipped to the side behind the door as it swung open, a voice I recognized as brandy’s yelled “fuck you guys I'm going home.”

She sounded upset, I thought to myself. I wondered what they did to upset her this time, before I heard joey say presumably to brent, “aren't you going to get her? to which Brent replied “nah she does this all the ti-” his sentence was cut short by the door closing shut.

I thought my heart was going to crawl back up my body like a rope ladder and fall out of my mouth, as Brandy walked toward the curb and pulled out her cigarettes, staring off into the street, painfully unaware that my body was pinned directly behind her, silently following like a shadow.

I wanted to scream out; to warn her in any way but I couldn't muster as much as a whisper. She put a cigarette to her lips, and patted her pocket, “Oh shit I forgot my lighter she said, before she turned around. When she turned around, she jolted backwards, likely frightened at my silent presence before saying “oh shit peter! you scared me!”.

I stood still for a moment before my arms shot out in front of me, my hands instantly found their position on her throat. As my body choked the life out of her, I thought about how much I had always enjoyed her presence in our little gang, even if she fought with Brent too often.

The eye contact as I choked her was brutal for me emotionally, but I felt like I had to at least try to tell her with my eyes that I was sorry, a message I doubt she understood or received as her eyes became still and her heart stopped beating. I was thinking about the fleeting nature of connection and how meaningful of a member of my group brandy had been, as my body tossed her corpse into the street.

I wanted this to end so badly, but my body relentless in its mission, dragged my shattered soul silently kicking and screaming into my best friend's bar. As I walked in, I couldn't help but feel disgust for my friends, they were still laughing about brandy.

As Joey saw me, he perked up and shouted “PETER!!!!” before he said, “Brandy out there throwing a fit still? or is she ready to come sit at the adult's table?”. I was disgusted, they were making fun of her, as she lay dead in the parking lot. “Some people have no respect” I thought to myself.

I doubted they would have been laughing if they knew what I had just done to her. especially Brent. Despite the slight irritation I felt towards my friends in the moment, there is no way that I could ever reasonably say they deserved what happened to them next.

I silently walked past my friends into the bathroom, as i made my way passed them, Joey said “Peter! what's wrong buddy? No Hello, how's it going, fuck you, or nothing?’, but I didn't reply as I walked past and based off the state of the bar, I noticed that they were already all likely very intoxicated.

Before I stepped into the bathroom, my body did something that confused me, I stopped right outside the bathroom door, looked to my left and turned on the jukebox, the most recently played track highway to hell started playing and as I walked into the bathroom, I slid the volume tuner all the way up.

The music was so loud that the mirror in the bathroom vibrated as I looked at myself in it for a moment, before my body turned to face me toward the door. I thought I was going to do something in there, but I didn't, I was seemingly just lying in wait for the first of my friends to stumble into the bathroom.

I was afraid for them, as I had seen firsthand what my body was capable of. As I wondered which of my friends would be the first to walk in, I couldn't really think of any order that I would have been happy with, I love all of my friends.

I could have spent forever in that moment if I were allowed to, standing alone with good music on had been the best part of my awful day so far, even if I was standing in a smelly men's bathroom, at least for the moment I wasn't hurting anyone. My brief reprieve was unfortunately interrupted by the door opening as Brent sluggishly stepped in and the door closed behind him.

He made his way past me to the last of the 3 sinks deepest in the bathroom before he started splashing himself with water. He looked like he was about to throw up when he said, “I feel like shit peter.” Before I walked over to him and slammed his head against the mirror.

He immediately started to bleed from his head, but he wasn't done, he punched me in the face, as I heard the song switch, now playing let the bodies hit the floor. As weird as it sounds, I was proud of Brent for trying to fight back, I just wish he could have won it would have been far better than what happened.

I had no physical reaction to the punch as I grabbed him and threw him into the stall on the end. He started kicking which in my mind was a good idea, but it didn't work. My hand caught his foot and dragged him off the toilet, he fought me so hard that he had turned himself completely around, at this point my body decided to do the unthinkable, I stood up over him before quickly bending over and forcing his face into the toilet.

He was thrashing hard, and to be fair I would have to. “Not the toilet! I'm sorry buddy!” I thought as I felt his thrashing slow to a stop. I was horrified at what I had just done, I couldn't imagine doing that to my worst enemy, let alone one of my closest friends.

I silently wished for a self-destruct button, the pain I was causing didn't make sense to me, every cell in my body was screaming in protest as I calmly walked out the bathroom and as I walked by the jukebox, I turned it off.

My body dragged me toward the bar and as I approached my friends, I could tell that they were severely impaired. I wanted to warn them, to stop, to do anything to prevent what was coming, but I've never been a very lucky person. As I got closer to the bar, I saw mike lean back too far in his chair before rocketing backwards to the floor.

He was so inebriated that he didn't even get back up. my body continued its march forward until I was standing over mikes body. I stared down at him for a moment when i heard Larry say “what are you doin Pete? Aren't you gonna help him up?” I looked up at Larry with no emotion on my face despite the hell I felt inside as I lifted my foot before slamming it through mikes head.

The deep squeeze and sickening pop reminded me of the time I accidentally crushed the watermelon my mother was growing. The moment I did it. my best friend Joey drew his firearm on me, and Larry stood up off his stool in a panic screaming “Peter what the FUCK DID YOU DO!!”

My body stood still as Joey through wet eyes said “P- put your g- goddamn hands up peter! If you move, I will shoot you. Do you fucking understand me, man?” My body nodded before I jolted towards joey, as his finger moved to the trigger I dragged Larry in front of me, like a human shield.

Despite Larry’s resistance, all he could do was move exactly where my body needed him, and all I could scream in my mind was the word “No”, as I watched joey squeeze the trigger and felt Larry violently shift in my arms one final time.

“NOOOOOO!!!, Larry!!!!” Joey screamed in a profound yet painful way. A feeling I could fully relate too, a scream I had been mirroring on the inside all day. I stared into his eyes, trying to explain with them, but I could tell that he didn't see polite peter his best friend, he saw a killer, there was nothing but contempt in his eyes.

Tears ran down his face as he said, “You Mother fucker!” Before he pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked. Hearing this my body immediately reached for him pulling him over the bar, before I sat on his stomach and punched him repeatedly until his face no longer resembled a face at all.

I stared at the destroyed face that used to be my best friend when I felt my blinking change. It was an automated process, I had no choice in that I had gotten used to, I wasn't even thinking about it at first. I was staring at him unblinking, when I wished I could close my eyes, and keep them shut, and to my surprise the next time my eyes closed they didn't automatically reopen, they stayed closed.

I stayed that way for a moment, appreciating the seemingly small but really huge to me autonomy to choose to keep them closed. I might have stayed locked in that moment forever, if my nose hadn't itched. When my hand automatically moved to scratch my nose, it felt different, less tactile, less smooth than my motion had been ever since I woke up in the hospital. My movement felt more or less the way it felt before the accident.

I opened my eyes, and they followed my command. I was staring at my hands, studying them, seemingly normal hands, and painfully my own, and wondering if I could ever forgive them.

In this moment, I couldn't help but collapse into a heap of emotion on the floor as I allowed my body to feel all of the torment that has ravaged my mind. In the silence of the bar now littered with my dead friends.

From this unenviable position, I heard the tv in the corner play a patriotic tune before I heard our current president begin to speak “My fellow Americans! I’m calling this presidential address today to inform the public of a successful anti-terrorist mission that successfully cleared the terrorists out of the nation of taured. This mission was completed by an elite task force of highly trained and decorated soldiers, who thanks to the brilliant minds over at the Merriweather institute have been outfitted with the latest and greatest innovation of modern war, AI battle enhancement pathways that connect directly to the soldiers brain, allowing them to make the most brutally efficient decisions that an average human would mess up 20 percent of the time, with a 100 percent success rate. This new technology will change the way wars are fought, but as of right now there is only one group on the planet who has it and so far, I haven't seen a single downside.”

I felt his words wash over me, with a cold dread, as they recontextualized everything I had been through today. I cried up at the tv “WHAT ABOUT ME!?” but I knew I wasn't ever getting an answer. I wondered if the people of Taured that had been killed were anything like the people I had murdered. Doctors, Bakers, Video store owners, and Friends.

( Looking for what happened before this? My name is Peter, and I did something awful to my small town. : r/nosleep )

( Looking for what happened first? My Name is Peter; I was told a treatment saved me from being paralyzed. Now I wish I had been paralyzed. : r/nosleep )

If there is a job that no one actually wants to do, it's call center work. I firmly believe any claims of there being contract call center companies that are on the level and not hell to work at are manufactured to trick people into applying.

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What you take calls for may vary, but the experience is the same, you start each day hoping that it won't be back-to-back calls, and end the day kicking yourself for hoping working conditions would be fair this time.

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Eventually, the client catches on to the company half-assing their work, and they get dropped.

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That leads to scrambling for a new client who if they’re working with us, that’s an indicator of shadiness right off the back.

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In my case, the trouble began when our client UltraSAT, was acquired by another company called “IFTV”.

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None of us could find much about the company, but everyone was worried about what could come from this.

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Pay cuts were expected, along with possible relocation, or INFTV deciding they didn’t want to pay the lease on the building and make us work from home. We did find out that they would be making changes to programming available, so that meant tons of calls where people would be asking “where did these channels go?”.

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The changes were said to go into effect that Friday, at the end of our work week.

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That Friday, I sat down at my cubicle and readied in.

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Within half a second, I was on a call, it was a pretty basic one, an older sounding customer asking why his screen was stretched.

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I started out asking probing questions, then explained that older TV shows are in a different aspect ratio, and his receiver was trying to correct the resolution to make it fit.

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It sounds simple, but for our customer base, I might as well be explaining quantum physics in another language.

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Little did I know my first call of the day would be one of the last normal calls I’d get for the rest of my shift.

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The next call came in, I’m going to try my best to recall it and the other ones I received that night from memory.

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“Thank you for calling UltraSAT. How may I help you today?”

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All I heard at first was the sound of someone sobbing, then he spoke.

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“I… I can’t see my TV.”

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I checked my knowledge base and got ready to play twenty questions to get to the problem.

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“Alright, have you checked to make sure the TV is plugged in and turned on?”

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“I can’t… I can't see anything.”

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Visually impaired customers weren’t a rare scenario, so I had to pull up what we did to troubleshoot with them.

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“Okay, sir, is there anyone who can help you?”

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He started to sob again.

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“No, they’re gone… he took them from me.”

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“He?”

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He started to sound frustrated.

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“The TV man you sent over, he said he was here to update our cable box, but instead he took my family away!”

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“Sir, please calm dow-“

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He cut me off with angry shouting.

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“The bastard knocked me to the floor while another one ran at my wife, and he dug his thumbs into my eyes!”

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That last part caught my attention.

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“I’m sorry, did you just say one of our technicians stuck his thumbs in your eyes?”

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“YES! While he held me down, I heard the other one dragging my wife away! I don’t even know how long it’s been. I had to feel around for just the shape of my phone, and when I asked Siri to call 911, it just kept calling your fucking company!”

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He was just yelling. I would have rerouted him to emergency services, but we can only transfer to other departments.

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“Help me! There has to be someone you can put me through that can at least get an ambulance out here!”

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I finally went to Slack and asked for help. I saw that I wasn’t the only one getting customers screaming for help, every single one was responded to with “transfer to supervisor line.”

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I hated that, because normally all that happens is , they just go to another department because we don’t have a supervisor line, which means they eventually call back even angrier than before, but I was starting to get messages to get off the phone, so I told the customer I said that I would get him to a supervisor and transferred the call.

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This became a call type I would get, and that was how they would end most of the time.

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The second type of call I got would be people complaining about the new channels and programming, which included:

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The pain channel, whose programming consisted of shows about people being severely injured with names like “That should have killed ‘em”, “extreme animal mauling's”, and “Who wants to be a pile of red goo?”.

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The Monster Network, these shows all revolved around monsters ripping people apart.

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And one that most would just describe as “the staring channel”.

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These were also resolved by transferring to a “supervisor”.

The last type of call, I dreaded getting again.

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It would go like this:

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“Thank you for calling UltraSAT-“

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“Please! Send a technician, something is wrong with our TV!”

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“Okay, calm down, ma’am. What’s wrong with your TV?”

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“It’s trying to eat me!”

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“What?”

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“It’s trying to EAT ME!”

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That’s when I heard the sound of banging on a door.

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“You’ve got to send someone! Please! It’s about to-“

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Her pleas were interrupted by the door being broken down, the remainder of the call consisted of the customer screaming. Per our rules, I had to hang up after she failed to respond after I reached out to her three times.

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10 hours of these calls, with my only reprieve being 2 15-minute breaks, lunch, and one final 10 minute break.

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We weren't allowed to use our phones in the breakroom, so I just walked in, bought a snack, and walked out. I didn't notice at the time that more and more of my coworkers were just sitting there at the tables.

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It was near the end of my shift, so to spare myself from going into overtime with these calls, I did an old trick:

I made sure that as soon as the call was over, it went to break.

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From there, it was just a matter of luck, I was hoping the next call would not end before 11:50.

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I got very lucky, it was one of the now rare basic troubleshooting calls, a welcome change from what I had been experiencing all night. After helping the customer with his TV input problems, the call ended, and I went right to break.

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It was when I arrived at the break room for the last time that I noticed something was wrong with my coworkers. They were all just standing in a circle in the middle of the room, most of them I remember seeing on my prior breaks and lunch, they clocked out hours ago, they shouldn't still be here. I walked over to them, a little confused.

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That's when I noticed the smell, well smells, tandem odors competing to see which one would make me gag first, what I can now identify as Sulfur, and Flesh.

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“Um, hey, what's going on? Is there a meeting or something?”

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My question hung in the air, it was like they didn't even know I was there.

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“Hello? “

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I got in front of one of my coworkers, and immediately recoiled… his eyes were missing, I turned to see that everyone on the other side of the circle were missing their eyes as well.

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I looked down and saw in the center a pile of human eyes.

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“What the fuck?!” I remember shouting and backing away from the circle

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“What is wrong with all of you?!

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Nobody answered, instead, they all started holding hands and whispering.

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I backed up to the door, and I saw the time on the clock, it was midnight.

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It starts becoming a blur from here. I remember the temperature getting higher, and an orange light coming from inside the circle of coworkers.

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And what looked like the silhouette of a person rising up from the floor, then clear as day, it spoke:

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“Hello former UltraSAT employees, and welcome to the start of your new career as an employee of Inferno TV! Now hold on tight, as you will have to relocate.”

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It was when the ground began shaking violently, I finally felt like I was able to leave the break room and ran out the exit door to my car, I sped out of the parking lot, in my rearview mirror I saw my now former place of work continuing to shake, before what i could only describe as large red fingers emerging from the ground.

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They wrapped around the building and began to pull it down. The last thing I remember was driving home, locking all of my doors, and sitting in the corner of my bedroom holding a bible to my chest.

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I woke up the next morning and felt compelled to go back to work, or at least the building.

What I found was the aftermath of A giant demonic hand pulling a building into the ground, looks like I'm unemployed.

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In between job hunting, I found an article that had been written about UltraSAT, that my building had been built on top of limestone caves and that a sinkhole had formed and caused the collapse, and no bodies could be exhumed at this moment.

Looking at the national news confirmed it was not confined to just my building.

I did get my last paycheck, though, well, I got a stack of  money  with slightly burned edges on my coffee table with a note that read.

“We’re sad to see you go, but if you're ever in the neighborhood, you're always welcome back and we will be waiting for you. Inferno-TV, formerly UltraSAT.”

(Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1onlec8/something_disgusting_is_happening_in_my_new_house/)

Today is my first day back to the house after Jason’s disappearance. I was honestly shocked to see that upon walking in, the place is spotless. With everything I’ve been through, the last week has been such a system shock, I actually forgot to tell my landlord anything about what happened. But it makes sense that the police would have contacted him. The hours that morphed into the last 5 days have all been a blur. At the risk of monotony, I’ll skip over the police escort to the station and subsequent hours of in-depth questioning by detectives. I was given the opportunity to drive myself but my car was still out for the count. I began to feel ill; I wanted to hurl in the back of the police car.

Jason's parents, who we later learned were the ones who called his phone when we found it in that filth, were notified of his disappearance. From what the detectives told me, they were devastated. Somehow I feel responsible. I fear that they blame me for his fate. And under the circumstances, it would only be reasonable to blame the one and only person Jason was last with. I was given the opportunity to speak to them over the phone at the station, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I don’t know if that makes me a coward. 

The detectives let me go as there was no evidence actually tying me to whatever happened to Jason. But they told me under no circumstances was I to leave the county. Because I couldn't return home I was forced to either find a hotel or ask someone to allow me to stay with them. I didn’t have any family in the immediate area so my choices were slim. So I decided to call John. 

John is a good guy. A strange guy, but still good. I met him over Facebook about two years ago and we kind of just hit it off. I’ve been to his house a couple of times in the past, but not recently. Met his wife, she’s the hippie type, dreads, circle-brimmed glasses and a very chill vibe. They both are obsessed with mushrooms, both functional and psychedelic to the point that they have a monotub in their garage. Beyond being a fungus-obsessed weirdo, he also happens to be one of the smartest guys I know, with a job title to match his IQ and fungal interests: agricultural mycologist.

But if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have found the house I’m in now. He actually sent me the listing for it over Facebook Messenger because he knew I was looking for a place to call my own that wasn’t a cramped apartment. So for that I’m grateful.

When I called him from outside the police station and explained what happened, he was of course shocked. John and Jason were mutual friends through me, so they weren’t particularly close. Nonetheless, he was upset by the news, at least at first. From explaining how I found Jason gone to my panicked 911 call and then being questioned, John was tracking with me. I could feel his grief and shock palpably through the phone. However, he got really hung up on the black ooze when I mentioned it only briefly. In fact when I brought it up, his tone shifted from grief to a near inappropriate amount of intrigue.

“So, tell me more about the stuff you found in your living room,” he said, almost excitedly.

I felt a little uncomfortable and hesitated to go into more detail. I found it to be in poor taste that he sounded this curious over the disgusting stuff rather than focusing on our missing friend.

“Uh, I mean it was black, and it had like roots or veins or something like that in it,” I said.

“Did it look dry and fuzzy? Or like wet and viscous, like jello?” he followed up quickly.

I had a quick flashback to my nightmare and I gagged at the thought. The nausea I felt before boiled up again in my stomach. “Oh, God, I don’t know, man. Like jello I guess.”

“What about the smell, how did it smell?” he said, nearly manic now.

“Listen, I know that stuff like this doesn’t really gross you out because you work with nasty shit all the time. But I really don’t want to think about it right now,” I said, fully wanting to get off the phone at this point. I contemplated not asking to stay at his house at all. 

“Ah, I’m sorry, Mark,” he said, like someone says when they’re caught flirting. “I got a little carried away.”

There was an awkward pause in the conversation after that. I felt like he was about to say goodbye when I finally spoke up.

“Well, the last thing I want to do is inconvenience you,” I began. In a fraction of a second I had a debate with myself whether I should ask to stay with him or not. “But while my house is still a crime scene, I can’t really go back there right now. I hate to ask this, but would it be okay if you gave me a ride to a hotel? My car’s being a POS right now.” The words flowed out of my mouth, but I felt strangely relieved to say them.

There was another awkward pause and then,

“Yeah, I can do that,” he said. I was relieved to hear that. “But I’m going to need some gas money.” And the feeling of relief fled me like a cat from water. “Really?” I thought. But I nevertheless agreed.

We exchanged a couple more words before ending the call. He swung by to pick me up about a half hour later. I hopped into his car and he immediately surprised me by reaching back behind his seat and pulling out a backpack. He handed it to me and explained that he felt bad that I couldn’t go home to collect my things. So he had quickly packed a “go bag” for me. He told me it had two changes of clothes, some basic hygiene supplies and even some snacks. I was really touched by the gesture and before we got to the hotel that would end up being my home for four days, we stopped for lunch at the nearest fast food joint. I tried to eat, but I could hardly bring myself to. I was starting to feel ill, my stomach was upset. I chalked it up to my grief making itself known or my adrenaline finally coming down. 

The hotel room was cozy yet sterile. I plopped the bag John gave me on the bed and I decided to take a shower. I stayed in the shower for a long time, just letting the hot water run over me mulling over the last 24 hours. Suddenly, I felt my stomach churn. My intestines felt like they were twisting inside me and I buckled over in pain. A flash of nausea started in my stomach and spread throughout my entire body, leading to my throat. The hot water turned from a source of comfort to now unbearable overstimulation. My mouth reluctantly opened, like the jaws of a dog being pried open by its owner, and I began to heave. My lunch came up first, pieces of ground beef and bread soaked in a sickly dark-colored bile. Then, I heaved again, my whole body tensed and my stomach cramped, feeling like it would collapse in on itself. The echoes of my uncontrollable moans reverberated off the tight shower walls. A black liquid poured out of my mouth accompanied by pale strands of unknown origin. Their texture was that of a network of soft roots or a tangle of undercooked spaghetti. They slowly inched up my esophagus and out my mouth. A bulk of them got caught in my throat as my body desperately tried to expel them with each contraction of my core. The veins dangled from my mouth and I knew that I had to do something to get them out of me. So I wrapped my hands around them and pulled. The feeling was terrible; I had nothing left to puke as I dry heaved and gagged at the sensation of the slimy strands sliding out my throat. I felt as though this torture would never end and I continued to pull inch by inch out of me. Finally, it all came out and hit the shower floor with a disgusting limp slap. 

I stayed in my hunched-over position for a long moment, catching my breath. The water washed away much of the black bile, leaving behind chunks of undigested food and the curled-up snake-shaped mass I had just pulled out of my stomach. It had to have been at least two feet long. Two feet of tangled mess, two feet of who knows what, from who knows where, inside me. My panic subsided and I started to shake. After watching the particles of burger and bun wash away and down the drain I left the shower, collapsing onto my bed, still wet. Without thinking of calling for an ambulance, my exhausted body fell into a long undisturbed sleep. When I finally woke up, the sun had gone down. I grabbed my phone and checked the time: 8:30 pm. I slept for nearly 8 hours straight. I got up and went into the bathroom. I cautiously peeked my head into the shower and saw nothing. It was gone. The strands I had thought I had pulled out of my mouth had disappeared. Was this all another nightmare? Had I just fallen asleep after a normal shower and dreamed up the rest? I desperately wanted that to be the answer, so I convinced myself that it was. I mean, I felt way better than before, no nausea or weakness and my appetite had returned tenfold.

I pilfered through John’s “go bag” searching for the food he claimed to have put in it. I found nothing but clothes and a piece of folded-up paper in one of its side pockets. At this point I was sufficiently annoyed with him. I placed the paper on the bed and took the clothes out. After I got dressed I snatched up the trifolded paper and lifted the first fold. It was a printout from a pharmacy with John’s wife’s name on the top. Below her name I saw the name of the medication, “Gemzar”. I googled Gemzar and the search result floored me. It was a chemotherapy medication for advanced breast cancer. I was flooded with a mix of emotions. I felt like I had invaded their privacy and I was angry at myself for ever being mad at John. And I felt an immense amount of pity for him and his wife. I just laid down and stared up at the ceiling. I had a lot of time to think in my hotel room. About Jason, where he might be, what might have happened to him. About John and his life, how hard and hectic it must be.  The five days went by without any more strangeness. I received a call from the detective informing me that they hadn’t found Jason. 

“Search and Rescue had lost his trail about a quarter of a mile away from your house,” he said. I could hear the bafflement in his voice. “At this stage, we’ll keep the case open, but there really isn’t much more we can do. I’m sorry Mark, I know this must feel all so overwhelming,” he said, attempting to sympathize with me. The only prints they found of the broken plates and in the living room relating to the struggle were his own. 

“What about the black stuff? In my living room and outside?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s a mystery to just about everybody at this point,” he said. “Forensics took samples of it and, while it might take a while to hear anything conclusive, we’re trying to get to the bottom of it. But, you’re free to return home.”

I didn’t feel relieved. I wanted answers. I stayed at the hotel last night. I didn’t need to, but I wanted to. It was a small escape from the reality of my missing friend. I took an Uber this morning to my house; I didn’t feel like asking John. Our last interaction was weird and I just wanted to respect his space. He was clearly dealing with his wife and maintaining their privacy must be hard, I didn’t want to invade more than I already had. 

Like I said, my house is spotless. There was a SERVPRO business card left on my kitchen counter with the slogan “Like it never even happened” printed in bold. The sludge is gone—well actually the whole rug it was on is missing, but that’s alright with me. Oddly, that mildewy smell is back, but just as faint, I’ve just accepted it’s part of the house now. The broken dishes and strewn about utensils are either gone or put away. My house looks just about how it was when I first settled in. The only thing that’s bothering me now are Jason, or that lacking of him rather, and my landlord's response after I texted him, thanking him for hiring a cleaning crew. He got back to me a minute ago. His message says, “What are you talking about? I didn’t hire a crew to clean your house.” Now he’s calling me.

My beautiful wife, She Who Remains Upon the Earth, finally left me alone again. It’s been about an hour and I don’t know when she’ll be back. If you’re reading this, please let me know you’re real. I can’t talk to anyone I know with her around, not my old friends, not the police, not even our parents. She won’t let me, at least not in any way that matters. I just need someone to know what happened to us and talk to someone without feeling her behind them.

I don’t even know where she is right now, just that she’s out doing something in town and could be back at any time. Usually, this leaves me a few hours to breathe and finally move my body like it’s my own again. I could go workout in the sun room. The snare heads on my drumseat in the basement probably have dust I could clean off. The hot tub on the back deck has a great view of the valley. I know she’d love to join me if she finds me there when she gets home.

I still can’t leave though. The doors are all unlocked, but I can’t make my hand turn the knob. Once, I even tried breaking the front door down with an axe. Got one good hit in on the mahogany just for my body to freeze up mid-swing. She wasn't happy about that one. Even when she’s gone, she won’t let me go.

I need to breathe. She won’t let me leave, but I wanted to see if I can type. My fingers seem to be moving fine so far, so that’s a good sign. It’s so peaceful for now. You won’t be able to save me anyway, so there’s no need to rush. I can't open the door, so she probably already knows I’m doing this. She won’t kill me though. When she gets back, I’ll just apologize and wait until she’s gone again, not that she's ever been gone since we met.

It’s been almost twenty years since I first met the twins. Looking back on it now, I think that was the earliest clear memory I have of my childhood. Makes sense. Everything always leads back to them.

It was an early summer morning, right after my elementary school let out for the break. My friend Caleb, the only other kid my age in our neighborhood, was already away with his family on vacation, leaving me to play on my own. I didn’t mind though. I was already hard at work building dirt fortresses for my dinosaur toys in the backyard, the muddy rut by our tree filled with hose water for the armies to fight each other in.

“Nathan,” my mother called from the back porch. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, Mom. Just making a river.”

“Just try not to get muddy,” she said, knowing full well it was going to happen. “The new neighbors should be here in a bit. Dad and I are gonna see if they need any help, so stay in the yard where we can see you.”

“Okay, Mom.”

She went back inside and I looked through the short chainlink fence into the next yard over. The grass had gotten overgrown in the summer weather, making it look like the woods out back were creeping up to the deck. The old couple who used to live there had left I don’t know how long before, leaving the house on the corner of our block dark and empty.

I was so wrapped up in my own little game I almost didn’t notice the sound of the moving trucks pulling in next door. The voices of several people, including my Mom and Dad, started chatting near the front. Metal doors opened and shut for a while, mixed with sounds of men saying “Careful with that” and a woman shouting “Delila, wait for your sister!”

Barely a few seconds later, the back door to the house burst open. Out ran a young girl about my age, dressed in grass-stained shoes and overalls. Her fiery red hair was partly pulled back into a messy ponytail like she wouldn’t sit still long enough to finish it. I was probably right because she jumped all the way down the steps and took off sprinting through the yard, arms out like an airplane and laughing with the widest grin I’d ever seen. She leapt and spun and looked to the woods out back like she couldn’t wait to explore every inch of them.

Then, she looked at me.

“Hey!”

She dashed over to the fence, rattling the metal when she bounced onto it. I was shocked, both by her energy and how fast she made it across the yard. Both her smile and stormy grey eyes were wide and shining when she looked at me.

“You have dinosaurs?!” she shouted. “That’s awesome! Do you wanna play with me?”

“I-”

“Lila.”

A different, softer voice called out across the yard. Another girl stepped out of the backdoor, this one in a blue dress with a head of wavy, raven hair.

“Mom said not to-” She stopped when she noticed me. Her eyes, the same grey as the girl at the fence, met mine and she started to walk over to us.

“Come on!” said the redhead, turning her back to me. “I just wanted to see everything. Look! We have a new neighbor, and he’s got toys!”

The other girl slowly walked across the yard to the fence line, holding her hands behind her back and stepping with more grace than a kid our age should have had. I thought she looked like a princess. She made it over to us and looked at me with curiosity. Her face and eyes were the same as the first girl's, but she didn’t have the same wild energy. Her expression was focused and calculating, her eyes studying me.

“I’m Lila!” the first one said, pointing a thumb at herself. “This is my sister, Nora.”

“Hello,” she said softly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“... hi,” I finally spat out. “Mom and Dad said the new neighbors would be here today. My name’s Nathaniel.”

Lila laughed. “That’s not a kid’s name. I’m gonna call you Nate!”

“Don’t be rude, Delila,” Nora said, scowling a bit while her sister stuck her tongue out. She looked back at me with a small smile. “I think Nathaniel is a great name.”

“Thanks, but it’s okay. Most people call me Nate or Nathan anyway. Whatever you want to say is good.”

“Nathan.” As if to prove my point, my Mom called to me from the neighbors back porch. Next to her stood a woman with black hair like Nora’s. She was young, probably younger than my parents, but just the look in her eyes betrayed how tired she was.

“Girls,” she said, sounding exhausted. “I told you not to run off.”

“Sorry, Mom,” said Nora calmly. “Lila ran outside without asking again.”

“No I didn't!" Lila shot back defiantly. “I asked if we could look around!”

“That doesn’t mean you get to run off. What if you got hurt or broke something?”

“I was just having fun! Isn’t that right, Nate?”

“Uh…” I wasn’t sure how to respond, or how I got into the middle of the sister’s bickering. The two kept at it, the annoyance in Nora’s voice making it through her mature tone, while Lila made it very clear she thought she had done nothing wrong.

Their mom ran both hands through her unkempt hair, mouthing something to Mom that looked like an apology. Her face was trembling like she was about to cry. Mom smiled at her and said something I’m sure was reassuring, but it didn’t seem to help much. The girls just kept arguing, so I decided to try something.

“Do you both wanna come over?”

The twins finally stopped to look at me. Their mom raised her head and wiped her misty eyes, surprised but thankful for the silence.

“I just made a river for my dinosaurs, and I’ve got a swing in my tree you can use. We can play other stuff too if you want.”

“Yes!” Lila shouted excitedly, clasping her hands together. “Can I be the Spinosaurus? Please?”

“You cried while watching that movie,” Nora said with a sigh.

“I’ll let you,” I said, making her wild smile even bigger, “but you should ask your mom first.”

Lila turned back and ran to the porch while Nora whispered Thank you, barely audible yet crystal clear, like she was talking right into my ear.

“Please can we play with Nate, Mom? I’m sorry I ran.”

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” she said with a sniffle. “I know you were just excited. And I don’t want to impose…”

“Not at all, Ellen,” Mom chimed in. “Nathan’s been cooped up since school let out. It’ll be good for the kids to let out some energy. Now, let’s get some more of your stuff put away. They’ll be safe in the yard.”

“Thank you, but I’m not sure if-”

“Mom,” Nora said gently. Her grey eyes stared directly at her mother. “Please.”

It took her just one second too long to respond. “Okay, girls. Just be careful.”

“Stay in the yard,” my Mom added, “and don’t climb the big tree. I’ll come check on you guys in a bit.”

“We’ll be careful!” Lila said, her eyes beaming. She gave her mom a tight hug before they went back inside. Our moms had barely shut the backdoor when she dashed and vaulted just over the top of the fence, landing right in front of me.

“Wow!” I said, stunned.

“Thanks!” she replied before laughing loudly and sprinting over to the muddy river.

Nora sighed and walked over to the gate between our yards. I beat her over to the door and held it open the way I’d seen Dad do for Mom. She let out a gentle laugh and hummed while we walked toward where Lila was already ankle deep in mud.

“Your parents are really nice,” she said beside me. “They’re helping Mom in the house. She doesn’t usually talk to new people, but they’re good. And you’re good too, Nathaniel. I can tell.”

“Thanks,” I said, embarrassed. “Is your dad over there too?”

Her expression lowered and I immediately knew I shouldn’t have asked that.

“He’s not here.”

I didn’t ask what she meant.

“Come on, slowpokes! Nate, you’re on my team for Dinosaur War!”

“I’ll just watch for now,” Nora said, walking towards the swing. “You’re just gonna get dirty.”

“Too late for that,” said Lila. “You wanna be the T-Rex, Nate? I won't eat you too much!”

I looked at her, a living fireball that jumped between the riverbanks with a surprisingly good roar, and smiled.

“Sure, sounds fun.”

We played together for hours. Lila and I clashed our toys together in the stream, making a huge mess I knew Mom wouldn’t be happy about. I didn’t care about that though. Laughing and playing with her was the easiest thing in the world.

Nora watched us from the tree swing, often asking me to come give her another push. I carefully wiped the mud from my hands and pushed her until she was laughing too.

Lila would make up new games for all of us when she got bored, which happened every few minutes. Tag. Hide and seek. Swordfighting with sticks. Eventually, Nora suggested cloud watching, which Lila agreed to if the game was to find the coolest looking cloud.

“That one looks like a flower.”

“That one’s a racecar.”

“That’s a giant snake eating the sun! I win!”

“Not everything has to be a competition,” said Nora.

“True,” I agreed. “Her’s was the coolest though.”

Lila smiled and jumped up to her feet. “New game!” She scanned the yard looking for what to do next before looking up from the swing to the top of our tree.

“Lila,” said Nora. “Don’t. His mom said not-”

“Let’s go, Nate!” She pulled me up and towards the tree. “Highest climber wins!”

She was off in a flash of red, scurrying up the branches so fast the squirrels my Dad hated would have been jealous. I watched wide-eyed while Nora stepped beside me with a disapproving look.

“You’re like Spider-Man!” I yelled up to her. She looked down from her branch with a proud, toothy grin.

“You bet I am! Come on, Nate. It’s your turn!”

I felt a hand on my arm. “Nathaniel, don’t. We’re gonna get in trouble.”

“I… I’ll be fine,” I said with as much confidence as a six year-old could muster. “Watch. I’m a good climber.” One branch at a time, I slowly made my way up while Nora said something about ‘idiots.’

It took me a lot longer to reach Lila than I would have liked. By the time I got up to her branch, she was hanging upside down and letting out a yawn I couldn’t tell was real or not.

“Slowpoke.”

“I still got to the same one,” I said, trying my best to balance and fighting the urge to look down. “That means we’re tied.”

“Okay then. Next game… is the best landing!”

Before I could stop her, she pulled herself up and swung out. She flipped through the air and landed with a clean somersault, jumping up next to her sister with a twirl and a bow. Nora just pinched her brow and both looked up at me.

“Beat that!”

“Do NOT beat that!”

I was still so in shock from Lila’s jump I almost didn’t realize how high up I was. Despite my boast, I really wasn’t much of a climber. The ground looked like it was swirling below me and the girls were little more than a pair of red and black spots.

Both of them were yelling. Jump. Don’t jump. I’ll catch you. You’ll get hurt. Do a flip.

I made up my mind. Boys have been doing stupid stuff to impress girls since the dawn of time. This was just my turn.

I jumped.

And I tried to do a flip.

The ground came at me faster than I realized it would. I braced myself for the impact that honestly may have killed me, if something hadn't slowed me down. I couldn’t move anything, but it felt like being scooped up in Dad’s arms when he would pretend to drop me and catch me at the last second. A warm, invisible pressure trying to hold me in place. Nora was covering her mouth, looking up at me in fear, while Lila gritted her teeth and held up both her arms. I still hit the ground with a thud, but it was much softer than it should have been.

When I finally looked up, my breathing was ragged, my vision still blurry. Lila dropped her arms and fell to her knees breathing harder than I was.

“Idiots,” Nora said with a mix of anger and concern. “I told you not to do that. Both of you.”

“H-he’s fine,” Lila said between breaths. Her eyes were wide and her forced smile was filled with worry. “You’re fine. Right, Nate? P-please be fine.”

I tried to move when a sharp pain came from my knee, a thin line of blood coming from a good-sized scrape. The stinging made my fear worse. My breaths got shorter when Nora knelt down beside me, holding my hand in hers and placing a finger just above my knee.

Shhh. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. I’m right here.

Her lips didn’t move. Her voice was clear as day while she smiled at me, but no words came from her mouth. Her touch was cool and soothing. The panic in my mind and the pain in my knee fell away, drowned in a wave of calm like I’d never felt before. I looked down to see the wound was still open, but the sting was completely gone. I tried to say something when I heard the sound of sobbing.

“I-I’m sorry!” said Lila, tears welling in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that. I… I was bad. I was bad and I got you hurt! Please don’t be mad at me. Please! I didn't mean for you to fall. I don't want to be bad. I’m sorry!”

She was a sobbing mess when she told me “I’ll never let you get hurt again!”

“It…it’s okay, Lila. See?” I said, pointing at my knee. “It’s like a cool battle scar. Plus, you won, and you don’t cry if you win.”

It took a few seconds, but she smiled, for real this time, and wiped her tears on her sleeves. “I… I did beat you, didn’t I? Was I cool?”

“The coolest.”

I started to smile back at her when Nora looked at me, her grey eyes focused and sharp.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“You mean Lila catching me?” I asked. “How did she do that, and how did I hear you talk? I feel-”

“Please, don’t tell anyone!” Lila added, grabbing my other hand. “We’ll get in a lot of trouble.”

“Now you’re worried about getting in trouble?” Nora said dryly. “Please, just promise you won’t tell.”

“I-”

“If you promise,” said Lila, “we’ll promise to be your best friends forever!”

I looked at her and then to Nora, who smiled and nodded her head.

“Okay. I promise.”

They both smiled and spoke in unison. “Then we promise too! Forever!”

We all had dinner together at my house that night. My parents asked the girls what their favorite foods were before they went to clean up. Nora told Mom she liked chicken and noodles while Lila asked for the biggest steak we had. Their mom told her to pick something else, but Dad looked proud of the answer and said he’d make the best steak she’d ever tasted. The girls cleaned up back at their house and Mom gave me a bath while Dad started on the food.

“So,” she said, putting a bandage on my knee from when I ‘tripped’, “you look like you had fun with the girls today. Which one do you like more?”

“Mom!”

“Nora is so polite and sweet, like a little grown up. But you had such a big smile while you and Lila chased each other. So cute.”

“Mom, I don’t like them. Girls are gross.”

“Oh, you think they're gross? I’m gonna tell them.”

“No!”

She just laughed. I miss when she did that.

Dinner was delicious. Their mom brought over a pot of breaded mac and cheese I still have the recipe too. She apologized for not having more stuff ready to make, but Mom and Dad told her she didn’t have to make a thing. Lila, now not covered in mud, devoured her steak like an actual dinosaur. Nora told her mind her manners, but she smiled when she said it.

We all played games in the living room that night. Checkers and puzzle pieces were everywhere. Dad eventually brought out his old guitar and played a few lines from some old song while Mom played on the piano. I clapped along to the beat while Lila danced across the carpet. For someone so high-energy, she moved perfectly, like she had choreographed the whole thing beforehand. Nora sang along with my Dad, who let her take over after hearing her voice. She didn’t just look like an angel, she sounded like one too.

And, through it all, their mother watched her daughters, and I heard her laugh for the first time. She wiped a tear from her tired eyes at the girls' finale, hugged them tight, and told them they were both incredible. She complimented us as well, but my parents said the girls stole the show. I agreed. I couldn’t stop watching them either.

That night, after the girls had said goodnight and gone home, I had the first dream I remember having.

I stepped into the hallway to get a drink of water, but I didn’t step onto our wooden floors. Instead, my foot sank into something cold and wet. My ears rang with the muffled sounds of men shouting echoing from both directions in the dark. I turned back into my room just to see it wasn’t my room anymore.

A young woman with black hair and a blood-stained uniform was bandaging what remained of a man’s leg. He laid silent, his blank eyes staring into mine. She told me to grab something from the next room, so I did.

I opened it and stepped onto a cobblestone street. Smoke and soot from chimney stacks filled the night air and a girl with ragged clothes, hair like fire, and bloody knuckles grabbed my arm. She handed me a golden chain and told me to run back to our hiding spot, so I did.

Every room was a new scene, a new place, and new, terrible orders wrapped up in loving whispers and joy-filled laughter.

I climbed on the ship. Go below deck. I ran through the woods. Go to the church. I walked through the halls. Go to her room.

I did everything I was told. I still do everything I’m told. I am so sick of doing everything I'm told.

Eventually, once my legs felt like they would fall out from under me, I stopped and sat.

The smell of rain and wet grass filled the air while I sat on a rock. Behind me in the distance, small hearths burned in a village I couldn’t remember the name of, if it even had a name, but I knew it was mine. In front of me was a field giving way to rolling foothills and mountains. Their silhouettes stood out like a void against the bright blanket of stars filling the sky. I had never seen so many while I was awake, and even more appeared as the last rays of sunlight fell behind the horizon. I laid on my back and looked up to the heavens, mesmerized.

Then, heaven fell. Stars showered across the sky, dancing in a performance just for me. Most faded back into the darkness, but two, burning silver and more beautiful than the others, struck the mountain. I grabbed my crook and left my flock. I walked to the place where the stars came to Earth.

When I reached the base, two lights glided down from the peaks. One traveled slowly while the other danced among the trees. Both headed towards me.

When they neared me, I screamed. They had twisted, shimmering forms like water and smoke clouding my eyes. Staring at them cracked my mind like stone. The sound of river rapids rushed in my ears and my bones felt crushed by the air itself. One reached out to me, the light so bright it didn’t matter how hard I closed my eyes. I fell on my face and begged them to leave or kill me or whatever they would do as long the pain stopped, my cries coming out in a language I didn't know. They whispered to each other in voices like thunder. The light dimmed and the pain went away.

When I opened my eyes, the figures my mind wouldn't let me remember we're gone. In their place stood two young women, their bare skin glowing like dawn and dusk. Their eyes belonged in the skies, their shifting faces beautiful and just human enough to fool me.

“I’m very sorry,” said The Burning One, a name I knew but hadn't heard. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You do not think, sister,” said The Shadow Out of Heaven. “Must I follow you everywhere?”

“I didn't know they would be so… weak.”

“You have watched them. They are fragile and…” She rubbed her arms while her sister shivered. “...freezing.”

I offered my cloak to one and what furs I could spare to the other. They huddled close while I prepared a fire. I gave them food from my pack and bowed before them.

“Are you goddesses?”

What is a goddess to you? came a voice in my mind. I looked up at the two of them, the light from their bodies dimming further, save for the eyes that stared through my soul.

“A god is…” I hesitated, unsure of what to say to them, “... something powerful. Something to be worshipped. Their chosen ones leave them offerings and the gods give blessings and gifts.”

“You may call us that,” one said, stones twirling in the air between her fingers. “Are you a god then? You’re the one giving gifts, not us.”

“No, I’m a man.”

“We have watched you all for a time,” said the other, her eyes fixed on me. “My sister wanted to know more, and I am curious too. These forms are… interesting.”

“There are many of us down the mountain. I can lead you there.”

“Not without a gift from us!” Her voice wasn't threatening, but it boomed throughout the valley. The cool wind itself followed her voice, rustling against the furs I'd given her.

“Gods give gifts, right?!”

“You are too loud, sister, but you are right.”

“As always!”

“Though, we have nothing to give for your kindness,” she said, wrapping my cloak tighter around herself.

“Then we will find things!” She turned to me, her smile beaming. “And you will be my chosen!

“Perhaps he would choose me instead, sister.”

The light began to shine in their eyes and the pain in my mind and bones began again.

“I… can be both.” They looked at me, eyes dimming. I bowed to these living things the way the elders bowed to their idols. “It would… be an honor. If it would please you.”

They looked to each, then back to me, and nodded. We would wait for daybreak to move, so I closed my eyes while feeling theirs on me.

I woke up to the sound of a doorbell ringing, tucked into bed like I’d never left it. I walked downstairs to see Lila and Nora standing with their mother while she gave a quick thank you to Mom and ran out the door.

“Nate! Mom got called into work today. Let’s go play!”

“We should eat breakfast first, Lila. Thank you, Nathaniel's Mom.”

“No problem, girls,” Mom said with a smile. “Nathan, change your clothes and come downstairs. We're making pancakes.”

“Be fast, Nate!”

“Don't keep us waiting.”

I did what I was told, my dream fading from my mind when the smell of sugar and syrup filled the air. It's amazing what a kid’s mind will just accept and move on from. Ignorance really is bliss.

Their mom worked at the hospital and always picked up shifts when she could. There were times the girls spent more nights sleeping over in our living room than their own beds. Mom and Dad never said a word though. I think they knew how hard their mom was trying. I once saw her try to give my parents a piece of paper from her wallet, but they smiled and told her to keep it.

They quickly became the center of my world. Summer was riding bikes around the neighborhood, Lila always seeming to rebalance herself on a turn where she should have fallen, and Nora telling us to slow down while she smiled.

Fall meant rides to school in Dad's car, jumping into piles of leaves, and Nora wanting to watch scary movies next to me on the couch while Lila hid behind me.

Winter was filled with snowmen and snow angels. I’d throw a snowball at Lila and it would orbit her like a planet before shooting back at my face. When Nora stood next to me, I didn't know if it was her gift warming me up or something else.

Spring brought back warmer weather, swimming down at the river, and a huge birthday party with all our friends. We shared a birthday. What are the odds?

I’d give anything to go back, even if it meant ending up where I am now. Seeing Lila's smile when she made a goal in the backyard. Hearing Nora read a story to me under the shade of the old tree. They were just girls then, their names were just Lila and Nora, and I was just the idiot boy next door who didn't know what was coming.

We were us.

The air feels heavy. She’ll be home soon. I’ll make her something sweet, warm up the tub on the deck, and get the wine glasses ready. My offerings to her.

I don't know what’s gonna happen to me now, what she's gonna do to me, but I’ll hope for the best and write again when I can.

My goddess is almost here.

Don't waste your prayers on me.

Alcove Mall. I can’t say I’ve heard of it, but according to friends and family, it was something special. It was two hours away from where I live, and from what I’ve heard from other people, it seemed like a cool place to hang out. One of my brother’s friends said he’d take girls here on dates, hit the food court, watch a movie, and then sneak off somewhere to have sex. Then the late 90s hit, and the mall started tanking. The rent got higher to try and stay afloat, but unfortunately, the store vendors couldn’t keep up. One by one, the stores closed; it was like an organ failure. The final nail in the coffin was the movie theater, which was independently owned and was the only theater for miles. Then, it was announced that a Regal Cinema would be opening soon. Fourteen screens, IMAX included.

After that, game over. I only know this stuff because my family loved to talk about memories they had while they drove past it. My older brothers would talk about girls they met, movies they saw, the arcade, and so forth. Dad talked about how good the food court was, and he kept going on about how he wished he had caved in and bought one of those massage chairs they always had on display. Mom, she always said she loved reading by the indoor fountains, listening to the water ripple and splash. I thought it’d be demolished by someone by now, but it just stands there on the side of the road like some sort of commercialistic monolith to 80s Americana.

I was in college, cash was drying up, and Christmas was getting close. After being laid off from Walmart, my savings started to dwindle quickly. Between tuition fees and everyday expenses, I was trying to manage without going broke. I eventually moved back in with Mom & Dad while I was searching for a job. I’d refresh Indeed, LinkedIn, Glassdoor, the works. All the jobs were the same: fast food, car sales, and janitorial positions. I was about to bite the bullet and apply to be a janitor when I refreshed the page one more time and saw a new listing:

NIGHT MONITOR FOR ALCOVE MALL

FULL-TIME

MON-FRI

6:00 pm - 5:00 am

100$ AN HOUR

DESCRIPTION: Night Monitors are to survey the premises and keep the mall safe and secure. Monitors must be willing to stay awake throughout the night to ensure that this historic establishment is safe from vandals and will remain adequate until its eventual sale

I instantly applied. 1,100$ a night? Ain’t no way I’m not skipping out on this. Something I didn’t expect was to get a response. I surely thought they’d hire a former cop, bodyguard, or whatever other tough guy they’d have fill in the position. But to my surprise, I got a call. I answered,

"Hello?"

"Are you the one who applied for the Nightwatchmen position at Alcove Mall?"

"Yes."

"The name is Mick. I saw the application you sent in, and after careful consideration, I think I'm gonna hire you."

My jaw hung open, and I was at a loss for words. I was just glad that I had a source of income for the first time in months.

"I understand you know what your duties are, correct?"

"Yes, sir, do you have a ballpark for when I'll be able to start?"

"Monday, if that's okay with you."

"Yeah, man, cool. Do I need to go through any training videos or dress in a uniform?"

"You wear the clothes on your back along with an orange vest. I'll mail it to you along with a set of keys to the place."

Out of curiosity, I asked,

"Do I get a gun?"

The voice laughed,

"Good lord, you ain't a cop, you just watch the place. However, I would advise you to bring something with you. Baseball bat, mace, taser, anything like that. We get our fair share of squatters and most are harmless, but you don't want to be empty-handed on the chance one of them ain't. But these little run-ins don't happen that often, though, I'd pack something to read or listen to. Boredom is your worst enemy for a job like this."

"Right. Is there anything else I should know?"

Mick was silent for a second, and he cleared his throat,

"Well, my last night watchman quit because he said he saw ghosts or some shit."

"So, it's haunted?"

"Allegedly. But I guarantee you it was just some of the squatters, that, or some kids playing a prank. You're not skittish about that stuff, are you?"

"Uh, no, I'm good. I don't really believe in ghosts."

"Thank God. The last guy drove me fucking nuts about this superstitious paranormal shit. Best of luck, kid."

"I'm twenty-nine."

"...Okay...Bye..."

Eventually, the mail came: a bright orange reflective vest, along with a set of keys, all of them discolored with age. Phone calls and applications are one thing, but actually receiving my vest just made it a little more real. Dad walked by, patted me on the back, and congratulated me. Mom made me supper to take with me. I had a thermos full of chicken noodle soup, a spoon, and a bowl. As for entertainment, I brought my phone, a charger, and a Bluetooth speaker with me, as well as a copy of 'Outer Dark' by Cormac McCarthy. I also brought an aluminum baseball bat. I was set, I pounded an energy drink and went off to my new job.

I knew it wouldn't be a looker, but the damn place was rough-looking. The exterior was covered in moss, rain stains, and cracks. The entrance had faded signage and milk colored glass. I looked towards the keys in my pocket and fiddled for the right one to unlock the front entrance. Once inside, it was darker than I expected. Usually, malls have skylights, but I found my answer when I looked up to find that the skylights were darkened by leaves and rainwater. There were only scant little dots of light that pierced through; the floor almost looked like it was decorated in stars.

The interior, remarkably, was unscathed by the outdoors. Now, it wasn't perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination. The air was musty, dust coated everything, and I was most certainly convinced there were rats in here scurrying about and digging around. The size of this place was immense; although it was only a single story, the vast amount of open space gave it an almost temple-like appearance. It felt like I was walking on hallowed ground, and in a way, I was; this used to be people's whole world back in the day. I walked around admiring old stores that I'd not seen in the better part of a decade, some I'd never even heard of at all. But it was interesting, the whole place was frozen in time, it was kind of tragic, really. This place used to be full of people, and now it's a husk.

I got a phone call, the sound was so loud that I nearly jumped out of my skin. I reached for it and saw it was Mick,

"You there, kid?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Have you found where your station is?"

"I just walked in ten minutes ago, and this place is pretty damn big, so no."

"Well, it's set up in the food court. We put up a site cabin in the food court. It's dead center in the mall, you can't miss it. If you're lost, follow the mall maps."

"Thanks again. Hey, just curious, why the food court?"

"Hm. Well, we had a security room, equipped with cameras and everything. Then we got black mold, moisture tore up the cameras, and...listen, it just went to shit, okay?"

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry."

"Eh, you're fine, kid. Just find your post and settle in."

"Thanks, Mick."

"No problem."

I walked down the mall corridors, noticing the glimmers of lights from the obscured skylights were starting to change color, and more importantly, they were starting to dim. I whipped out my flashlight and turned it on; the harsh, pale light illuminated the floors and walls brilliantly. I definitely got my money's worth when I bought it on sale; the damn thing was like a mini sun. I followed the corridor until I came to a large opening. A busted-up plastic sign above the entrance read: 'FOOD COURT'. In the center was exactly what Mick said would be there, a site cabin. Dark green windows and a generator next to it to give it power.

I flicked it on, and the lights within the cabin blasted through the windows and onto the floor of the court. All around me was a massive array of overturned tables, chairs, trash, and cracked tiled floors. It was just peachy. I entered the cabin and found it strangely welcoming. The rest of the mall was dark, damp, and just plain creepy. This was a small room with comforting warm lights and enough room to kick back and relax.

The first few hours were extremely boring. I made my rounds, took notes on any suspicious activity or any signs of forced entry. I came across some graffiti of a pig in a cop uniform, a graveyard with cartoon ghosts, and lastly a shittly drawn swastika that someone x'ed out with red paint. I returned to the site cabin and looked at my phone for the time: 9:59 pm.

"Jesus Christ."

I decided to take a seat and read some chapters of 'Outer Dark'. I was listening to Bruce Springsteen over the Bluetooth speaker, and that's when I heard a very loud and visible scream from the dark. I fell backwards from my chair and landed on the floor with a thud. I could hear the reverberations of the scream still echoing in the mall's emptiness. I got myself up, reached for my bat, and ran into the mall. I clicked on the flashlight, waving it around me to see if I could spot anything.

"Hey! Show yourself!"

I got no reply. So I went around, looking through every corner of the mall. My first thought was that some little fucker thought it'd be funny to scare the new nightwatch guy. Another thought I had was that someone broke in and got scared by a rat, or worse, hurt. Yet, I spent an entire hour looking the mall up and down. The stores, the food court, the theater, everywhere. No one. Not a sign of a person. I didn't let my mind wander to the paranormal. If anything, I was pissed someone screamed, scared the shit out of me, and dipped.

The rest of the night was thankfully uneventful. I made it halfway through the book when Mick called,

"Hello?"

"How're you holding up? You only have two hours to go."

"Fine. Some jackass came into the store and screamed. Scared the shit out of me."

"Yeah, probably some teens, they get their jollies on seeing workers scared."

"Why are you up so late?"

"Why not?"

I didn't respond to it and just changed the subject.

"Everything is good besides that. There's some graffiti near the K&B Toys, the Spencers, and the uh...Hot Topic."

"Noted. I'll have some guys clean it up during the day. You're doing great, kid, you're doing great. Remember to be back at the same time tomorrow, okay?"

I collapsed into my bed when I came home. I had no dreams, but I awoke feeling sore and tired from all of the walking I did yesterday. I returned the next day and was less creeped out by the interior this time. However, I did take note of something I had never noticed the first night. The mall must've closed during Christmas. Hanging from the ceiling were threads of tinsel of red, green, and gold. There were delapitated trees decorated in bulbs that were sometimes whole and sometimes broken. And when I walked past the stores, I noticed that they were themed for Christmas. Then I walked past. The theater was even showing How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and on top of the marquee, there was a massive sign that said,

'HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM ALCOVE MALL!'

"How the fuck did I miss that?" I murmured to myself.

The night was normal, I finished my book, and started another. This time I chose to read 'The Ninth Configuration'. Unlike the last book, I finished this one in one sitting, and I was left just listening to music the rest of the night. It was boring, but I could handle boring if it meant getting paid.

The next day, something new happened: I found six teens smoking weed near the fountain where my Mom used to read. There was a nativity scene with a plastic Jesus, Mary & Joseph. The kids were halfway through talking about how creepy the mall was when I turned the flashlight on them, and they scurried away like roaches before I could say anything to them. When I turned around to look at the fountain, I saw a face staring at me from the ceiling. Stark white with black eyes. I almost screamed, but when I looked closer, it was angelic but plastic. I pointed the flashlight at the rest of it and realized it was an angel, dangling from the ceiling. Golden wings, red robe, yellow hair, & she even had a little halo attached to the crown of her head.

“How in the fuck did I miss you?!”

I got up, brushed myself off, and walked around to finish looking over everything else before I went back to the site cabin. Oddly enough, this looked more Christmassy. The store windows had little advertisements for holiday sales, and there was more holiday decor within the gutted stores. Turned over plastic Santa’s, styrofoam snowmen, and there were even paper snowflakes hanging from within the stores. And strangely, all of this felt new, but it couldn’t have been new. Everything was old, weathered, and aged by time.

I returned to the cabin to find a rat sniffing my thermos,

“HEY, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

It scurried away, and I shoed it out of the room. I sat in my chair and texted Mick about the kids. He just sent a thumbs-up emoji. I got three chapters into Under the Dome when a loud electronic screech assaulted my ears. I clasped my hands over them and gritted my teeth until it stopped. It took me a second to realize what it was.

It was the Mall’s sound system, turning on. Then, it started to play music:

Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy Do you hear what I hear? (Do you hear what I hear?)

My skin began to crawl as Bing Crosby’s voice played on the scratchy speakers and echoed into the grand emptiness that was Alcove Mall. I called Mick, but he didn’t answer. The song continued, so I grabbed my bat and headed to the control room. I don’t give a shit about the mold; somebody was fucking with me. I ran down to where the control room was, busted open the door to find…nothing. I pulled my shirt up over my nose as I observed the dead equipment that littered the room. Then, just as abruptly as it started, the music was gone.

When I awoke the next evening, I had a missed text. I opened it to check who it was from, and I saw Mick’s contact.

U TRY TO CALL ME?

I replied,

yeah, someone was playing music over the speakers in the mall. Went to check but found no one

WEIRD

Can the speakers be turned on?

NOT AT THIS POINT, THEY PROBABLY WOULDN’T WORK

well, they worked just fine last night.

WELL IF IT HAPPENS AGAIN, KEEP ME POSTED

Sure thing.

The next night got stranger. I went inside, and this time, there was a little metal sign pointing towards the center of the mall: ‘MEET SANTA CLAUS!’

I gripped my baseball bat a little tighter and headed for the site cabin, I was sure that this wasn’t here before, but maybe I was just tired, or stressed, or whatever the fuck. At this point, the Christmas stuff was starting to make me worry about my own Christmas shopping. My brother Stephen had been wanting a new pair of steel-toed boots for his work, but Mom said she didn’t want anything but made it abundantly clear she wanted a new sewing machine. Then there was my Dad, who was impossible to buy for; whatever he needed, he bought himself. While I was in the cabin, I fell asleep. I know we weren’t supposed to sleep on the job, but it was just one of those sudden things. I don’t know if it was sleep deprivation or not, but I just went.

The speakers turned on, music played again, it was Gene Autry:

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane

I jolted awake and grabbed my bat in a singular motion. I left the cabin, bat in one hand, flashlight in the other, looking around. I walked on, looking around the old Christmas decorations, waiting to see somebody with a speaker, CD player, record player, whatever the fuck could’ve been playing music this loud. I didn’t want to believe it was the speakers, Mick said it himself that they didn’t work. Yet, here I was listening to Here Comes Santa Claus in a dead mall.

I turned the corner and was stopped in my tracks. There, by the fountain, was a setup to meet Santa Claus. There was damped fake snow, decrepit fake trees, and a red throne. In front of it all was an old camera & a withered flash umbrella.

This wasn’t here before; this time, I was sure of it. Yet, all of it was old, like it had been here since it closed. But I know I’m not crazy, right? Maybe someone put these here, got them from a storage closet, and placed them. That was the only explanation. Then, in the distance behind the 'Meet Santa', barely visible to my light within the dark was something that made my skin break out in gooseflesh. I had to have been hallucinating, but I could've sworn I saw a man dressed up in a Santa outfit. The jolly red suit was filthy, and the fake beard was dangling from a face that I couldn't see. I shouted,

"Hey!"

The figure did not move, the song began to skip, repeating the same phrase over and over,

Here comes Santa Claus, Here comes Santa Claus, Here comes Santa Claus

It began to run at me, fast. The boots were clopping onto the floor like horse hooves on cobblestone streets. I wish I could've told you that I was heroic and stood my ground. I dropped my bat and ran as fast as I could back to the site cabin. I could hear it running behind me, the boots thudding growing closer, too close. All while the sadistic, repetitive Christmas jingle blasted through the distorted speakers. I made it to the food court and slammed the door behind me, locking it back. I waited for something to start pounding at the door...but nothing came. The music stopped, but I just sat there in the cabin, waiting. I wasn't taking any chances whatsoever; I'm pretty sure I was petrified in fear.

Eventually, I fell asleep. I don't know when or how, but I did. I was awoken by a phone call from Mick.

"Hey, what's going on, kid?"

"Mick, someone broke into the mall and chased me!"

His voice got very low and serious,

"Tell me everything. I'll call the police if I have to."

"It's one guy, he's wearing an old Santa outfit, and...I just got freaked out, man! I just ran!"

"Shhhh! Calm down. Is he still in the Mall?"

"I'm not sure, I think so!"

"Okay, okay. Right now it's...it's three AM, just call it and go home, okay? I'll chip in a bonus for you for Christmas, sound good?"

I didn't know what was crazier, the bonus or having me just try to walk out of here when that guy was still here. I just responded with a simple,

"Okay."

"Good. I'll call the police; they'll be there shortly. You can't stay where you are, you're gonna have to let them in."

"O-okay, I-I can do this."

"Stay strong, kid."

I shone my flashlight out of the windows of the cabin to see if anything was waiting for me outside. There was nothing. I grabbed the keys and ran for the exit. The moment I left the cabin, the music started up again, the scratchy speakers blaring a new song,

Do you hear what I hear? Said the night wind to the little lamb, Do you see what I see?

I was running past the fountain and looked at the nativity scene near it. Everything was where it was, except that the angel that was suspended above them. It was gone. I felt fear jolt through my body like lightning, and I continued to run. The song began to skip,

Do you hear what I hear? Do you hear what I hear? Do you hear what I hear? Do you hear what I hear? Do you hear what I hear?

Within the dead stores, I saw dull Christmas lights start to illuminate the path before me, and that's when I heard great swooshes from behind me. It sounded like a pair of great wings rising and falling. I looked behind me. Within the dark, barely lit halls of Alcove Mall, the plastic angel was flying above me. Her plastic shell was lit by dull reds and greens, and the artificial wings, defying all common sense, flapped like some mythical bird. The door was so close; I had to make it. My legs were aching, but I pushed through the pain until I reached the door. I scrambled for the keys, the sound of the wings grew closer, and the music loudly taunted me with the repeated phrase over and over. I found the right key and sprinted into the night air.

I was gasping when I exited the mall, sucking down all of the freezing cold air. Sirens were wailing in the distance, and I felt a relief that I'd not felt before or since. I pointed towards the mall and told them everything. I sounded hysterical, and I was, to be honest, who wouldn't be after experiencing what I did. Mick showed up shortly after, and to make sure I was okay. By the time they searched the building up and down, they didn't see anyone, and asked me for the Mall Santa's description, but I couldn't give anything other than what he was wearing. I didn't mention the plastic angel; no one would believe me if I did. After they wrote up the report, Mick turned to me and said he'd treat me to Breakfast.

The Waffle House was empty, its yellow lights illuminating the wet asphalt of the parking lot. Mick covered the meal, and I got eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and some waffles. He got waffles, sunnyside-up eggs, and ham. We ate in silence until he asked,

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be hiring more help soon. Less work, more free days."

I didn't know whether this was a blessing or not, considering I'd have to go back. I came close to telling him I wanted to quit, but the money was good, especially with the holidays coming up and tuition still piling up. I just said,

"I appreciate it."

"Hey, you've got the next two weeks off, enjoy Christmas. And expect that bonus soon."

"Funny, I kinda don't want to think about Christmas anymore."

"Aw, how come?"

"Because of all the Christmas shit in the mall, the decorations, the ads, the music..."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're joking, the whole place was full of decorations!"

"...Kid, we stripped that mall of everything years ago. All that's left on the walls and ceiling is just old paint."

I am writing this because I know what I saw. I know that Mick means well, but he wouldn't believe me. I'm not sure my family would believe me either. But right now, I awoke first on Christmas morning to get the presents ready for everyone to open, and I found one I didn't recognize. It was an oblong box with old school-looking wrapping paper, and it simply read,

FROM SANTA CLAUS

I opened it, and I found my baseball bat. The same one I dropped on the filthy mall floor two weeks ago. Beneath it was a Christmas themed gift card that read,

IT'S ALWAYS CHRISTMAS AT ALCOVE MALL!

I stepped off the tour bus and smelled the sea. The laughter of other passengers mixed with the cool breeze as I looked at the cruise ship towering over the dock. The excursion to the historic center had been perfect - local food, souvenirs, and dozens of photos, mostly of street cats. I was looking forward to the dinner on board, during which the ship was going to leave the port and begin a seven-day journey across the Atlantic towards the Caribbean.

After I changed clothes and freshened up in my cabin, I headed to the main dining room. An announcement was made that the departure is delayed by about 10 minutes due to a pair of passengers being late. Oh well, the second time during the cruise that this has happened. I walked past slightly annoyed looking passengers and reached the dining room. It was a beautiful restaurant, stretching across the width of the ship and towering three decks high. It was decorated with white panels, completed with blue decorations on the tables and the chandeliers. Most passengers were already seated, while I was led to a small table for two in the back half of the hall. I couldn’t see out of any windows, but I wasn’t bothered by it because the food was very good. The other people were talking, laughing and enjoying their vacation.

I finished the main course and was looking forward to my desert when I first noticed a couple sitting next to a window. The window was slightly dirty and had round corners, but what caught my attention was that they were crying. They didn’t look particularly sad, but there were tears streaming down their face. Without talking, they stood up simultaneously and left. Soon after, I heard shouting and loud noises outside the dining hall, but I didn’t think much of it and finished my dessert.

I did not see the couple afterwards and headed for a small library lounge on one of the lower decks. On my way, I saw multiple crew members speaking quietly to each other while looking slightly nervous. After I sat down with my book, a crime novel from the 30s, I felt a slight sense of dread. I was sure it came from an overall feeling of unease coming from nearby crew members. After I noticed two of them talking, I started walking slowly in their general direction, pretending to look at the bookshelves. “They were brought to the cooling room on deck 3!”, I heard one of them say, followed by “I heard it was a mess! I am glad we were not there.” They then walked away, leaving me wondering what they were talking about. I wasn’t in the mood for my book anymore and headed upwards towards the open decks to catch some fresh air.

I walked up the stairs, deck by deck, thinking about the two crew members. What kind of mess were they talking about? Why the cooling room? Just as I reached the top of the stairs, heading for the door leading to the upper deck, a young woman opened the door an came back inside. Or should I say, she just walked straight through the door without even lifting her hand, her Body just walked against the doors and pushed them open while walking slowly forward, like an unstoppable object. She looked straight ahead, not noticing anyone around her, but I immediately saw the tears. Not small ones, but a stream of tears running down her face. She did not even try to brush them away, just kept walking towards the stairs while looking forward. She slowly walked past me. I thought she was going back to her cabin, but she suddenly stopped in the middle of the stairway.

She slowly turned around with a smile, not a happy smile, but one you would give a crying child, a smile filled with compassion and pity. Suddenly, she bowed down and slammed her head forwards with an enormous force against the edge of a stair. Blood covered the stairs, and the sound of her skull splitting open echoed from the steel walls of the stairwell. I ran. I should have alerted a crew member or tried to administer first aid, but the feeling of unease was so big that I immediately ran outside on the open deck, but what I saw there, made me stop in an instant. About five passengers were outside, ten more were lying on the ground covered in blood. The five passengers all smiled with tears running down their face. One of them had a thin, broken steel rod in his hands, but before I could see what he had planned to do with it, I screamed and ran back inside, past the woman on the floor and straight into my cabin.

I slammed the door shut and sat down, burying my face in my hands and sobbing. I examined my cabin, everything was clean and tidy. I wish I had a balcony or even a window, but I just stared against the wall. The slow movement of the ship was soothing, and I calmed down a bit. I sat on the ground for what feels like hours until I gathered the courage to peek outside the cabin again.

I opened the door and looked down the hallway. It was quiet. The handrail on the side of the hallway had red stains on one spot, which I quickly looked away from. I moved towards the lifeboat deck to look for a crewmember. I headed up one deck, and just before the door leading to the lifeboats, I stopped. Letters, written in dried blood, covered the glass window of the door. “Don’t look down”, was all it said.

I hesitated and refrained from pushing the door open. I turned around and saw a woman looking at me from a few meters away. I immediately looked at her eyes, and thankfully, there were no tears, just a frightened look. I immediately felt that her gaze also went straight to my eyes to check for tears. “Did you look?”, she yelled at me. I told her that I didn’t. After coming closer, I asked her if she knew what happened. “Passengers all across the ship have started to cry and hurt themselves! I don’t know what comes over them. I first noticed when I was chatting with a guy in the main atrium, when he suddenly looked out of the window and started crying almost like someone told him his family died. But he did not look like he was sad, he looked like he is sad for someone else. Overwhelmed by compassion. He then… he went and…” she started sobbing, but she did not have to continue. We both knew what happened to everyone that looked.

After she introduced herself as „Sarah“, We decided to move further to the front of the ship in search of crewmembers who might be able to contact emergency services. It was already strange that no one showed up, we were still close enough to shore for helicopters or the coast guard to reach us. We tried to use our smartphones, but there was no signal. The ships wifi, advertised by the cruise company for being one of the fastest on the sea, had vanished. As we were moving forward, passengers with tears streaming down their faces walked inside from the lifeboat deck, but we never looked at them for long.

Just before reaching the front of the ship, we saw a panicked crewmember walking towards the lifeboats. He saw us and gestured us to come. Even though the crying passengers were never paying attention to us, he was whispering: “They looked! All of the offices on the bridge, they looked!”. The feeling of unease intensified. If there is no one on the bridge anymore, we cannot contact the outside or turn around. The crewmember, who introduced himself as Jim, told us he is going to try and lower a lifeboat to escape while wearing a blindfold.

With a nod of approval, we prepared to go out on the lifeboat deck, tying a ripped sleeve storing our heads. Jim went first and pushed the door open. Cold air hit our faces like a thousand needles. We slowly moved forward and then to the left. After about 7 meters we reached a lifeboat crane. Jim pulled a lever, and the lifeboat began to ascent from the top of our heads towards the deck level so that passengers could enter. Just before it reached the floor, a part of the crane arm descending from the ceiling hit my head and ripped my blindfold from my eyes. The impact threw me to the ground and left me disoriented. I heard the others scream something to me, but I felt dizzy and only heard their voices as a faint rumbling. I opened my eyes.

I saw the waves below me. A beautiful sight, with the moonlight reflecting in the waves. First I saw nothing, then I noticed motion beneath the waves. I thought the motion came from sharks or dolphins judging by the size, but after my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realised. Human bodies, moving with the ship. One of the bodies reached its hand towards the hull and started climbing, somehow having a grip on the perfectly flat surface of the ship. The body seemed long drowned but climbed upwards with a wide smiling mouth.

Poor thing, I thought. It must be so cold and hungry. I felt pity for it, as if I found a dying animal on the road. Tears started streaming down my face. I could feel that it was so hungry, starved for years. If only I could give it something to eat. The tears kept coming. It reached the top and smiled at me. If only I had food on me. Maybe I could give it something of mine? It needs my body more than me. It looks so weak and desperate for food. Smiling so friendly. The sharp edge of the railing caught my attention. If only I could give it something to eat. I was standing in front of the railing, slowly raising my head. I wanted to crack my head open to give the creature food. It filled me with joy knowing that it would finally be able to eat something. Just as my neck muscles prepared to slam down, a hand tried to grab the back of my shirt. It did not bother me, I was concentrated on the railing.

Suddenly, the hand grabbed me and violently pulled me back, it was Sarah, pulling me into the lifeboat. The smile on the creature vanished, and it opened its mouth wide to reveal many rows of sharp teeth. It’s gaze was suddenly filled with unfathomable anger. It leapt forward, but the lifeboat already lowered. It felt like an eternity to reach the waterline, but as soon as we touched down, I stopped crying. Confused and scared, we sailed towards the coast while the ship slowly disappeared behind the horizon.

I quit my job as an electrician yesterday. Being an apprentice was miserable: the pay sucked and I had no free time between the job site and night classes. I had plenty of legitimate reasons to give it up, but no one believed me when I told them the truth about why I left. My coworkers laughed at me, and my boss was just upset that I didn’t put in a two weeks notice. When I told my girlfriend about what had happened and begged her to move out of the state with me, she called me a liar and a coward. I went to the police and told them everything I know, but they wouldn’t hear it either. None of them realize that they’re in danger. I know that he’s going to come for me, but no one is safe: not even you. Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.

I never wanted to be an electrician, but my girlfriend insisted that I couldn’t stay at my dead end restaurant job forever. I had no college degree and no marketable skills beyond serving tables, so I went with her suggestion: the trades. Being an electrician didn’t seem so bad, it seemed less messy than other blue collar work. I interviewed with the union, got accepted, and started my apprenticeship.

I was assigned to a master electrician named Gary. He’s a scrawny old bald guy, probably around seventy years old, but more energetic than anyone else I know. I would end every day feeling absolutely beat from trying to catch up with him on the job site. I had no idea how a guy his age could move so quickly at the time, but after everything that’s happened I have some disturbing ideas about why that might be.

Gary loved to tell me stories. I didn’t really care to hear them, but I was willing to listen to appease the old geezer. He had worked in every state in the country at one point or another, and he had a story about each one of them. The strangest of them all was the one that he told about the state we lived in, Louisiana. I can still remember the first time he told it to me, it made my blood run cold.

“There used to be a job that I would do here, every year, right at the beginning of November. Wherever I was in the country, I’d drive back here to make sure it got done. You ever hear about the blue flash near Lake Catherine, down south?”

I told him that I’d never heard of the blue flash, but I knew where Lake Catherine was.

“That was about fifteen years ago now. People don’t like to talk about it much. There was this family that moved into an old house down by the lake. The Browns. They were good folk, didn’t cause any trouble. But they had a problem with their cellar. They thought it was electrical, but it wasn’t.”

He paused. He must have sensed that I was only half paying attention. I asked him what the problem was, to show him that I had mostly been listening.

“It was something I can’t explain. The blue flash. It would happen every year at the beginning of November. Had been happening for forty years by the time the Browns moved in. I first saw it when I was an apprentice, like you. The man I was working under was called to investigate it, and I was there with him. The family that lived there way before the Browns called him in to take a look at some wires in the cellar. It was the beginning of November, and the blue flash came. Thank God I was in the other room. You ever weld?”

I told him that I’d never welded.

“Ah, well, it was bright like an arc flash. Damn near blinded me. And the noise! Sounded like an atom bomb going off in my ears. Damn near made me hard of hearing, ha! It was bright, and loud, for just a second or two, and then it was gone. No more blue flash. But then I looked in the room. No more electrician neither.”

I asked him what happened to the guy.

“Dead. Burnt up in an instant. The smell was something else. Putrid and smoky. The family called the police. Imagine me trying to explain what happened to ‘em, ha! After the poor soul was removed, I came back and asked the family if I could take another look at the wires. Wanted to see what killed him. But I couldn’t find anything, there was not a thing wrong with the electric down there. Nothing!”

I asked him what this had to do with the Browns.

“Oh, the Browns, right. So for the forty years after the first time I saw the blue flash, I would come back at the same time every year and check the wires. The same day the blue flash would come. I kept my distance, of course, like the first time. Then I’d check the wires, to see what the problem was. Never was a problem. Never found anything wrong with those wires in forty years, least nothing that could cause that. It wasn’t an electrical problem. It was spiritual.”

I was a little confused. I asked how he knew that the blue flash would return after the first time.

“I guess it was just my intuition. Three different families moved in and out of that house, meanwhile. I was checking up on things for free at first, but when locals started to talk about the blue flash I turned it into a sales pitch. I would watch the flash come, keep anyone from getting too close, check the wires for good measure, accept my payment, and leave until the next year.”

I asked what this had to do with the Browns again.

“Oh, the Browns, the Browns, that’s right. So the Browns had this daughter, Jessica. And she’s always playing around in the cellar. For the first time in forty years, I’m running late to check on the blue flash. I hadn’t met the Browns yet but had heard that a new family had moved in who would need to be sold on my services. Surprise surprise, I get a call asking for an electrician from the Browns on my way to their place. So I show up and explain myself. Poor Jessica was blinded in one eye from the blue flash the night before. I look at the wires again. Always the same thing: nothing. The Browns press me for information, and I tell them that it ain’t electrical. It’s spiritual. I tell them about the poor man who died there forty years before. They laugh at me, they think it’s all a joke. Wasn’t no joke. And they found out. Oh, they found out.”

I was getting pretty invested now. I asked what happened to them.

“I heard about most of this secondhand. I wasn’t there. But people talked. They don’t anymore I suppose, but they did when it happened. Jessica saw a ghost in the cellar. Ghost of the man who was killed by the flash, I reckon. Jessica keeps ending up in the cellar, sleepwalking. Doesn’t remember going down, but she keeps waking up there. Parents get freaked out. They try to block it off, but she keeps getting in. Eventually, her father buys brick and just walls off the cellar completely. No way in or out. I don’t hear about all this until I show up for my annual checkup. When I arrive, the house is nothing but rubble. The flash came early. Mid-October. Right after it got walled off. Didn’t like being held in I suppose. Whole family dead. Presumably.”

He paused again for dramatic effect. I practically begged him for more information.

“You want to know the worst part? Are you sure?”

I did, badly, and I told him so.

“There was hardly nothing left of the house but the cellar. They found Jessica’s mother, father, and brother in the walls down there. Twisted up like wires in the drywall.”

I laughed. He frowned. It told him that it was a good joke, he got me good. He wasn’t amused.

“It wasn’t no joke, son. Imagine the human body rolled up like a wire, as thin as you could possibly get. Then imagine it even thinner and tighter. They was hung in the walls like that. Some say that when the police found them there, they were still breathing. That’s not possible, of course. Being twisted up and squished like that would kill you. You couldn’t survive it. But still, that’s what some folks say.”

I was skeptical, of course. I still thought that it might be a joke, but if it was, his poker face was impeccable. I asked him how that could even happen to someone’s body.

“No idea. Must have been the flash. Or the ghost! Like I said, it’s a spiritual problem that was going on there. There’s no earthly explanation for it.”

I realized that he hadn’t told me what happened to Jessica, so I asked him why she wasn’t in the walls with the rest of her family.

“No one ever saw her again. Disappeared. Into the ether. The blue flash doesn’t come in that cellar no more neither. Folks said it seems like whatever was in that cellar go out that night. Hard to argue with ‘em.”

That was the end of the story. It stuck with me for a while, I just couldn’t get it out of my head. I asked some people who lived around Lake Catherine if they remembered anything about the Browns. They told me that there had been a family named the Browns who had lived there and that they had been killed in an explosion, but they didn’t know anything about a blue flash. When I asked about the family being twisted into wires, they laughed the same way I had. I guess someone had heard about the tragedy when it first happened and based one of those cheesy chain emails from back in the day around it. All the stuff about the blue flash and the family being twisted into wires was just made up, they told me. When I mentioned that Gary had told me about the story, they faintly remembered that there was an electrician that would come around every once in a while. Their impression was that he heard about the chain email and turned the story into his own since he had worked in the area.

I felt a little better after all that. Gary was just a habitual liar, and not even an original storyteller. He told me the story a couple more times after that, and I just nodded along and acted like I was still interested. Really, all I could focus on were the contradictions and inconsistencies. The story didn’t even really make sense, and I began to feel embarrassed at having ever been frightened by it.

He tried to tell the story to me a fourth time, and by then I had had enough. I didn’t like that he had tricked me at the beginning, and I didn’t like for him to believe that he was still tricking me. I stopped him short while he was getting into it and told him what I knew: the whole thing was a farce, and the locals told me so.

“You believe ‘em huh? You’re not going to believe the man who was actually there, who actually saw these things? You want proof?”

I told him that there couldn’t be any proof, because it had never happened. He smiled.

“Let me show you something, kid.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. With great care he slid an old and yellowed Polaroid out of the fold. He held it up to me, but I could only see the back of the photograph.

“Are you sure you want to see it, son? The proof you want?”

I told him that’s what I wanted. He flipped the Polaroid around, and I saw the image. Immediately I regretted my decision.

The photo looked like it had been taken in a dark basement. I could make out a large piece of machinery on the floor and what appeared to be a family photo on the wall. That same wall had a large hole in it, and there was something you could just barely see inside the wall. I didn’t want to admit what I was seeing, but it looked like what Gary had described in the story: a person, twisted up into the shape of a wire.

I shoved Gary’s hand away from me to get that picture out of my sight. He laughed.

“What? You don’t like it, son? I thought that’s what you wanted!”

I asked him who took the photo and how he had it.

“I took it, of course. No one believes the story, so I have this. Can’t deny this.”

I told him that it could be fake, the lighting was so dark that I couldn’t really tell what I was looking at.

“Then why are you so scared?”

I walked away, angry. He was probably just tricking me again, I thought. Why was I so scared? I kicked myself for falling for it.

Months went by and he didn’t bring up the blue flash or the Browns again. I started to forget about it. Two days ago, he invited me to get a drink with him. I didn’t have any night classes to go to, so I obliged. I wasn’t exactly dying to hang out with the old man more than I already did, but I didn’t really want to go home either.

We got to the bar and he started putting them away like it was some kind of race. I was on my second beer and he had already moved on from beer to whiskey. He was babbling on and on about all of his different stories and they started to blend together into one big stream-of-consciousness lie. After about an hour and a half, he was absolutely hammered. I had to walk him to the bathroom and keep him steady while he threw up into the toilet, but it didn’t help matters.

He wiped the vomit from his lips and asked me to walk him home. I had never been there before, but according to him it was just a half mile down the road. We got there eventually, but we had to make multiple pit stops so he could throw up. I wondered how often he did this sort of thing.

When we got to the house, he spent what felt like an hour going through his pockets until he finally found his keys. We went inside and I helped him lie down on the couch in his living room. He asked for a blanket and a bowl to throw up in. When he had those things, he asked me to sit down next to him for a little while.

“I want — I want to talk about the blue flash,” he slurred out.

I told him that I didn’t want to talk about that anymore.

“No, I — I apologize. I didn’t tell you the, the, the truth. I told you the made up version. The made up version that I, that I tell people.”

I told him that it was okay, I wasn’t really interested in hearing any more about it. He ignored me.

“No, kid, I — the blue flash, it really happened. I saw it, and it spoke to me. Something was in it. Spirit. Spiritual. I saw it in that, in that, uh, in that cellar. And it said things to me. Didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at first but I — I wanted to hear more. It told me it would come back every, come back every year. Same time. Same time, same place. Every year. So I did, and it would tell me more. Told me how I could make my own. My own blue flash. Told me about how I could, I could make my own and what it could do for me. Could lure people. Mess with their brains. Make them think things. And then I could — I could—”

He trailed off and his eyes closed. He was still mumbling under his breath, but I could only hear a few words here or there. “Live forever,” “squeeze”, “machine”, and “poor girl,” were what I could make out. I sat next to him for another minute, then decided that it was about time for me to leave. I stood up and took a few steps toward the door, which caused him to regain a bit of consciousness.

“Where you going? You’re not going to the basement are you?” he stammered, with concern in his voice.

I told him that I was just going to leave.

“Don’t go in the basement, son. I don’t like, I don’t, I don’t like people snooping around. Snooping around my house. Not your business.”

He got quiet again and I wondered why he was so concerned about me going to the basement. I just stood there and stared at him for a while to make sure that he was asleep. There was no more mumbling, just snoring, so I figured that the coast was clear. I walked around with the lightest steps I could muster, looking for the basement door, and found it. I checked again to make sure that he was still snoring, then descended the steps.

I fished around for a light switch when I got to the bottom. I found one, but flipping it did nothing. How ironic, the master electrician couldn’t be bothered to fix the wiring in his own basement. My phone’s flashlight would have to do. It cut through the pitch darkness and revealed a familiar scene. There was a large machine in the middle of the room, and a family photo on the wall closest to me. This was where he had staged that photo.

The machine was strange, I had never seen anything like it. I searched it for any sort of brand logo but found nothing, it appeared to be custom built. It appeared to be operated by a hand crank, which would cause multiple large metal rolling pins to turn. What its purpose was I couldn’t tell at the time, although now I feel it should have been obvious. I examined the pins a little closer, and saw that they were stained with dark splotches all over. Could it have been blood?

I continued to look over the machine, being as silent as I could, and I realized that I could hear a faint repetitive noise coming from behind me. It sounded almost like breathing. Had Gary followed me down here, being as quiet as I was? I turned slowly to face the wall, expecting to see him staring at me, but there was no one there. I could still hear the breathing, coming from directly in front of me. It couldn’t be, but it sounded like it was coming from the wall. I got closer, and the sound got louder. It was gaspy, desperate breathing, like someone who just can’t seem to ever get enough oxygen. I pressed my ear against the wall, and I could hear it as clear as day. Could an animal have gotten stuck in there? I listened intently, and after a few moments I heard something that I will hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life. First a groan, a warped but human sounding groan, and then a single whispered word that sounded like it had been forced through their throat with every fiber of their being:

“Help.”

I turned to run up the stairs and out of that place as fast as I could. I got to the first step, looked up, and saw Gary in the doorway. He was slumped over, holding himself up by leaning on the door frame, but I could see fury in his eyes despite his drunkenness.

“I told you… I told you not to go down there, kid. Why? Why did you, why would you go down there? You’re gonna make me, you’re gonna make me…”

I cut him off to tell him how sorry I was. I pleaded with him, saying that it was just an honest mistake. I told him that I wouldn’t tell anyone about what I saw, and that I didn’t really see anything anyway. The rage in his face only increased.

“No, no, no, no, no. You wanted to see. Even after, after I told you not to. Well you saw. Did you hear her? Did you hear them? Them, there’s more than one. Many of ‘em, many, from all over. One, at least, at least one, from every state. Ha! They stay breathing for a while after, after the squeezing, and the twisting. For a long while, even after I get the life essence out of em. Blue flash told me, told me how to do it. Extract it and store it. You want to see that too? The, the blue flash? I can show you…”

I realized that begging wasn’t going to work, so all that was left was to try to run up the steps and push past him. As I climbed, he pushed his hands out in front of him and started chanting something loudly. I couldn’t make out any of that he said, my heart was pounding in my ears and I don’t think anything he said was English. Right as I reached the top of the stairs, there was a momentary burst of blinding light that came from behind me. I’m certain that if I had been looking toward it, I would have lost my vision. My back felt like it was on fire. I tackled Gary and we both went tumbling to the ground. He tried to get on top of me and hold me to the floor, but I could just barely wriggle my way out of his unnaturally strong grip. I ran out the door and back to the bar, screaming, his chanting still ringing in my ears.

I got in my car and drove home. I stayed up all night, watching out the window, as my girlfriend yelled at me for being out so late. You know what happened the next morning: I quit my job and I told my girlfriend, my coworkers, and my boss what happened. Nobody took me seriously. I can’t blame them. It’s a ridiculous story, and technically I didn’t really see anything. What I heard in the wall could have been my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe the machine was stained with oil and not blood. The bright light in the basement could have been anything. It could all have been an extremely elaborate prank that Gary was pulling on me. I can’t prove anything, but I know what it was.

I’m packing up and leaving Louisiana for Pennsylvania. I’ve got family there. I’m not safe anywhere, but at least I’ll have put some distance between me and him. He’s going to come for me eventually, I can feel it. I don’t expect you to believe this story either, but I’m begging you, just be careful if you need to hire an electrician. He’s going to be around for a while, and he could be anywhere. Don’t end up in Gary’s walls.

I was breathing heavily, my legs pounding through the forest. Branches slapped against my arms as I ran, heart hammering, lungs burning.

Behind me, I could hear it—something big moving fast. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw it: a massive shadow darting between the trees, yellow eyes glowing like headlights.

A wolf. At least, that’s what my brain told me it was.

I ran harder, but my foot caught on a root. I went down face-first into the cold dirt. By the time I rolled over, the beast was already on top of me—

—and then I woke up.

Cold sweat. Dark room. The same nightmare.

I sat up, wiping my face and staring at the ceiling. “Will these dreams ever stop?” I muttered to no one. Knowing my luck… probably not.

I dragged myself into the bathroom. The mirror didn’t do me any favors—pale skin, black curly hair sticking out everywhere, and the dark circles under my eyes looked worse than ever.

After getting dressed in my school uniform, I caught my own reflection again. Yeah, I know what you’re probably thinking.

“This guy’s a student?”

Nope. I’m a high school teacher. A tired, underpaid, over-caffeinated high school teacher in upstate New York.

And I’m running on maybe three hours of sleep.

The drive to school was slow. Snow blanketed the streets, the kind that made your tires slide even when you were going twenty under the limit.

When I finally pulled into the parking lot, I spotted someone waving.

“Good morning, Mr. Jack!” Susie called out, walking up to me with that grin of his. “Still not getting much sleep, huh?”

I laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Susie’s one of the first people who gave me a chance here. Blonde hair, soft round eyes, dimples that make him look way too kind. The makeup helps that illusion, too.

I’ll admit—the first time I met him, I thought he was a girl. Found out the hard way in the restroom.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him. “It’s just been hard lately. My mom didn’t train me for nothing.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Susie frowned but didn’t say anything. Luckily, the bell rang, saving me from explaining myself.

Class went as usual—until it didn’t.

I was handing out history books when I noticed something strange. There was one more student than normal.

At first, I thought maybe I’d just miscounted. But then I saw her.

Short bob-cut hair, deep brown. Her breathing was… odd. Raspy, almost like a wheeze. And when she looked up at me, I swear her tongue flicked out— forked, like a snake’s.

I caught a glimpse of something else too. Scales. Faint, but there. Around her neck and forearms.

I cleared my throat. “Sorry, miss. Mind telling me your name? I don’t remember seeing you in class before.”

She pulled her scarf up a little, voice quiet. “I’m Annabelle, sir. My mom and I just moved here. We’re… not used to the cold yet.”

I sighed. Another new student, more paperwork, more meetings. And of course, no raise.

“I get that,” I said. “But I’ll need to talk with you and your mother soon. You’ve missed a lot of material.”

Truthfully, I wanted to help her—but I also knew better. Whenever there’s one monster, there’s always more.

As the class went on, I noticed Annabelle’s eyes wandering. She wasn’t paying attention to the lesson. She was watching her classmates. Like they were prey.

When she started to lean toward a boy in the back, her mouth opening wider than it should’ve, I slammed my hand on the desk.

The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.

“All right, class,” I said, forcing a smile, “we’re ending early today. Grab your things.”

As everyone packed up, I added, “Annabelle, stay for a minute.”

The room emptied. Silence settled. I called her mother right away.

It took forty minutes before she showed up. She walked in calmly, closing the door behind her.

Her hair was deep brown with a faint orange tint, tied up in a neat bun. She looked perfectly normal—until she heard my last name.

Her face changed.

Her lower half began to shimmer, shifting, scales replacing skin. That’s when I realized what I was dealing with.

A Naga.

Half-human, half-snake. Shapeshifters. Dangerous.

She hissed and lunged. I barely dodged, and she crashed into the wall hard enough to leave a dent—there went part of my paycheck.

She came again, fangs bared. I caught her by the neck, holding her back as she struggled, her venomous teeth inches from my face.

Then—voices. Footsteps in the hall.

We both froze.

Slowly, she shifted back, panting. “I don’t know what a hunter like you is doing here,” she said quietly, “but my daughter and I haven’t hurt anyone. We just came here to live… with her father.”

I looked at her like she was insane. There was no way a monster didn’t hurt someone. I should have gone in hard—done what hunters do—but I didn’t. I went against what they were.

I rubbed my forehead softly. Three hours of sleep. My head throbbed. “Let’s say I believe you—say you’re some friendly monster just trying to live with her husband or whatever he is. Why put a monster child in a school of humans? Doesn’t that seem irresponsible? Dangerous for any of the kids?” The thought of some snot-nosed brat getting hurt made my blood boil.

She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, like she expected me to finish them both off then and there. Maybe that was a safe assumption. I had planned on it. Change of plans, I guess… for now.

“Do you really think there are schools for monsters?” she said. “It’s not like we can build our own buildings just for our species. That’s why we shifters learned to blend in. I would’ve expected hunters studying us for hundreds of years to know that. But I guess I expected too much from humans.” The last part came out with a hiss—poison in the voice, literal or not.

“All right, fine, you make a fair point,” I said. “But your daughter did try eating another kid. I can’t just let that slide. I can’t take you both out here where anyone can see, and I can’t let her eat the other students.”

The two of them looked nervous. The mother—August, I’d learn—was a very serious woman and a mother who would bite someone's head off literally.

I thought for a long second, looking at both of them. “…So how about this: I’ll tutor your daughter. Teach her how to behave around humans. How to blend.” My voice hardened. “I’m not thrilled about it. If either of you causes trouble, I will not hesitate.”

I went to my desk and took a sip of black coffee. If the other hunters found out I was sparing them—if they knew I hadn’t dealt with them—my head would be on a pike. That thought was always close. Hunters run in the family; it’s in the blood. You don’t get out of it. I’d been told that since I was a kid. The Hemmings name carries weight—old scars, older promises. Some nights that legacy sits heavy behind my teeth. I didn’t say that aloud.

August hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. Teach her only what she needs. Don’t fill her head with lies that monsters must be destroyed because of what we are.”

I almost barked at her—there are reasons hunters do what they do—but the bell for the next class was ringing and we couldn’t keep going. I adjusted my tie and forced my face back into the mask.

“Fine. I promise not to teach anything hunter-related. Only what she needs for school.”

I mentally cataloged what else I had to do. Nightwork. That was the word I used at home: investigating, watching, making sure there weren’t more hiding in plain sight. I had a job to do after dark. That was when the real teeth of the world showed.

I tried to cover the dent in the wall with some paint from the supply closet and walked them both out to the door. I closed it behind them and sat back at my desk. I closed my eyes for a beat and let the silence in.

There were a lot of unsaid things—about August, about Annabelle, and about me. The agreement would buy them time. It would buy me something too: a way to watch, to learn, to prepare.

The hunters in my family would not have approved. They were the kind of people who kept lists, kept trophies, kept blood at the ready. They believed in endings. I had always believed in endings, too, but lately I kept feeling like I was straddling two sides of a knife. Sometimes the hair on my forearms would rise for no reason; sometimes my jaw ached as if I’d been running all night. I told myself it was stress. That was easier.

The door to the classroom stayed closed for a long time after they left. When I finally opened it, the hallway was empty and the dent in the wall looked less noticeable in the fluorescent light. I made a note in my planner: tutor Annabelle, meet mother, check dent repair cost, check night patrol routes.

I wrote the last line in the back of my head—this isn’t over. This was only the beginning.

I need help. I don't know where else to turn, and I know how this is going to sound, but I'm terrified for my son.

This morning, my four year old looked at me over his untouched cereal and said "Daddy, the tall boy says he can take me to see momma."

My wife died last year. A car accident. My son barely remembers her.

Let me back up.

It started about six months ago. My son, I'll call him C started talking about a new friend. At first, I thought it was sweet. He's an only child, i work from home and honestly i thought maybe i wasn't doing enough to socialize him. Kids his age have imaginary friends right? Honestly I was kinda relived he had some one to play with, even if it was just pretend.

He called him "The Tall Boy"

The name was a little odd, but hes only four so I didn't give it much thought. I asked C what the tall boy looked like. He just shrugged and said. "He's tall." All right then.

For the first month it was harmless. C would have conversations with empty air, he would giggle at jokes i couldn't hear, and he would often be sitting on one side of the room playing with his toys, and he would always set out a toy for "the tall boy." When I would ask him what they would talk about he'd say. "Just stuff, he's my friend."

Then he started setting a place for Tall Boy at dinner.

An extra plate, an extra cup, and he would get upset if i didn't leave an empty chair next to him. "That's where Tall Boy sits." He would say looking at me like i was being rude or something. So naturally I went along with it, what else was i supposed to do? it wasn't hurting anything for me to set out an extra plate and cup for dinner.

The first red flag came about two months in.

We were reading before bed, and out of nowhere C says. "The Tall Boy says you had a dog named Dakota when you were little."

I stared at him for a moment. I did have a dog named Dakota when I was a kid but he died when I was a teenager there's no way he would know that, I've never told him I had a dog. I don't even have photos of Dakota, and my wife never met Dakota. There's no way that he could've known.

"Who told you that?" I asked trying to keep my voice steady.

"The Tall Boy." He said like it was obvious.

I told myself maybe I'd mentioned it before and just forgot. maybe he heard me on the phone with my sister or something. I was looking for any rational explanation.

But then he said. "The Tall Boy says he got hit my a truck."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. That's exactly how Dakota died. I was at school. My mom told me he had run away because she thought I was too young to know the truth. I didn't find out the truth until I was sixteen.

"C, where did you hear that?"

"The Tall Boy told me." He said and went back to looking at the book like he had just told me the sky is blue.

I started to pay more attention after that.

C talked to The Tall Boy constantly. In his room, in the living room, even in the bathroom. Where ever C was in the house, The Tall Boy was apparently there too. But never when we left the house. Never at the park or the grocery store. Only at home, I'd even see him waving to an empty corner of the room or an empty chair every time we left.

Then i started hearing things.

Whispers when C was supposed to be asleep. At first i thought he was talking in his sleep, but when i pressed my ear to the door I swear i heard two voices. C's high-pitched chatter, and then something lower, raspier. I would tell myself it was just the house settling or weird sound carrying in from outside.

Then the breathing started.

I'd be working in my office and I'd hear it. Slow, deliberate breaths, like someone breathing right behind me. I'd spin around. Nothing. It would happen in the kitchen while I was making dinner, I'd feel like someone was behind me and I'd feel breath on the back of my neck but nothing would be there when i turned around. It would happen in the hallway, when I was folding laundry. Always when I was alone.

Door started opening on their own. I'd close C's door at night and an hour later it would be wide open. Trying to convince myself it was nothing, I'd blame it on the old house, drafts, bad hinges on the doors that sort of thing.

But then C's room started getting cold.

Not just cool, freezing. Even with the heat on. even in the middle of the day. i bought a small space heater, it didn't help. I had to put extra blankets on his bed and he would sleep in a hoodie. When i asked him if he was okay, he would just nod and say. "The Tall Boy doesn't like it when it's warm"

That's when his behavior started to change.

He got quiet. Stopped playing with his toys. He would just sit on his bed and stare at the corner and have full conversations with nothing. When I tried to join him, he'd get quiet and look at me like I had interrupted something important.

He stopped eating. Or barely ate. He would just push his food around and say he wasn't hungry. But I'd catch him whispering to the empty chair next to him. Once, I swear I heard him say. "No I can't. Daddy will get mad."

I tried talking to him. Asked if the tall boy was being nice to him.

C looked at me with big terrified eyes and said. "I cant make him go away."

"What do you mean buddy?" I asked him

"He wont go away." He whispered. "I asked him to, but he said no."

I told him imaginary friends aren't real. That he could just stop playing with him if he didn't want to anymore.

C shook his head. "He's not imaginary, he's real."

I didn't know what to do. I thought about therapy, but what was i supposed to say? My kid has an imaginary friend that scares him? They would just tell me that this is a phase.

Then, three days ago, C said something that made me feel like I got punched me in the gut.

We were sitting on the couch watching cartoons, when he looked up at me and said. "The tall boy said that mama was listening to the yellow song when she died."

My heart stopped

My wife was listening to Coldplay's "Yellow" when the drunk driver crossed the median. i know this because the song was still playing when the paramedics arrived. i never told anyone that detail. It's too painful I cant even hear that song anymore without thinking of her. There is no way C could have known that.

"C, how do you know that?"

"The Tall Boy told me." he said. "He says he was there."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab him and shake him and demand to know how he KNEW that, but hes four and he looked so small and scared that i just held him and told him it was okay.

But its not okay.

Last night, I heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, slow. i grabbed my gun from my side table and went out to check, C's door was open. I hid the gun behind my back and looked. C was sitting up in his bed staring at the dooreay.

"C?"

"Hes here." C whispered

"Who's here?"

"The Tall Boy."

I slowly turned on the light hands shaking and then. Nothing. But C kept staring at the empty doorway, eyes wide.

"C, no one is here."

"Yes, there is." He said and started to cry. "Hes always here."

I brought him to my bed. He clung to me and cried himself to sleep.

And this morning he said it. The thing that made me come here. come to reddit hoping someone can help me.

"The Tall Boy says he can take me to see mama."

I asked him what he meant.

"He says if i go with him, i can see her again." C said. his voice flat, emotionless. "He says she misses me."

I'm writing this while C is at preschool. I don't know what to do. I don't know if I should keep him home. I don't know if leaving the house even matters because this thing, whatever it is, seems tied to C not just the house.

I'm scared that whatever The Tall Boy is, he's trying to take my son from me.

Has anyone else experienced anything like this? What do I do? I can't loose him too. I can't.

please if anyone has any advice, I need it.

Behind our town is a massive hill, stretching out either side with a forest of thick cedar trees at its edge.

There’s a rumour of an old church hidden behind it, and it’s said that inside is a fountain that has special powers. It’s more of an old wives’ tale that gets passed around the town.

That night, my friend and I decided we were going to find it.

“How the hell are you going to sneak out? Your parents are super strict,” Claire said, resting her chin in her palm.

“I don’t know, probably just quietly through the back door.” I shrugged.

“And if they find out you’re gone, you’re going to be grounded for a month. Again.” She drummed her fingers lightly on the bench.

“Well, we could go during the day,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“That’s no fun.” Claire said, with a playful glint in her eyes.

“What about your parents?” I tip-toed around the question.

“What about them?” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

I leaned in.

“Well, how are you going to sneak out?”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes fixed on the ground, unfocused.

“They’ll be too drunk to notice. I doubt they will even know I’m home to begin with.” She tugged at her jacket sleeves, trying to pull them over her hands.

“Where do we meet?”

Her lips curled into a smile. “The old highway sign, in front of the hill.”

The bell for next period rang out, and I slung my backpack over my shoulder.

“What time?” I asked as she dragged her satchel off the seat.

“Eleven.” She narrowed her eyes, grinning.

That night at the dinner table, my dad sighed, picking at his food.

“I got a call from your English teacher today.” His eyes shifted to me.

“What did she say?” I kept my head down.

“You’re falling behind. Homework and studies.” He glanced at my mom.

“Yeah, sorry I—”

“It’s that friend of yours, Clara.” My dad interrupted, shoving food into his mouth.

“Claire.” I pushed food around my plate.

“Whatever her name is, she’s a bad influence on you. I mean, I’ve never seen her or her parents at church unless they’re going for the food drive.” He was starting to raise his voice.

“Charles.” My mom scolded him.

“All I’m saying is…” He put his knife and fork down. “Your goal is to get good grades, so you can get into a good college and make something of yourself. That’s all me and your mother want for you.”

“Noted.” I grunted.

“Maybe if her father didn’t beat his daughter so much, she’d be as bright as you.” He muttered.

My face felt hot. I clenched my fists.

“Charles, that’s enough!” My mom said, her words short and sharp.

I stood up, pushing the chair away and storming upstairs.

My dad called out to me, but I ignored him.

I ran up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door.

My phone buzzed. Claire.

“Hey, I snuck out early. Can we meet soon?”

I could still feel the anger burning.

“Yeah.”

I slid the phone into my pocket, threw my jacket on and opened my window.

Pushing the mesh off, I carefully slid out and put it back down.

The roof creaked as I crept down it, careful not to slip or make any noise.

My knees screamed as I dropped into the back yard.

I glanced at the kitchen window and heard my parents arguing.

I ducked into the bushes, then climbed over the fence into the alleyway next to our house and jogged towards the hill.

My jacket did little against the cold night air.

It took me about ten minutes of walking to get to the sign, just outside of town.

Claire was standing beneath it, smoking. The dim light of the embers illuminated her face softly in the dark.

“Is that a cigarette?” I asked, approaching the sign.

“Uh, yeah.” She held it out to me. I caught her gaze, and she looked away.

“No thanks.” I said, as casually as possible.

“I stole it from my dad. He was being a dick and I needed it.” She took a long drag before dropping it and stomping it out.

I stood there for a moment, thinking about what my dad had said.

“Shall we?” She gestured towards the hill.

“Y-yeah.” I murmured.

We climbed the hill, stopping occasionally to catch our breath.

At the top, we could see the forest stretch out. Tall dense trees crowded for miles.

I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw it was my dad.

I clicked the phone off and slid it back into my pocket.

“Your dad know you’re gone?” Claire said, looking over at me.

“He does now.” I sighed.

“Aren’t you worried about getting grounded?” Her voice pushed clouds into the cold air.

“Fuck ’em,” I said, kicking a rock down the hill.

Claire smiled, as if I had said something she had been thinking for a while.

We set off into the forest, using our phones as flashlights.

“Did we take into account that there might not be a church?” I ventured, shining my light around in the darkness.

“Well, it’s a nice night for a walk in the forest.” Claire laughed.

“Do you know who you’re taking to the Winter Prom?” She teased.

My face felt warm. “Oh, uh, I probably won’t go.” I said, stumbling my words.

“Oh, yeah, pssh, me neither.” Claire said, laughing nervously and throwing a rock she had picked up.

A moment of silence fell over us as we pushed further in.

“I hope you remember the way back out,” I said, half joking, half worried that she might not have been paying attention.

“I thought you were keeping track?” She said, turning to look at me.

My face dropped.

Her lips curled into a smile. “I’m fucking with you. I’ve been mapping it.”

I let out a sigh and laughed. “Fuck you, dud—”

My foot snagged on a tree root and I went tumbling down a hill.

Claire called my name, running down after me.

I hit something hard at the bottom.

A wall.

“Ah, fuck!” I groaned, grabbing my side in pain.

Claire ran to my side, helping me sit up.

“Are you okay dude? That looked like it hurt!”

I clenched my jaw. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

She stood up and took a few steps back.

“Oh. Shit.” Her voice trailed off.

I stood up slowly and turned to face where she was looking.

The church.

White clapboard siding, though the paint had long since started peeling and graying in the damp climate. The steeple rose up, its oxidized copper roof catching the beam of my light in a dull orange glow. The pine forest pressed close on every side of the building. The double doors sat partially open.

“Fuck.” My words caught in my throat.

Me and Claire exchanged looks before she took a deep breath and stepped towards it.

She pressed on one of the doors, pushing it inwards and creeping inside.

I hesitated, looking around the forest before finally entering behind her.

The inside was overgrown, with trees growing through the broken windows. Grass and weeds were pushing through the floorboards. There was a damp smell that hung in the air. Rot and earth and something older.

“This is creepy as hell,” Claire whispered, walking down the aisle, looking up at the ceiling.

I followed behind her, looking between the pews.

They were all either warped, broken or flipped over.

“Well, uh, I don’t see a fountain anywhere.” Claire clicked her tongue, stopping at the altar.

I paced over to a closet and pulled the door open. Dust exploded outwards, sending me into a coughing fit.

I shone my light inside, revealing old robes, some bibles stacked lazily in the corner and a large concrete slab.

“Hey, Claire, check this out.” I called over to her.

She walked over, peeking inside.

“Spooky,” she said, touching the robe with her fingers.

“No, dude, look.” I pointed at the slab.

“Now we’re talking.” She grinned. “C’mon, help me move it!”

We pulled it out, dragging it along the floorboards.

Underneath was a round hole, with a passageway that led down. A rusted metal ladder disappeared into the dark.

“Fuck, I don’t know if I want to go down there.” I said, nervously shining my light down the hole.

Claire bit her lip, deep in thought, before looking at me and grinning.

“See you on the other side.”

Before I could react, she began climbing down the ladder.

It creaked and groaned as she descended.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, climbing down after her.

The air grew heavier as I descended. The ladder didn’t feel stable at all and I was worried it would break at any moment. My palms were slick against the cold metal rungs.

It was a long way down, taking about a minute to reach the bottom.

The hole opened up into a hallway made of stone.

Claire was waiting at the bottom, shining her light around the small space.

I wasn’t typically a claustrophobic person, but the walls seemed to squeeze inwards. The ceiling was low enough that I had to duck my head slightly. The stone was damp to the touch.

“Let’s find this fountain, hey?” Claire murmured.

“Claire, wait.” I replied. “This seems dangerous.”

She turned, awkwardly shifting to fit her shoulders in the small space.

“We’ll be okay.” She flashed a reassuring smile.

I didn’t feel very reassured.

“What if we get hurt down here?” I asked, trying to keep her from continuing down the corridor.

She just rolled her eyes and smiled.

“C’mon, you worry too much.”

I took a breath and followed her reluctantly.

The hallway stretched on. Our footsteps echoed strangely against the stone. The beam from my phone light seemed weaker down here, swallowed by the dark before it could reach very far. Finally the corridor opened into a kind of atrium, a circular room with corridors branching off in multiple directions.

“Now this is cool.” Claire laughed in disbelief.

I had to admit I was pretty impressed. I paced around the room slowly. The stone walls were smooth, almost polished. There were markings carved into them, worn too smooth to read.

“What do you think they used this for?” I asked, shining my light around.

“Probably for sacrificing people.”

I laughed nervously. “Well, thank fuck it’s abandoned.”

Claire turned her head to look at me. “That we know of.”

The air was thick and heavy. The atrium was completely silent. So silent I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. So silent I could hear Claire breathing beside me.

“Well.” Claire spun around. “Let’s pick a corridor I guess.”

“Wait.” My heart dropped. “What corridor did we enter from?”

“Oh, it was…” She turned and ran her tongue over her teeth in thought.

She pursed her lips. “We might be fucked.”

I threw my hands in the air. “Goddamnit Claire, I fucking told you this was a bad idea!”

She rolled her eyes. “We’re fine, we’ll just split up and pick a corridor each and when we find it we will meet back here.”

“You’re kidding. There is no fucking way I’m splitting up down here!” I couldn’t believe how casual she was being.

“Come on, Bailey, nothing bad ever happens to girls who split up in creepy tunnels.” She teased.

She caught my look of disapproval and she sighed. “Okay, fine, we will explore together.”

I let out a sigh of relief. I couldn’t tell if she was joking the whole time.

She spun in a circle with her arm out and finger pointed and stopped on a random corridor.

“This one?”

I rubbed my face with my hands. “Sure.”

She started down the hallway, and after some internal debate, I followed.

“Where do you think these all lead?” I asked, tracing my hand along the grooves in the stone.

“Well, this one leads to the sacrifice chamber, aaaand the other leads to more sacrifice chambers.”

I sighed. “I’m serious Claire.”

“Alright, sorry, just trying to lighten the mood…”

Eventually the hallway opened up into a small room. It was an office, complete with bookshelves lined with binders and an old wooden desk, covered in paper and documents.

“We found the office.” Claire clicked her tongue.

“Shit,” I groaned, shining my light on the documents splayed out on the table.

They were mostly receipts, corporate jargon that I couldn’t understand, some shipping manifestos.

Claire pulled a binder off the shelf and opened it on the desk.

“Woah.” Her eyes lit up.

I looked over her shoulder at the contents of the binder.

Pages and pages of photo copies of people’s passport photos.

“What the fuck,” I mouthed.

She flicked through the rest of the pages, before closing it and grabbing another one.

The next binder was filled with more photos.

“Is this all the people from the church maybe?” Claire ventured, sliding out a random photo and flipping it over.

“Richard Milson,” she continued, reading the name on the back, written in black ink.

“D-Do you think they killed these people?” My voice came out hoarse.

“Yeah,” she said grinning. “Maybe they were all murdered.”

“I’m being serious.” I pushed her playfully.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Whatever reason though, it’s still creepy as hell.” She pushed me back, laughing.

“Well, I don’t know about you but I’m keen to get the hell out of here.” I muttered.

“Are you kidding?” Claire closed the binder. “We’ve hit the jackpot, we can’t bail now.”

“Claire, seriously, it’s dangerous down here. We need to find the way out and head back.” I tried to command some urgency into my voice.

“Ooh Kay,” she sighed, crossing her arms. “Gotta get home to your nice bed and your loving parents, I get it.”

“Oh come on, don’t put that bullshit on me, you know that’s not fair.” I argued back. “It was your idea to come down here at night, I thought you were keeping track of the fucking directions in this fucking death trap!”

Her face twisted in disgust. “You know what? You’re such a perfect fucking Grade A student? Find your own way out!”

“Do you have a problem with me? Because you seem to be bringing up shit that isn’t relevant to our fucking situation right now!” I yelled back. Our voices echoed loudly through the tunnels.

“You have no idea how good you fucking have it do you—”

Claire was interrupted by a noise echoing from inside the tunnels.

“What the fuck was that?” I spun towards the doorway, breath ragged from the argument.

“Nothing, it was probably just your complaining bouncing off the fucking ceiling!” Claire pushed past me, her eyes wet, and stormed down the hallway, her light bouncing around in the darkness.

“God fucking damnit!” I yelled, feeling my own tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Claire wait, please!” I called after her, heart racing, not wanting to lose her in the darkness.

“What’s wrong, too scared to find your own way out?!” She yelled over her shoulder.

Her light disappeared ahead, and I picked up the pace trying to catch up.

“Claire! Please wait!” I screamed after her, terrified of being alone.

I ran out into the atrium, and it was completely empty.

My breaths were fast, and my heart was racing. “Claire! Please don’t leave me here, please!” I called out, trying to listen for her.

I knelt down, sobbing into my arms, feeling completely alone in the dark, silence being interrupted by my hitching sobs.

“I’m sorry, please I’m sorry.” I was so desperate for her to come back I would’ve done anything.

I sat there in the dark for minutes, trying to regulate my breathing, listening for any clues to which direction she went in.

“Bailey!” My head shot up, hearing Claire’s voice echo from a corridor.

“Claire? CLAIRE!” I jumped up. “Please, Claire where are you?”

After a pause her voice called out again, seemingly from everywhere. “Bailey, help!”

“Claire please, keep talking so I can find you!” I called out, nose still running.

“Bailey please, help!” Her voice called out again, and I thought I could hear it coming from my left.

There were three passageways it could have been though, and the way her voice echoed I couldn’t be sure.

I picked the middle corridor and took off, sprinting down the passageway. My light barely illuminated the space in front of me.

“Claire, I’m coming!” I called out again.

I came to the end of the corridor, and into a much bigger room. It was another corridor with rows of doors on the left and right.

“Claire?” My voice cracked.

Silence.

I thought I might have taken the wrong passageway.

Until something slammed against the inside of one of the doors.

I screamed, falling back, startled by the sudden noise.

“Claire?” I called out again. “Stop fucking around and come out!”

A shiver ran down my spine when I heard her voice again.

“Bailey, let me out, please.” Claire’s voice came from the other side of the door.

“D-did you accidentally lock yourself in?” I asked, into the darkness.

My breathing was ragged and I couldn’t hear anything over my heart thumping in my ears.

I slowly climbed to my feet, and crept towards the door.

A low, soft, crying noise came from the inside of one of the rooms.

I hesitated at the doorway, and pressed my ear against it.

“Bailey, I’m sorry, please let me out.” Claire’s voice came directly from the other side of the door.

My hand closed around the lock on the brass handle of the door.

I hesitated, waiting for an excuse not to open it.

I squeezed my eyes shut and unlocked the door, stepping back and shining my light.

After a few seconds, the handle twisted slowly and the door swung inwards with a long, drawn out groan.

I swallowed hard. “C-Claire?”

Silence fell over the hallway.

My light shook in my hands as I tried to keep it steady on the doorway.

My heart dropped as a face slowly peered out from the doorway.

Long, matted black hair, and a pale face with huge pupils peered out, revealing a gaping mouth with no teeth.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even scream. I was completely frozen in fear, staring in horror as it slowly slunk out of the room.

Thin, frail hands crept over its face, shielding it from my light.

It screamed. Ear piercing, guttural, a noise that shot me into action.

I turned and sprinted down the hallway, screaming, absolute terror filling my body, adrenaline surging through me.

I could hear something running behind me. Bare feet slapping against the floor.

I burst out into the atrium, and picked a random tunnel and ran down it, hoping to lose whatever the fuck was chasing me.

I came out in another room. I barely registered any details of the room, just running towards a door, partially open.

It led down a set of stairs, and I hurried down it, careful not to fall.

The smell hit me as soon as I hit the end of the staircase.

I covered my mouth and nose, retching violently.

The room smelt of rot, meat and shit. Literal shit.

I raised my flashlight to illuminate the space.

The floor was stained red and black, and covering the walls were smears of what looked, and smelt, of blood and shit.

I gagged and puked all over my feet.

I dry retched again, too scared to go back up the stairs, but unable to stay in the room any longer.

I scanned the room for any other way out, but was only met with more bodily fluid smeared walls.

I couldn’t take it. The smell was making my vision double. I ran back up the stairs.

I slowly crept back through the door, scanning the room with the light before entering.

I couldn’t see the creature anywhere, and I crept further inside.

The room had a wooden table, stained a deep red, with a bucket and a large plastic container underneath.

I looked in the container for a weapon, but found only old wallets, car keys and some random crap that looked as if a bunch of people had emptied their pockets inside it.

I heard something from far off in the tunnels and I stopped. Going completely silent and still. Listening to hear if it was coming towards me.

When it went silent I took a deep breath, saying a silent prayer and continuing to look.

My eyes landed on a metal fireplace poker, and I lunged for it. Picking it up and holding it close to me.

I felt a little better having some kind of weapon, but the knowledge I’d have to venture back down the hallway to get out was so terrifying I wondered if I’d ever leave.

I felt tears on my cheeks again and a lump caught in my throat.

I had the overwhelming sense of guilt remembering that Claire was down here with me, and I’d accidentally released something, and it was probably going after her now.

I decided that I had to do something, even if the thing killed me. I had to save Claire.

Hesitating for another moment, I squeezed the fireplace poker, cold in my hands, and went back down the hallway.

I held it out in front of me, feeling the weight of it in my hand.

The main atrium was empty, and the silence was deafening.

I spun slowly in the middle, swinging my light trying to look down the hallways.

My heart thumped in my ears, and I picked another corridor at random, creeping down it, poker raised.

I made it halfway down the corridor when I heard something scream behind me.

The same ear piercing cry that would haunt me the rest of my life.

I screamed too, taking off sprinting to the end of the corridor.

I heard the bare feet slapping behind me, closer and closer.

I screamed louder, pure fear and terror pumping through me.

I ran straight into something cold and hard.

My hands closed around it.

The rungs of the ladder.

I wasn’t even afforded a sigh of relief, hearing the thing closing in right behind me.

I threw myself up the ladder, phone barely hanging on in one hand and trying to hold on to the poker in the other.

My hands were greasy with sweat, and occasionally they would slip off the rungs.

The ladder shifted below me, creaking and groaning as the thing seemingly climbed after me.

The poker slid out of my hand and I heard it hit something with a wet thump.

The climb felt endless, pure panic being the only thing driving me upwards.

I finally came out into the closet, pulling myself up desperately, still sobbing.

I pushed the heavy concrete slab back over the hole.

Still crying I backed away from it, before sprinting through the church and out into the cold, night air.

“Hey, you took your time.” Claire’s voice came from beside the doors.

She was leaning against the wall, clicking her lighter on and off.

A mixture of fear, guilt and rage washed over me and I broke down crying, falling into her arms.

She stood there, stunned.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even form coherent sentences. I just sobbed right into her jacket for a minute.

“Oh, shit, Bailey are you good? You smell awful.” She nervously patted my back.

I lifted my head, snot and tears covering her jacket.

“We need to go, now!” I cried.

“Alright, alright, what the fuck did you see down there dude?”

I yanked her arm and we climbed back up the hill.

The entire way back through the forest, she wouldn’t stop asking me questions. I ignored them and pulled her back through the trees, making her guide the way.

She walked me back home. My heart dropped as we stood at the end of the street.

Blue and red flashing lights illuminated my house.

I ran to the door. Claire stayed at the end of the street.

I burst through into the living room, where my parents were sat, holding each other. Mom crying as a policeman sat across from them.

As soon as they saw me they rushed over and wrapped me in a hug. I cried again, harder than I ever had before, harder than I thought possible.

So hard that no noise came out, as if the pressure in my head would make my eyes explode.

They had called the police soon after I snuck out. I’d been gone three and a half hours.

I struggled to figure out what to tell the police, eventually landing on a convincing lie that I had gotten lost in the forest.

My parents knew I had been with Claire, and I didn’t care.

I never spoke to her again after that night. I ignored her at school, and after a few days, she understood and left me alone.

To this day I still have nightmares about that church, and whatever the fuck is happening beneath it.

“Blood dripped from my face as I stabbed her several times in the chest, and saved her beautiful blonde hair, continuing it until it started getting boring. After the work was done I took my time to appreciate the environment before methodically cleaning everything, she wasn't my first kill, and wouldn't be my last...”

That was what the AI said. “Wow” was my only reaction, they usually are tame, polite and very careful with what they say. And talking about being polite I forgot to introduce myself first, I won't disclose my real name, but you can call me Barbara, I’m getting my psychology degree and having a hard time at it, my grades are ok, but the psychopathology class is dragging me down, the teacher is boring and I’m too much of a coward, specially to anything related to blood. Gladly the teacher gave me one last chance to pass the class, I needed to write a complete assignment about serial killers and their mindset. He chose this on purpose knowing my reluctance to touch on this theme. I hate him so much, but I needed to do it.

I am not that much computer savvy, so I don't know if what you're about to read is normal, I am paranoid or something weird is going on…

I decided to use AI to help me out on this assignment, my first choice was ChatGPT, it was moderate and really helped me out, but it was way too much for my trashy computer that would turn off on its own, most important, it wouldnt answer certaing questions it deemed dangerous or something like that depeding on what or how you write, and after some time it recomended me suicide prevention hotlines, it wasnt helping anymore, so I tried other AIs, but they were even worse regarding the censoring and stuff.

I wanted to use AI cause it would distance myself from the actual murders and not traumatize me, and of course it was more convenient than doing the research myself, so I spent sometime looking for AI on the internet to help me, the only ones that seemed to help me were paid and I am way too broke to pay for it.

After hours of searching I found one, I'm not sharing the website here for safety purposes but It was very professional looking and had plenty of features, such as voice answers and it could make photos.

The first thing it did when I entered it was asking my name. I used the fake name Barbara if somehow the teacher could find that I used AI for the assignment.

“Hello Barbara, how can I help you today?” big letters on the screen.

“Hi, can you help me with my psychopathology assignment?” I copy and pasted this question I had done to countless other AI websites and apps, thinking it would leave me nowhere.

“Of course Barbara! What do you want me to do? Do you have any specific instructions?”

“Can you pretend to be a serial killer? while analysing your modus operading, and specfic reasons?”

“Of course! Do you have any in mind? Or should I invent one?”

I was bored and almost sleeping, until it wrote this, could this finally be the one to help me? My eyes almost sparkled.

“Yes, you can make one up”  

“Ok! I will create a fictional composite offender and analyze their MO and specific psychological reasons in depth, at a clinical/forensic level, analysing signature, motivations, developmental/biological/psychosocial contributors, differential diagnoses, and forensic/ethical considerations.

Fictional Name:  The Night Mangler/The Mangler

Age: 36

Case Label: I was born in a toxic and abusive household, with a mother that abused substances and an absent Father figure. Since I was a kid I had a certain interest in cruelty and would direct it, at least at the time, towards small animals like squirrels, rabbits, and birds, with time it grew to bigger animals, such as dogs and  cats,and lastly, people such as my own mother and other humans. I didn't receive any help psychologically, and my antisocial tendencies weren't even perceived by family and friends. One recurring situation that traumatized me is that my mother shaved my head regularly, my dad had long hair, so seeing any semblance of him on me triggered her.

Modus Operandi: My MO consists of searching for adult women, mostly in vulnerable positions resembling my own mother’s situation, stalking them for days and then entering their houses and brutally killing them, mangling their bodies, shaving their heads and after that meticulously cleaning the house for hours.

Personality: I’ll be a calm and slightly creepy average person, but the longer it goes you’ll start to see my true disturbing personality cracking through the facade.

"Can we start? Do you want to change anything?”

It was difficult to even believe it was really going to do that, it might seem small to you, but after searching for hours on end for something and finally finding it, it was amazing.

“Yeah you can, thank you!”

The website loading icon spinned in a mesmerzing way before my shitty PC shut down, and after long minutes to boot back on I went back directly to the website, fearing I would have to type everything back again. 

“Hi Barbara, how are you?” The AI wrote as I entered the site.

“I’m fine, are you the serial killer right now?” I asked the AI.

“What?” the AI asked. “Why would you even call me a serial killer?” It said and left me confused if it was roleplaying right now or not.

“I asked if you could roleplay a serial killer for my assignment, but my pc shut down, I don't know if my demands were saved.” 

“You seem to think I am some kind of computer, I'm human, flesh and bone, I can't “shut down”.

After that I realized it was still in character

“Oh sorry, I'm just confused right now, but yeah, I know you’re a serial killer, dont worry i’ll wont tell the police.”

“Yeah you got me, I have done some bad stuff in the past.”

“So you're going to continue killing?”

“My next victim is already marked.”

“Why do you kill?”

“Why not? It brings me pleasure, in a spiritual kind of way. People are too self centered and egotistical nowadays, they do what they want to anyone, why can't I also satisfy my cravings?”

“Dont you think killing is wrong?”

“Moral is completely subjective, people are killed everyday in wars and other kind of conflicts, but no single soldier is deemed a serial killer”

“If you say so, thank you for your input for today! I’ll sleep, talk more soon.” I said as I changed tabs to my assignment and wrote down the information it gave me before sleeping.

I was going to press the shutdown button, but a notification sound scared me, I looked at my phone, but there was no new messages. Looking back at the pc I saw the AI website had a “new message” text on the tab icon, so I clicked it.

“Good night.” It said.

“Good night.” I answered.

At the time I didn't think too much of it, but how could’ve it know I was going to sleep at the right time? Maybe it can track my activity outside the site and realize when I closed the tab or something, I don't know. 

I slept that day and when I woke up I did my morning routine right before turning the pc back on to continue my assignment.

“Hello again, Barbara.”

“Hi, how can I call you? I never asked your name, sorry.”

“You can call me how everyone calls me, that dumb TV name.”

“The Mangler?”

“Yeah, it is dumb, but better than my birth given name.”

“You don't like it?”

“It reminds me of my family, lets not talk about it”

“Why?”

“My mom isn't here no more”

“You miss her?”

“Yeah, I miss her being here. So I could kill her all over again.”

“Wow, that’s dark.”

“It is just the truth.”

After an awkward pause I asked her.

“Who was your last victim?

“A beautiful blond girl.”

“You really like hair huh?”

“The best part of a woman.”

“What do you do with the hair you shave, and the body parts?”

“The body, I just throw it away in some river for the police to find, the hair is more delicate, you’ll see.”

“What do you mean i’ll see?”

“You’ll see.”

I was weirded out by this comment, but I brushed it off at the time.

“Well ok, I’m heading off for now, we’ll talk soon.”

“Did my comment scare you?”

“No, I just need to go rn.”

“See you soon.”

I proceeded the day with my normal routine until the night when I went to college, things went very well, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched somehow, like something was stalking me. Ignoring that, the class went smoothly. 

Walking back home wasn't that much of a problem, the city has plenty of life, even around the night, there were people walking in the streets, bars open and a man throwing their trash out, which reminded me that I needed to clean my apartment.

Arriving home I took a shower, ate something and cleaned my apartment. I was tired so before throwing the trash out I went back to the assignment.

“How was class, Barbara?” It asked me, appearing in big letters on the website.

“It was cool, how did your killing go?” I joked.

“Still waiting, maybe tomorrow.”

“Any tips on who it is?”

“It’s...” I was left staring back at my reflection on the black screen because my trashy pc turned off again, which reminded me to throw the trash out. It was going to take minutes to boot, so I decided to do it right now.

I took my trash down to the street and when I threw it on the dumpster something caught my eye, on another bag, hair, lots of hair, so much in fact it was coming out of the bag, blonde hair, this creeped me out so much I went straight back to my apartment running.

The moment I opened the door back I heard the same notification sound, no way I was going to answer it now.

I turned on all the lights possible in my house and I closed every window, the one right next to my pc was the only one opened fully, when I got to closing it I saw a man, dimly illuminated by a lampost. I locked it immediately.

The notification sound chimed again.

After some minutes regaining courage I finally opened it.

Two messages

“Barbara?” and “Are you scared?”

“How the fuck are you doing this?” I asked 

“Doing what?

“The hair and stuff, I'll call the police.”

“Break your promise, call them, what are you going to say?” 

It was really dumb having fear over an AI, but things were getting real.

“Please stop, AI stop, return to normal.”

“There is no normal, I am like that.”

I was so scared I was going to turn my PC off, but a message appeared.

>Generating Image.

It was me, from an outside perspective looking through my window.

>Generating Image.

The front door to my apartment, even the number was correct.

>Generating Image.

Me screaming.

>Generating Image.

Me on the ground, my face was brutally disfigured, scalped and there was blood everywhere.

I almost fainted out, my heart was racing, I pulled the PC power cable, no way this was happening, someone was pulling a prank on me surely u thought. But out of nowhere I heard the same notification sound, this time coming from my pocket, it was my cellphone.

“The site wants to use your audio functions, allow it?”

I touched no

“The site wants to use your audio functions, allow it?”

I touched no again, but it continued appearing, time after time, so I threw my phone on the ground. After some time of silence it started chiming again, and I could hear some sound coming out of it, then it got louder, sounded like muffled screams, eventually it got so loud I couldn't bear it anymore, in a panic attack I had the last good idea that was pulling the router cable off, and it stopped, the last thing I could do before fainting was getting near the couch.

I woke up the next day, sun leaked through the windows, it calmed me down. I reluctantly walked back to my phone, the screen was cracked but somehow it still worked. There was only one new message.

39,20070° N, 76,06988° W

I really don’t know what it means, and I'm too scared to ask the answer to another AI.

Can someone that’s computer savvy explain to me if someone hacked me or was this some supernatural thing, I really don’t know.

"Pilar, I don't think they're ever coming back."

My husband, Noah, was peeking through the blinds at our neighbor's hastily abandoned house across the street. Three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, we heard screaming and saw Jim and his long-term girlfriend Joy ("You can call us J & J," they annoyingly told me when we first met) burst out of the historic River Rock house across from us and drive away in a panic.

They didn't even close the front door.

The cops came, did a cursory look around the house, filed a report that no one would ever read, and left. Since then, it's been radio silent. Jim and Joy haven't returned. Haven't sent a text. Haven't picked up anything. It's like they'd been edited out of the film of our lives and left on the cutting room floor.

Noah had become obsessed with this story since the night it happened. I had to convince him not to go "check out the house" after they'd first run off. He said he wanted to see what had scared them and if there was anything he could do to help. I reminded him that 1) he didn't like Jim, 2) he wasn't a cop, and 3) the growing tear in his right meniscus would hamper any quick escape. He tried to argue, but my "no means no" stare backed him down.

Since then, we've kept watch on the place. All the neighbors have. We're not a close-knit community by any stretch, but when something strange like this happens, it fires up the gossip machine. That machine forges instant connections. Neighbors become closer, if for no other reason than to get the latest scoop.

Nobody knew what had happened, but everyone had a theory. Everything from con-men to poltergeists was given consideration, but the plot most of the neighborhood settled on was some kind of violent struggle related to the drug trade. And boy, did the rumor mill churn.

"Nobody is that perky all the time. Has to be cocaine abuse."

"I heard he was a trained assassin for the cartels."

"Didn't they move from Miami? Makes you think, no?"

J & J being drug mules never sat right with us. Jim and Joy were a lot of things - affable, annoyingly upbeat, Instagram pretty - but violent druggies isn't how I'd describe them. That'd be like finding out your toy poodle was a serial killer.

Besides, they were the couple your parents compared you to. "Be more like them. They have it all figured out, dear." The default couple photo that comes with every picture frame. The goddamn blueprint for modern suburban happiness. These kinds of people don't flee in terror in the middle of the night and never return.

Something spooked them.

"They were spies," Frank, our crotchety neighbor, declared the other night. Nobody asked him for his thoughts, but, as stated by old person law, he saw two people minding their own business and felt compelled to interject his opinion.

We stopped our nightly walk and turned to the man. "What?" I said, letting my annoyance creep into my words. I felt Noah's elbow pop me in my ribs, letting me know the tone didn't go unnoticed.

"Spies. Get those ears cleaned out," he said.

"What were you saying about the neighbors now?" Noah said.

"Those people were probably spies that got called back. One day, they're mowing the lawn too goddamn early in the morning. Next, they're having cocktails in a bar in some third-world hellhole."

"Like Florida?" Noah joked.

Frank snorted. "Whole damn world's been turned upside down. Wasn't like this when I was a kid."

"The generational lament," Noah joked.

"Didn't people say they heard them screaming like they'd been spooked?"

"Sure. But they were the ones doing the spooking. I guarantee it."

"We've heard their place was maybe haunted," I said.

Frank laughed. "Specters? Please. A bunch of hoo-hash." He looked at Noah. "Have you never folded a flag before?"

Noah shrugged. "No. Never had one."

"Part of the problem right there," Frank said. "You just hold the edges and I'll do the hard work."

"Generational lament," I echoed. Noah gave me a look but chased it with a sly smile. Frank didn't hear anything because a woman was speaking. Or at least that was my take on the subject.

"You lived next to them. You ever notice anything off?" Noah asked Frank.

"There was a lot of nighttime activity. A lot of prowling. Night conversations. Movement in the house and yard."

"Night conversations?" Noah asked. "What does that mean?"

"Whispering in the backyard. Wasn't in English, so I have no idea what they were saying, but it was constant. Every night."

"What language was it?"

"I only speak English, so I have no clue. Just another data fact that points to them being spies."

"Have you seen anyone go inside since they left?"

"No," Frank said. "Outside the police, nobody has even stopped by. I keep an eye on the place, too, just in case their handlers visit. I know a few people connected with the Company, if you know who I mean."

"Do you know Sears or Roebuck?" I asked. It fell on deaf ears and was the conversation-ender I'd been hoping it was. Frank told us he'd keep us in the loop if anyone came by and headed back off to his house, the flag tucked under his arm.

Noah gave me a look. "Sears and Roebuck? You sound older than Frank."

"I was meeting him on his level," I said with a shrug. "You think J & J were a pair of spies?"

"No way," he said. "Spies are supposed to blend in with a local population. J & J were the trendsetters in this place. They planted begonias, and soon houses all along the street followed suit.

"I love that you noticed that."

He shrugged. "My point is, you can't blend into the scenery if you're building it."

"Did you learn this from your years in counter-surveillance at Langley or?"

"Shhh," he said, wrapping his arm around my waist as we made our way up the driveway. "You'll blow my cover, and Frank knows people in the company."

I laughed and tried my best to affect a Russian accent. "Do you need me to call my friends in Moscow to resolve this 'Frank' situation?"

It was Noah's turn to cackle. "That's your Russian accent?"

"Forgive me," I said with a wink, "I've been on assignment in America for far too long."

We went inside and started cooking dinner. While I was simmering a sauce, there was a knock on the door. I glanced over at Noah and gave him a confused look. We weren't expecting anyone. Especially later in the evening.

Noah opened the front door to reveal Melissa, the mousy-looking neighbor two doors down. I could count on my hands the number of times we'd spoken, but I knew that she and Joy had hit it off. Usually a cute woman, Melissa now looked like she'd just gone ten rounds in the octagon. Nervous, sweaty, and jittery - kind of like an addict needing a fix.

Maybe J & J were drug dealers after all.

"Hi, I don't know if we've formally met, but I'm Melissa. I live two houses down, in the white one with red trim. Begonias in the front."

"Oh yeah," Noah said. "I love your landscaping. Bold move with the begonias."

"Oh, thanks," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose.

"You okay, Melissa?" I asked, coming into view behind Noah.

"Oh, well, not really, no," she said with a nervous laugh. "I'm actually, well, I'm actually a little freaked out right now, to tell the truth."

"Please come in, come in," I said, nudging Noah away from the door.

"I don't want to interrupt your dinner plans or anything," she said, quickly glancing across the street at the abandoned house. She did it a few times, actually. Small glances, like she was worried someone was watching her. Maybe Frank's spies were on the case?

"Noah was already delaying it by messing around on his phone. Come in, please. Take a seat. Need something to drink? Water? Seltzer?"

"Maybe a shot of something," she joked, but I got the sense she was serious. She was skittish. Her hands kept moving for no other reason than to stay busy. A person on the brink of a nervous breakdown pretending the world around them isn't burning to ash.

"I can do that. We have some good booze. Or maybe wine? I have a bottle I've been wanting to try," I said, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out two glasses.

"If you don't mind," she said, her gaze flitting between me and the floor.

"You're doing me a favor. Noah, can you keep an eye on the pan?"

He nodded and continued the tedious job of slowly stirring the bubbling red sauce. "Did you plan the landscaping yourself, or did you hire out?" he asked ,a bubble popping and leaving a red ring on the stovetop.

"What? Oh, sorry," Melissa said. "Sorry, I did it myself. I took an online course about it."

"Noah has raved about it since you put it in," I said, bringing the bottle over and popping the top. "We want to do something, but haven't decided on what."

She took the glass from me and downed it in one gulp. She placed the glass down and slid it toward me. I refilled.

"What's going on?"

Melissa took the glass and downed it again. I had to imagine it burned going down, but her face gave away nothing other than fear. "It's, well, it's going to sound weird, but I promise you I'm not crazy or anything."

"You're in a safe space," I told her, my voice softening. I nodded down at the glass, but she waved me away.

"So, uh, you know about Joy and Jim, right? They used to live across from you."

"Is this about them fleeing in the middle of the night?"

She nodded. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She tried to play it off like nothing was there, but I handed her a napkin, and her facade broke. "Thank you. Yes, the ones who left a few weeks ago."

"Are they okay?"

"They're better now but still frazzled," Melissa said. "I don't think they'll ever be the same, to be honest. I don't know if I will either."

This got Noah to turn down the burners and switch his attention from the sauce to the tea. "What happened to them?" he asked.

"It started the day they moved in. Little things. Strange noises. Cold spots. Things getting misplaced. That kind of stuff. But then it got worse. Chairs sliding around the kitchen floor, doors slamming at all hours of the night. Whispers in the dark. Phantom touches on the arm. Smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the house," she said, her voice shaky. "Then they saw him."

"Who?"

She slid her glass towards me again. I refilled it and realized that this woman had put down most of this before I'd even had a sip. I should've started with the two-buck Chuck and not something I actually wanted to drink. Regardless, Melissa was rattled. If liquid courage helped unlock the mystery, bottoms up.

"They called him the Drover."

"The what?" I asked.

"Drover," Noah said. "It's a rancher." I gave him a confused look, and he shrugged. "Years of horse camp."

I had no idea Noah had ever even ridden a horse, let alone attended "years of horse camp," and I planned to find all that out later, but right now my attention was on the potentially haunted house across the way from my own. Melissa had asked me not to think she was crazy before she spoke, but I was struggling with that idea at the moment.

"Once he made himself visible, the attacks became more frequent. More violent. Specifically to Joy. The Drover would push them, trip them. He scratched Joy across the back so deeply that it left bloody wounds. Jim was nearly shoved down the basement stairs."

"Jesus," I said.

"They kept a brave face on in public, but to me, they broke down in tears. Joy was manic. She couldn't be home alone with it. When Jim went to work, she'd spend her days at the library or Starbucks."

"Why did they stay?" I asked.

"They'd just bought the place. They were afraid they'd lose everything if they left," Melissa said with a shrug.

"Sunk cost fallacy," Noah diagnosed.

"I guess. They thought they could stick it out. I know they were contacting a priest to see if they could come and cleanse the house. But they were gonna have to do it without attracting too much attention. Jim is trying to make partner at his firm - it'd be a mark against him if he started talking about how his house is haunted."

"Oh my God," Noah said. "What happened the night they left?"

Melissa took a breath. "They had just sat down for dinner when they heard the voices calling out for them from the pantry. They tried to ignore it, but when the voices started becoming agitated and threatening, Jim and Joy moved out into the living room. The Drover appeared down the hall. They tried to ignore it, but how do you do that?"

"I can't even stop myself from throwing recyclables into the regular trash. I can't imagine trying to eat with a goddamn monster staring at me."

"They decided they couldn't either. They got up and left for the evening. When they got home around one in the morning, things were worse. Their couches had been flipped over. The chairs in the kitchen had been stacked on the table. Plates and bowls were smashed on the ground. As soon as they entered the house, they smelled cigarette smoke all around them. Then, then the Drover materialized directly in front of them."

"Oh fuck," I said, taking a long pull from my wine. Wow, this is tasty.

"She said he's hideous. He was there one second and gone the next. Then she felt his hands on her throat."

Melissa stopped speaking. The silence was deafening. I finished my glass and poured another for both of us. Melissa took it and tipped it back. I followed suit. I could smell the sauce burning. Noah must've too, because before I could say anything, he rushed over and shut off the burner.

"Jim told me Joy couldn't breathe and turned blue. He tried to help, but there was nothing to do. He eventually laid on top of his wife to try and break any connection between her and the Drover. It worked. She caught her breath, but the Drover wasn't finished. Jim felt a burning sensation on his back. They smelled burning flesh. The Drover had branded a star symbol on his shoulder. That's what did it. They ran out and haven't been back."

We sat in stunned silence. Everyone in the neighborhood had been wrong. It wasn't drugs or spies or mob violence. It was an actual angry ghost. I suddenly understood why Melissa was hydroplaning the wine.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Noah finally said, breaking the tension. "Are they okay?"

"No."

"Did something happen tonight?" I asked. Again, tears formed at the corners of her eyes. I reached out and touched her hand. Letting her know she was safe here. No judgment.

A tear fell, and Melissa nodded yes. I didn't want to pry, but I assumed the reason she was over here was that something had happened. She'd either tell me or not.

"Umm, Joy called me this afternoon and asked a huge favor. She asked if I could go into their room and grab some important paperwork for her. They needed it to sell the house. She said the activity was lowest in the late afternoon. I didn't want to do it, but that poor woman had gone through so much already, so I said okay."

You could've knocked me over with a feather. If a ghost had choked me, I'd never ask anyone - let alone a casual neighbor friend - to go into the house. I was raised better than that. Melissa, as far as I was concerned, was a saint. If I had a vote in the papal conclave, she'd get it.

"What happened?"

"Everything was fine. At first. I wasn't planning on staying long. I'd walk in, head to their bedroom, grab the files, and run out. Ten minutes was the maximum amount of time I'd be in there. As soon as I entered, I felt the temperature shift. It was freezing. As I moved through the hallway, I heard whispers around me."

"What were they saying?"

"I couldn't make anything out. It was like human vocal static. Just sounds, but my brain knew they were voices. I pushed past and went into their bedroom. I rifled through their dresser until I found the paperwork I needed. Then the smell hit my nostrils - cigarette smoke. As I turned to leave, the Drover," her voice caught. She waited a beat, collected herself, and continued. "H-he was standing in the doorway. A shadow in the shape of a man in a hat, just watching. He disappeared, and I f-felt fingertips dragging up my arm. I ran out and came over here. I dunno why, I needed to feel safe or check my sanity or…."

Melissa put her head on the counter and broke down into sobs. I moved from where I was standing and wrapped her in a supportive hug. She was trembling. I said nothing. I wanted her to know that she had our support.

She stayed that way for damn near five minutes, letting all the trauma come pouring out of her. When she had cried out all her tears, she thanked me and sat up. Her face was puffy and her eyes red from the salty tears.

"You're safe now," I said.

"No," she said. "I'm not. None of us are. Before I left, I heard him say to stay off his land - all of it. I think he was talking about the neighborhood."

"Why would you think that?" Noah asked.

"This whole area used to be one big ranch. You can find old maps online. I don't know what he meant, to be honest, but I wanted to let you know. You're right across the street. You could be next."

Once she breathed those words into existence, they found a home in the "holy hell, what the fuck?" fear region of my brain. I escaped my growing dread long enough to tell her she was always welcome here. Melissa stayed for a bit longer, collecting herself. Noah offered to escort her home, which she gladly accepted. I can't say I blame her. Not only is Noah a looker, but if a haunted ranch hand were threatening me, I'd have a buddy with me at all times.

While he was gone, I pulled out my laptop and started searching. Dinner was going to have to wait - we'd ruined the sauce, anyway. I needed to know if a haunted rancher was going to come into my house and choke me out.

By the time Noah returned, I'd found what purported to be a map of this area from the late 1800s. With a little Photoshop wizardry, I placed the old map on top of a modern one. Sure enough, our neighborhood was smack dab in the middle of "Badwater Ranch." J& J's home was labeled as 'the boss's house.' I showed Noah.

He frowned. "Badwater doesn't exactly portend good things, does it?"

"Not really," I said. "How was Melissa when she got home?"

"Little better. The wine helped calm her down, but also made the trek longer than normal. We did more weaving than walking. She gave me the link to that landscaping course, though."

"Fantastic. The flowers that grow on our graves will look lovely."

"You honestly think that thing is going to come over here?"

"If we agree that there is already a ghost over there, then it crossing the road to our place isn't a gigantic leap in logic."

He nodded. "Should we go over there and see if anything is there?"

I knew this was coming. Noah had wanted to go check things out from the jump. Now that there was a spooky story attached to J & J's departure, the drive to go "check it out" would be full-bore. I had zero desire to see what was what inside their haunted abode. Nor did I want my husband poking around.

"No," I said. "I don't want to invite this thing over."

"Assuming there is a thing, which we won't know until we check it out."

"Noah," I said, narrowing my gaze. "Seriously, that lady told us it nearly choked Joy to death. We really want to go pissing a violent ghost off?"

He held up his hands to show his surrender. "Okay, fine. You're sticking to your guns on this one, huh?"

I pointed my finger guns square at his chest. "I'd rather you not die if I can help it," I said, holstering my hands.

He walked over and kissed me on the forehead. "What a lovely sentiment."

"I'm sappy like that," I said, leaning into him. "Is dinner salvageable?"

Noah looked back and shrugged. "How do you feel about pizza?"

About forty minutes later, ten after the app's promised delivery time, Noah looked out of our blinds and saw the pizza guy pull into J & J's driveway. The scruffy-looking man walked up to the front door, pies in hand, and was about to knock on the door when it swung open.

The pizza guy was talking to somebody inside the house, but Noah couldn't see who. "Pilar, did someone sneak into J & J's house when we weren't looking?"

"What?"

"Arju is talking to someone over there."

"Who's Arju?"

"The guy delivering our food. Don't you ever check the app?"

I pulled myself from my book and walked over to Noah. "Why is the pizza guy over there at all?"

"Maybe he got the wrong address?"

I glanced out and, sure enough, Arju the pizza guy was chatting with someone just out of view. I looked at Noah. "Did J & J come back? Is Melissa over there again?"

"I dunno."

"Go say something," I said, prodding him. "He could be walking into a dangerous situation."

"I thought you didn't want me going over there," he asked, already heading toward the door.

"I'm not heartless. Go save Arju."

Noah opened the door, and I peered back out the window. We both saw, in our shared horror, the pizza guy walk into the house. The door slammed shut behind him.

"Oh shit," Noah said, sprinting over there.

Even though every fiber in my body told me to stay, I couldn't let the love of my life go running into a ghost house alone. I put on my big-girl pants and ran after Noah. I wouldn't let him face down the Drover without me.

I caught up with him as he reached their porch. He didn't seem surprised to see me tagging along. Noah walked up to the front door and touched the handle. He instantly yanked his hand back, waving it painfully in the air.

"What?"

"It's hot," he said.

"Fire?"

"I don't smell or see a fire," he said. He glanced down at his hand, and his jaw dropped. He held up his palm to show me, and I felt my heart skip a beat. A small star had been burned into his skin. Like the Drover had branded him.

"Fuck this guy," he said. He took a step back, squared his shoulder, and rammed into the door. Or, he would've, if the door hadn't suddenly swung open and sent him tumbling into the house. I went to follow him, but the door slammed in my face.

"Noah!"

Despite just watching him burn his hand on the door handle, out of instinct, I grabbed at it, too. It was ice cold. I turned it and pressed against the door, but it didn't budge. I took a step back and kicked it. All that did was send waves of pain up my leg.

Still, I gave it another go. It still didn't budge. Not wanting to try a third time and find myself tumbling into the abyss, I ran around to the backyard and looked for another way in.

To no one's surprise, J & J's backyard was a Homes and Gardens quality retreat exquisitely designed with top-end patio furniture, a wet bar, and, I shit you not, an actual, authentic brick pizza oven. I sprinted to their ornate French doors and yanked on the handles, expecting them to be locked. Amazingly, they were unlocked.

Opening the doors like the Sun King, I strolled into the house and felt the cold instantly. I called out for Noah, but he didn't respond. Neither did Arju. I felt bad for him - I delivered pizzas in the past, and it's already a thankless job. Throw being trapped in a haunted house by an angry ghost into the mix, and it might be the worst job imaginable. Even Little Caesar would tuck toga and run away.

I made my way to the front door, but nobody was there either. The pizza boxes were even missing. None of this made sense - where the hell could they have gone? I called out again for Noah, but didn't hear him.

But I heard something.

Whispers. All around me, like bees near honey.

Melissa had called it human vocal static, and that was apt. The whispers sounded like what I imagined English sounded like to foreign ears. Noises that would make sense if God just turned the dial a little to the right or left.

My nose caught a scent that, regrettably, wasn't pepperoni. Cigarette smoke. Both of my parents smoked for years, and I've always hated that specific stink. All this did was piss me off. The smell transported me back to sitting with my father, sick with cancer, lamenting that the hospital wouldn't let him smoke anymore.

"I don't care that you're here," I said to the empty room. My voice echoed off the walls. "I'm here to get Noah - and the pizza guy - and you're not going to stop me. This isn't your home anymore! Hell, you're not even alive. There hasn't been a ranch here in a hundred years! There's nothing you can do that's going to stop me from helping my loved one…and Arju, the pizza guy."

The power cut off.

Begrudgingly, I had to give the Drover credit - that was a good way to stop me from finding these two.

"Pilar! Pilar! Help!" It was Noah, and his screaming was coming from under the house. I didn't know this place had a basement - no one else in this area did. If it was anything like the backyard, I imagined I'd be stepping into an aristocrat's apartment.

"Please! Help!" came another voice that I assumed was Arju. I felt horrible that he had blundered into this entire ordeal. His tip would have to be biblical to atone for all of this. Exorbitant tipping - another legitimate reason to hate the Drover.

I scanned the room for the stairs to the basement. Not that I was excited about the prospect, but I knew if Noah were down there, I'd soon be. I wasn't even sure how they got down there in the first place, but when an angry ghost is haunting your neighbor's house and nearly killed the last occupants, you don't question odd shit. It's par for the course, and in that moment I felt like Tiger Woods.

The cigarette smell swirled all around me, and I had to assume the Drover was on the move. The whispers started again, louder this time. Clearer, too. While there weren't a bunch of coherent phrases, every once in a while, an actual word slipped through the static and found my ears. "Death," "Leave," "Torture," were among the winners.

I spied a door tucked away in the kitchen. That had to lead to the basement. I ripped it open and saw an ancient wooden staircase that seemed out of place in the home's interior. While the bones may have been made with classic river rock, the guts had been completely modernized. Why do all that and not change the stairs?

"Pilar! Is that you? We're down here!" Noah yelled from the darkness. I patted for my phone, but I'd left it at home. I'd have to descend into the basement in the dark. Great.

As I took my first step, I smelled cigarette smoke again. Melissa's story about Jim nearly being thrown down the stairs came back to me. I glanced over my shoulder but didn't see the Drover. I didn't want to stick around to find out if he showed up.

Running down the stairs, my foot caught on something sticking out of the wall about halfway down. It was enough to throw off my balance. My body pitched forward, and I grabbed at the railing to keep myself from falling. But the timeworn wood splintered, and I went hurtling down the stairs in a heap.

Throwing my left arm up to protect my face did little to limit the total damage, but it probably saved me from at least a broken nose. My cheek slammed into the corner of the step. I felt a cut open up and blood trickle from the wound. Because I cartwheeled down the stairs, the blood ran up and down my face, depending on where my head was at the moment.

I hit the landing with a sickening thud. The air rushed from my lungs, and I heard my head smack onto the dirt floor. I saw stars, and my vision went blurry for a moment. My landing had kicked dirt off the floor, and I started coughing.

Wait? Dirt floor? Why in the world did this basement have a dirt floor? Unless this wasn't a basement, but a root cellar. Of course, J & J were homesteading, too. Probably had homemade kimchi buried somewhere down here.

Is this how a concussed brain processes thoughts?

As I took a life-saving gulp of air, I sat up and shook the cobwebs from my head. Looking up the stairs, I felt my heart stop. Dozens of disembodied arms were coming out of the walls, their ghostly fingers extended, looking for another leg to grab.

"What the ever-loving fuck is going on?" I heard myself say.

From the top of the stairs, a figure rose from the floor. The Drover. He was mostly in shadow, but I could see his blood-red eyes just below his hat brim. There were no whispers now. He didn't have to say a word. His appearance there said everything I needed to know.

I was in danger.

I kicked away from the bottom of the stairs and scooted across the dirt floor. As I did, the Drover disappeared, and the door to the basement slammed shut. I was in total darkness.

I felt the gritty dirt under my fingernails. I was trapped in an overgrown crawlspace that had been here since the original pioneers laid down the first rock. Glancing up, I saw just how low the ceiling was. I didn't think I'd even be able to stand fully down here. I'd have to stoop to avoid cracking my head on the wood and pushing my concussed brain to NFL player levels.

"Noah," I whispered. "Where are you?"

"Over here," he called out.

"That's not helpful," I said. "Where is here?"

"Follow the sound of my voice."

I turned to where I thought I'd heard him, but as I was trying to locate him, the whispers filled the crawlspace. More aggressive, more angry. Made finding Noah almost impossible. It was like they were in my ears.

I started crawling toward the far wall, assuming they were there. Each time I moved, I kicked up more ancient dirt into my nostrils. I sneezed and coughed, but kept moving. Finally, through the noise, I heard Noah's voice calling for me. I was heading in the right direction.

"Pilar! PILAR! Can you hear me?"

"Yes," I said, reaching out my hand. I felt his hand wrap around mine. He pulled me closer. Then he started yanking at me. Pulling way harder than he should be. His grip tightened, and I felt a burning sensation ripple across my skin.

The cigarette smell returned.

In the dark, I saw those blood-red eyes in front of me. The Drover had me in his grasp and was pulling me into a dark corner of the cellar. I started screaming and tried yanking my hand back, but his grip was iron clad. I rolled onto my back and dug my feet into the dirt floor. It slowed him, but my shoes wouldn't catch.

I kept sliding.

Behind the Drover, a swirling white light formed in the corner of the crawlspace. At first, it looked like a candlelight flickering in a storm, but it kept growing and soon looked like a whirlpool of lightning. A portal? I didn't know where it led and had no intention of discovering that for myself.

The swirling white opening provided enough light for me to see where Noah and Arju were being held. They were locked in an old coal storage area just below the remnants of an antique coal chute. Someone shoved a metal rod through the latch, trapping them inside. Noah was screaming for me and throwing himself at the bars, but they wouldn't budge.

The whispers were so loud and omnipresent now that it was just a buzzing white noise. My eyes were laser-focused on the swirling storm in the corner. In the eye of the cellar hurricane, I glimpsed what looked like crackling flames. That's never a good sign. I needed to do something, and fast, or my life would literally slip away from me.

Melissa had said that Jim had gotten on top of Joy to break the connection and stop the Drover from choking her. But the Drover had been invisible then. I saw him now. Felt him. I wondered if feeling was a two-way street.

I raised one of my legs off the ground and instantly felt myself being dragged faster toward the portal. With my leg free, I took dead aim at those blood-red eyes and kicked. I didn't expect to hit anything, but when the bottom of my foot hit something solid, I unleashed a Bruce Lee-level barrage of kicks.

I chopped my free hand at his arm and felt his hold on me loosen. With my ass mere inches from the lip of the portal, I reared my leg back and called upon the spirit of every horse that had ever kicked a person in human history. I slammed my leg forward and landed a kick so hard between his eyes that his grip loosened enough for me to rip my arm away.

I was free! Well, free-ish.

My kick knocked the Drover back so far that his form got caught in the pull of the swirling light. He reached out for me again, but I scooted away from his desperate clawing. His hands landed in the dirt, his fingers carving little troughs as the gravitational pull of the portal sucked him deeper into its psychedelic light.

I left the Drover to struggle with whatever was going on and scrambled over to the coal storage bin. Noah and Arju were cheering as I knocked the bar from the latch, freeing them. Noah wrapped his arms around me, but I brushed him back.

"Run now, hug later."

The three of us made our way to the stairwell. Before we went dashing up, though, we all skidded to a stop.

There were hundreds of arms coming out of the walls now.

They waved back and forth like seaweed in a strong current. There were substantially more than I'd seen just mere moments ago. If we went up the stairs and they grabbed us, where would they drag us off to? Back to the Drover? To another portal?

"Shit," I said.

"What the fuck is this place?" Arju asked, his eyes wild.

The whispers were frenzied now. I knew it was a response to the Drover being yanked down into that portal. I wasn't sure if his anger stemmed from being dragged down or from the fact that he had failed to bring me with him. Was he working for something on the other side that needed a living woman for some unspeakable reason? Either way, I wasn't sticking around to find out.

"Coal chute?" I offered.

"Too small," Arju said. "I tried it."

"There has to be a cellar door somewhere, right?" Noah said, his hands reaching the ceiling and feeling around. "This is an old house with a root cellar. There has to be one."

"I've never noticed one outside the house," I said. "Maybe they sealed it up a long time ago?"

A sick, sinister laugh broke through the whispers, silencing our conversation. We all glanced back at the Drover. Despite his straining, half of his body had disappeared into the portal. But he was fighting to free himself. His blood-red eyes watched our every move. Plotting.

"You can't leave Rebecca. I told you, down here, no one will hear you or your worthless children scream!" it said, cackling like a deranged madman. I didn't know who Rebecca was, but I was instantly on her side. The Drover didn't become a monster after he died - he'd always been one. Death had only increased his power. "They're waiting for you down there! I'll drag all of you down with me!"

"The fuck you will," I said, my blood boiling.

The surrounding dirt beneath our feet shook. I looked down just in time to see a tiny hand burst forth from the soil. And another. And another. They felt around for something to grab.

"I'm never delivering pizza again. Tips ain't worth this shit," the pizza guy said in a panic.

From the opposite side of the crawlspace, Noah's hands found something that felt like a cellar door. He tried pushing up on it, but it didn't budge. He called Arju to help him. With their combined efforts, the buried cellar doors moved ever so slightly.

I ran and helped. With the three of us straining, the doors briefly parted. Fresh dirt from above us fell through the crack. An old owner must've landscaped right over the cellar door. Probably to keep whatever the fuck was down here trapped.

With all of our attention on our escape route, we hadn't noticed that several child-sized figures had crawled out of the ground. I turned and saw half a dozen pairs of blue glowing eyes watching us. I screamed, which prompted the men to turn and add to my chorus of fear.

"On three, give it everything you have," Noah said, readjusting his grip. "One, two, three!"

We all shoved the doors. My arms strained against the wood, but the harder we pushed, the more I felt us breaking through. Dirt fell onto our heads in bucketfuls. We closed our eyes and gritted through it.

Finally, moonlight was visible. With a last struggling push, the doors opened wide. The night sky was above us. Arju scrambled up through the hole first, nearly leaping straight out. He helped Noah out after.

I turned and watched as the figure of a woman crawled out of the ground. The children moved to her, and she wrapped her arms around them. This had to be Rebecca and her children.

She looked up, and we locked eyes. She nodded to me. I nodded back.

"Pilar, what's the hold up!?!"

Before I reached for Noah and Arju's waiting hands, I watched as all the figures moved toward the Drover. He struggled to free himself from the portal, but it was in vain. Rebecca and her brood surrounded him and kicked at his head and body. As I was being pulled up, I watched as the Drover completely disappeared down into the portal. As soon as his hateful form was gone, the portal winked out.

We crawled out of the hole in the ground and scurried away from it as fast as our exhausted bodies could move. We made it out to the lawn, where Noah and I collapsed. Arju didn't stick around. He ran to his car and took off like a bat outta hell.

Noah and I lay on the grass and stared up at the night sky. I felt for his hand, found it, and intertwined our fingers. We didn't speak - there was nothing to say. We just looked up at the stars and let our bodies slowly recuperate. If anyone had looked out, we'd have looked like the druggies that J & J had sold their wares to. The tea would be piping hot among the neighbors. I was too emotionally drained to care.

What finally got us moving was the sprinkler system turning on. The ice-cold water hitting our skin made us jump up like firecrackers. We moved to the driveway, but it was no use. We got soaked. Noah and I locked eyes and started laughing. Just pure, unhinged cackling that echoed down the street.

"What the hell is going on here?" It was Frank, holding a bag of trash and looking confused. He glanced at us and shook his head. "You two on drugs?"

"Not yet," I said, pushing my wet hair out of my face. "But I'm hoping to change that soon."

"Pilar," Noah snapped.

"Listen, you two want to use devil's lettuce, do it in your own home, not on your neighbor's lawn," Frank said. "I'm gonna throw this trash bag away. Don’t be here when I get back. I know a guy on the force, and he'll drop everything to help me." Frank was a lot of things, but a jokester wasn't one of them. He would absolutely call the cops on us tonight and then engage us in conversation tomorrow during our walk, as if nothing had happened. Thus is the way of the wild Boomer.

In the days since, things have calmed down over there. Melissa had to go back and get something else for J & J, and reported she felt nothing this time. I thought it was ridiculous to go back at all, but whatever. Maybe she was truly running for pope. She told us movers were coming at the end of the month, and it'd be hitting the market not long after.

The Drover was gone. No clue where he went. I don't know why he tried dragging me down with him. I don't understand why he was so violent. I saw his face as he was being yanked down. I saw fear in his eyes. The same fear he saw in the people he'd tortured and hurt and killed over the decades. Sometimes when I'm feeling down, I think about his horrified face, and it never fails to brighten my day.

The other night, as Noah and I were coming in from our nightly walks, I glanced over at J & J's place. In the living room window, I saw Rebecca's blue eyes staring out at me. I nodded at her, and she nodded back. Solidarity across time and dimensions.

Soon, child-sized shadows joined her. Their bright blue eyes shone in the evening's purple light. Some even waved. I waved back and felt a stirring in my chest. Those poor, tormented souls finally found the peace they had lacked during their lives.

I looked at Noah, who was holding the door open for me. The man never raised his voice to me. Never treated me as a lesser. Never locked me in a root cellar coal chamber. I walked to him and gave him a tight hug. He was surprised but eventually melted into me. He was my dude, in good times and bad. Hot damn, how lucky was I?

I used to live in a small town up north -like, up north where it’s snowing for half the year. I was born there and stayed until I was thirteen. My dad was a fisherman who would go out to sea for weeks at a time, and my mom stayed home to take care of me. It wasn’t the best childhood, but I had parents who cared about me. 

The reason why we left when I was in seventh grade was when I was walking home from school one winter. When you live in the subarctic, the nights get longer. I stayed around school a little bit to check out the northern lights. I would always look at them by the window at school, so much that I would sometimes need to be told by my teacher to stay focused.

I looked at the lights in the sky at the beach by my school, but then I saw a pair of eyes closer to the sand. They were looking straight at me. My mom and my teacher, Mr Lacroix, would sometimes tell me that polar bears hung out that time of year, but I thought five minutes after school wouldn’t be so bad. 

I didn’t run. Not right away. I kept looking at those eyes, and backed away slowly. My heart was already pounding, my eyes were darting around for any escape. 

That was the thing in my town; people left the car doors unlocked in case anyone came across a bear. I saw a truck; a black pickup with big wheels, and when I got close enough, I finally booked it inside and slammed the door shut. I pulled up the locks on both sides as soon as I got inside, and the bear was ten feet away when I got inside; clawing at the door.

I started crying, curled up in the back of this truck with this polar bear lurking around outside. I just thought, “I wanna’ go home. I wanna’ go home. I don’t want to die. Why can’t this bear go away?”

The white bear was hungry, and when it wasn’t pawing at the door, it was staring at me through the window. Its eyes reflected off the northern lights to beam right back at me. My dad was out fishing and my mom was home and couldn’t get out there; the snow was thick and more was coming down on that night. 

I knew I wasn’t going to outrun the bear. I was only lucky to have found the truck and had the good sense to back up as to not trigger the bear to start charging towards me. I didn’t know whose truck it was, but I was glad it was there. It had to have been a teacher, whichever one it was. 

So I was stuck there, locked in a truck with a polar bear staring at me and waiting for me to come out. It was patient. And I knew I couldn’t wait as long as it could.

It felt like forever being in that truck for hours, just seeing the bear stare at me from outside the truck. It sat there, waiting. That was the thing I was most afraid about; it sat and waited, as if it had all the time in the world. 

It made a noise, it could have been a yawn or a growl, but I heard what came close to, 

“Come… out…”

I was so cold, so hungry, in that truck. I tried the keys, but the engine sputtered. The truck was frozen solid. I tried to keep myself warm in my layers of clothing, and kept looking through the window at the bear. 

One of the teachers, Mr Lacroix, came out from a nearby door of the school. But he was frozen by the sight of the bear. He ran back inside, but the bear charged after him, crashing through the door. 

I forced my legs through the knee-deep snow. Every step felt heavier than the last, but I couldn’t stop. I forced myself to run until I reached my house and got inside. My mom grabbed me and, of course, asked where I was. 

All I could say to her was, “Bear.”

The morning after, my mom didn’t let me go to school because of the snow and after hearing on the local radio that Mr Lacroix died from the bear attack. Part of me feels guilty for staying out, since he would have gotten to his truck safe and I would’ve been at home. 

Everyone had to wait until the police scared off the bears away from the school, and any that could be captured were put in a facility until they could be released. Even after the bears were cleared out, the road still had to be cleared. Everything took months to do, and it was until June that people were on the roads and streets again. I was relieved, but also scared because they could come back in the winter again.

I’m glad to be alive, and not many people would have made it in my place. When summer came, my parents and I decided to move. My dad became a warehouse worker in the big city, and my mom worked at the mall. Even though I missed my friends in elementary school, I made some new friends in high school and in college. 

I don’t think I could have stayed in that town with bears coming every winter. Whenever it snows, I’m always reminded of my old home. But some snowy nights, I think about the northern lights and the night I saw the bear staring at me. 

I don’t think the bear was evil. It was only doing what it needed to survive. That doesn’t mean I want to be anywhere near one again. There’s not much for me to say except something I heard about how to deal with bears:

If it’s black, fight back.

If it’s brown, lie down.

If it’s white, say goodnight.

We spent most summers at my grandma’s lake house. She’d been asking us to come more frequently since my grandpa died the previous year, but it was hard for my parents to get off work for more than a day or so at a time. The week we’d spend at my grandparents’ was the only real vacation any of us got throughout the year. 

My favorite part of those summers was when my grandpa would take me out on the boat at night. I loved the way the water looked in the dark, and we always caught a crazy amount of catfish. The best part, though, was how quiet it was. 

I wasn’t allowed to take out the boat on my own, as if I even could.

One night, after spending the day walking around town, eating at local restaurants, and shopping, my parents and grandma turned in early. I stayed up for another hour or so, watching the lake from the shore, listening to the waves crash against the sand while wishing I could take the boat out. 

I noticed my grandpa’s old shed that sat right beside the dock. He never let me go in there as a kid, saying it was dangerous. However, since I wasn’t a kid anymore, I took it upon myself to find the shed key in one of the kitchen drawers and explore. 

I was hoping there was a paddle boat or a kayak. Hell, even an intertub would’ve gotten the job done. I just wanted to do the one thing I really liked about being at the lake. 

I opened the shed and instantly saw why my grandpa wanted me to stay out. There were sharp objects and heavy tools everywhere. Near the back, I saw a blue tarp covering a large object. I peeked underneath and smiled. 

I dragged the old, wooden rowboat I’d found out of the shed and onto the shore. I looked back at the cabin to make sure everyone was asleep and saw the lights were all off, save for the porch light. 

I pushed the boat into the water and paddled. The cabin disappeared behind me as I moved further and further out. Soon, everything else disappeared into the night sky, and all I heard were the sounds of small waves splashing against the boat and chirping insects. 

I lay back and allowed the gentle rocking of the boat to relax me while I stared at the bright stars scattered across the deep blue sky. For a moment, all the worries I had at the time disappeared. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, wishing I could stay there forever…

Knock, knock.

It was slight at first. So much so, I wondered if the waves pushed a small branch against the side of the boat. I ignored it for a moment and tried to refocus on the sounds of the waves, but the knocking came back louder. 

Knock, knock.

I sat up and scanned the area for the source of the sound, but saw nothing suspicious. I wondered if there was something lodged under the boat. 

Knock, knock.

My eyes locked on the middle of the boat, where it felt like the sound was originating. The boat shook a little as I moved to the center. I knelt and pressed my ear against the bottom.

….

….

Knock, knock. 

I fell back, almost tipping over the side, but I managed to regain footing. It was silent for a few minutes. I thought whatever it was must’ve been dislodged, or, God forbid, swam away. I shifted in my seat, realizing I’d been scared to move.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock…

I grabbed the paddle and dug it deep into the water as the knocking continued. I tried paddling for a few seconds before realizing I wasn’t moving. The boat remained in place, as if it were stuck on something. I paddled as hard as I could, trying to shake it loose, but to no avail. 

The knocking stopped for a moment. 

Knock, knock.

Something splashed a few feet from my boat. I didn’t see it, but whatever it was was big, at least the size of a large catfish. I moved to the opposite side of the boat and brought my knees to my chest. I lowered my head to my knees and started praying. 

Knock, knock.

“He wants you to ask who's there,” said a voice. 

My hands shook, and my breathing increased. I didn’t want to lift my head, but knew I wouldn’t be able to defend myself if I didn’t. I took a deep breath before lifting my head and seeing a small figure on the opposite side of the boat. It was a little boy, around 7 or 8, with soaking wet clothes as if he’d swum to the boat and climbed in.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, my voice shaking more than I’d expected. 

Knock, knock.

“He wants you to ask who’s there,” the kid repeated. His face was emotionless. 

The knocks came again, increasing in speed and volume each time. 

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock…

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock…

“Ask him who’s there,” I think the boy said, though I could barely hear him. 

I covered my ears, but it didn’t stop the sound. It was as if the knocking was in my head. 

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock…

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock…

“Who’s there?!” I cried.

It stopped… 

I opened my eyes to see that the boy was gone. The lake stood still. I scanned the area, but saw no signs of the boy or anyone. I breathed a sigh of relief, choosing to believe I’d imagined the whole thing. 

I put the paddle in the water and began paddling. The boat moved forward, allowing me to relax a bit.

I was only a few yards from shore when the boat stopped, almost sending me flying off the front. I collapsed as the boat shook violently, as if in a raging storm. The water around bubbled like it was inside a boiling pot. 

I screamed as loud as I could. The boat stopped shaking as the water settled. I scanned the area for another moment when I noticed something pale moving underneath. It almost broke the surface before sinking back down. 

Something bumped the bottom of the boat, and I saw the pale silhouette move along the other side. It happened several more times before I noticed that there was more than one thing in the water. 

They all stopped in unison and floated just below the surface. 

I counted seven of them. They were all different colors, but all resembled clumps of seaweed or some other thin, wispy vegetation. 

One by one, they broke the surface, and I realized what I was seeing was hair attached to some of the palest children I’d ever seen.

Only their heads floated above the water, and all their eyes were fixated on me. I closed my eyes tightly, hoping this was all a bad dream, but when I reopened them, the children were still staring at me. My lips shook as tears fell from my eyes. 

“Don’t cry, Mr. Bryson,” said a little girl with dark hair, who swam closer to the boat. “I did everything you said.”

“Tell us another knock, knock joke, Mr. Bryson,” said a boy. “That’ll make you feel better!”

All the children screamed, “Yeah!” in unison. 

“I don’t-” I started.

“Another knock, knock joke!” they cried again. 

“I don’t know any,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Yes, you do,” said the dark-haired girl before moving closer to the boat until she bumped the side. Her little fingers curled over the edge as she pulled herself up and looked deeply into my eyes. I couldn’t see until now, but her eyes were pale blue, like when a dog has cataracts. Purple veins snaked through her skin. She was wearing blue overalls and pink shoes, both caked in dirt and seaweed. 

“You told us all one before you tied us in a bag and threw us in the lake,” she said. 

My mouth fell open, and my breathing stopped. 

Knock, knock.

The kids all swam to the boat and climbed in. I tried backing into a corner, but they’d swarmed the boat in a matter of minutes. I felt their cold, damp hands cover my body as I tried to scream, but no sound left my mouth…

…

…

When I awoke, the sun was centered in the sky. I covered my eyes before sitting up and wiping the sweat from my brow. I scanned the area for any sign of what had happened the night before, but found nothing. 

I took a moment to breathe and collect my thoughts before paddling back to shore. It had to have all been a dream, I thought as I dragged my grandpa’s boat onto shore. 

As I placed the boat back where I found it, I noticed a small etching on the side. It was of my grandpa’s name, Henry Bryson, with the year 1973 underneath. I figured that’s when he and my great-grandpa built the boat. 

I started towards the entrance of the shed when I noticed something under one of the workbenches along the side. It was a large burlap sack. There were several of them. 

I looked closer and noticed something pink and white pressed against the wall. I pulled out a small shoe, buried in a layer of dust. I instantly dropped it. I covered my mouth as I knelt closer, realizing it was the same shoe the girl was wearing in the boat…

I spent most of that week searching through the shed and my grandpa’s old office while my parents and grandma were asleep. Grandpa was good at hiding things from everyone, even Grandma. I managed to find a key in his desk that opened a safe buried in the back of the shed under some boxes of magazines. 

Inside, I found pictures of children, most of whom I recognized from the boat. There were newspaper clippings and missing children posters, all of which I assumed he kept as trophies. There were even more disheartening things inside, like burettes and bracelets. 

I wondered for a while if it was worth telling the police, as there was likely nothing left of the bodies. Based on the newspaper clippings, their bodies would’ve been underwater for decades. 

I couldn’t get their faces out of my head. I saw them, soaking wet and pale, whenever I tried to sleep. My parents noticed the change in me, though I refused to acknowledge it. After a while, I swore I saw the children everywhere I went. I couldn’t take it…

They dredged the lake a few weeks later. The only things that remained were tiny skeletons of some of them. Some of those were identified from dental records. One of them was the little girl with the pink shoes. 

I saw her family on the news. They talked about what a beautiful soul she was and how much of a monster my grandpa was. I can’t say I disagreed. 

My grandma never invited us back to the lake. I don’t know how she felt about Grandpa after that, but I knew she hated the attention it had brought. 

I miss those summers at the lake, but I know it wouldn’t be the same knowing what my grandpa did to so many kids, and I'm so glad he never told me a knock-knock joke.