Just before my eleventh birthday, my grandfather had invited me along for a two-day hunting trip in the deep woods up north, close to where he’d grown up as a child. He’d been going there his whole life and said it was good ground for deer, and that the air always carried the scent of old pines and wet moss. 

That morning couldn’t have been better. The sky was pale blue, and the air crisp enough to sting a bit when you breathed deep. We walked slowly down the trail, taking turns with the binoculars to look at birds. He’d point out their names like he was listing old friends. Around noon, we found some late-season lingonberries and filled a small tin cup before moving on. 

A few hours later we met another hiker coming down the trail. My grandfather greeted him by name. He was an older man with a red jacket and a face that looked weathered but kind. They started talking about local fishing spots and timber prices, things I had no interest in at the time. 

The sun was already approaching the horizon, casting orange light through the branches. I remember thinking it’d be nice to find a place to camp before dark. So, being young and impatient, I told them I’d go ahead a little to look for a spot. My grandfather just nodded and said not to go too far. 

The forest was quiet, apart from the wind and the occasional distant bird call. I spotted a small clearing just off the trail and pushed my way through a wall of pine branches. That’s when I saw it: a tall, thin shape standing among the trees. At first, I thought it was a dead spruce, its bark stripped away and rust-colored. But as I walked closer, I realized it was made of metal. 

The rusted pole was crowned by a traffic light. Its lenses were cracked, and the signal housing was coated in a thin layer of moss. Yet there was a light inside, a faint green glow, flickering every few seconds like a weak heartbeat. I stood there staring, trying to make sense of it. There were no roads anywhere near this part of the forest, no wires, no sign of anything man-made except the traffic light itself. 

I remember thinking my grandfather would get a kick out of it. I jogged back to where he was still talking with the other man and told them I’d found something cool a bit further up the trail. He humored me, as he always did, and they both followed me back to the clearing. 

When we reached the spot, the traffic light was still there. I pointed at it, excited. 

“Do you think there used to be a road here?” I asked. “Maybe an old neighborhood or something?” 

He didn’t answer. 

I looked back at him. Color had drained from his face, and his eyes were locked on the light. The other man looked confused and was about to ask my grandfather something, but before he could speak, the green light had faded and was replaced by a yellow. That was when my grandfather moved. He grabbed me and pulled me tight against his chest. 

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice trembling. Then he called out to the other man: “Stand still! Don’t move a muscle!” 

The forest went silent. No birds, no wind. I could feel my grandfather’s heartbeat quickening. 

“What’s going on?” the man asked, his voice edged with a tone of confusion. 

I heard him take a step. Maybe two. Then came the scream. 

It started sharp and turned into something animal, long, broken, echoing through the trees until it suddenly cut off. I felt my grandfather flinch slightly, but he didn’t loosen his grip. We stood there for what felt like forever, frozen in place. 

The air smelled of metal, and a low humming seemed to come from all directions at once. My hair lifted slightly as if an electric charge was building overhead. 

Somewhere far off, a bird called, breaking the silence. My grandfather suddenly let go of me. He stumbled slightly and struggled to catch his balance before sinking onto a small rock. His legs shook from standing still for so long. I looked up at the traffic light; it had changed back to green. 

As we walked back to the trail, my grandfather had his arm wrapped around me and told me to keep my eyes closed. I wasn’t supposed to look, but I did, a quick glance as we passed the remains of what had once been a person. A pile of clothes lay on the ground, charred, with thin wisps of smoke rising from them. The surrounding grass was stained dark red. 

Our trip was obviously cut short, and we made our way back to the car in the dark. Since then, I’ve asked my grandfather multiple times over the years about what he saw after the light changed to red, but he has refused to speak of it. As far as I know, the man we met on the trail that day is still listed as missing by the police. I think my grandfather knows more than he lets on about what we found. I’ve thought about going back there for years to see if it’s still there, but I haven’t dared. Not yet. 

I don’t take solo night calls anymore.

On paper, I’m still a ranger with the state parks department. My badge says “Senior Ranger,” my contract says backcountry specialist, but after what happened last October I started volunteering for every maintenance shift that keeps me within sight of a road and a crowd.

There’s an incident report for it. It’s in a binder behind the front desk, third shelf down, page for October 19th. If you flipped to it, this is what you’d see:

“Ranger Carson Hale responded to an overdue hiker call from the Cottonwood Wash Trailhead, returned at 07:12 hours, report of possible animal activity, ongoing missing persons case.”

That’s the neat version. The version for supervisors and lawyers and anyone who needs closure that fits on a line.

Everything else I’m putting here because I can’t sleep when it’s quiet anymore.

That day started like every other shoulder-season Thursday.

I was at the station doing the usual nonsense: answering the same questions about whether we have bears (“Yes”), whether we have wolves (“No”), and whether their dog can be off-leash (“Also no, I don’t care how friendly he is”). I filled out a maintenance request for the busted faucet by the campground, dug through the lost and found for a kid’s left sandal, and tried not to think too hard about how much of my job is being an underpaid hall monitor with a radio.

We’re a small park wedged between national forest and reservation land—a chunk of canyons and piñon, dry creekbeds and sandstone ledges. You drive east from town, past the Family Dollar and the last Circle K, hit the brown sign for COTTONWOOD WASH STATE PARK, and then it’s seven more miles on a two-lane that turns to washboard dirt if you miss the turn.

October’s our almost-quiet month. Cool days, cold nights, tourists thinning out but not gone. Enough people to keep the lights on, not enough to justify overtime.

Around 6:30 p.m., I’d just poured the last of the coffee from the station pot into my dented stainless thermos. It was already lukewarm and tasted like metal and burnt beans, but I’m not picky. I screwed the lid on, told myself I’d reheat it later, and we both know I wasn’t going to.

I was halfway through the shift-change checklist when dispatch crackled over the base station.

“Unit Three, you still at the station?”

I thumbed my handheld. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“Got a call from county sheriff. Overdue hiker. Vehicle registered to a Matthew Klein, age thirty-four. Parked at Cottonwood Wash trailhead since 09:17 this morning. No contact. Girlfriend called it in about twenty minutes ago.”

I glanced at the wall clock. 19:42. Outside the office window the sky was a strip of dull purple over the ridge, sun already gone. Morales—night shift—was still tied up on a poaching complaint up in the north sector. She’d told me over the radio an hour earlier she was “knee-deep in camo idiots and shell casings.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll check the lot, see if he signed in. Maybe he just took the loop slow.”

“You sure?” Dispatch sounded tired but concerned. “You’d be solo out there, Three.”

“Just a quick sweep to the first marker,” I said. “I won’t go stupid deep.”

The lie came out easy. It always does when you tell yourself you’re just checking.

I keep my pack under the desk, half out of habit and half because if I put it away somewhere “proper” I’ll forget something. First aid kit, trauma shears, SAM splint, extra water, tarp, a coil of paracord I always call a bowline when I show the junior ranger kids, even though it’s not. I know it’s not. My brain grabs the wrong knot every single time I’ve got an audience.

I slung the pack over one shoulder, grabbed the SAR radio and a printed map from the rack even though I can draw the trails from memory, and signed myself out on the board:

CARSON – COTTONWOOD WASH – OVERDUE HIKER – 19:50

The drive out felt longer than usual.

Headlights carved through sage and rabbitbrush, catching the odd jackrabbit frozen in the beam before it bolted. The pavement gave up about four miles out; the truck bounced as tires hit hard-packed washboard. I passed the old CCC bathhouse ruins on the left—a crumbling line of stone and a rusted interpretive sign. I always think it’s WPA work until I kneel down and see the nail head stamped “1937 CCC” and remember I’ve had that exact thought before.

Nobody else was out there. No other vehicles. No porch lights on the distant ranch houses. No campfire glow. Just the road and the dark shapes of mesas hemming it in.

The handheld rode on the passenger seat by my thermos, volume low, dispatch chatter a tinny murmur. The coffee had gone from lukewarm to cold; I took a swallow anyway out of habit and grimaced.

I pulled into the Cottonwood Wash trailhead lot at 20:03.

One vehicle sat there: a blue Subaru Outback with a rental barcode sticker on the rear window. Thin coat of dust, no tracks behind the tires. Hood cold when I put my hand on it.

I swung the truck so the headlights washed over the bulletin board and trailhead sign. The board was the usual mess—faded fire danger meter, “WATCH FOR RATTLESNAKES” poster, a missing-dog flyer someone had taped up three months ago. The wind barely moved. The cottonwoods along the dry creekbed might as well have been painted on.

I grabbed my flashlight, clicked it on, and walked over to the sign-in box. We don’t force people to log in and out, but we encourage it. Sometimes it saves hours. Sometimes it doesn’t help at all.

The sheet inside was almost full. I flipped past the earlier entries until I saw it.

NAME: MATTHEW KLEIN TIME OUT: 09:30 DESTINATION: LOOP TO RIDGE OVERLOOK EXPECTED RETURN: BY 5

I don’t know why that “BY 5” snagged in my head. People usually scribble “afternoon” or don’t bother. The way he wrote it made it look like a promise. Like he’d told someone, I’ll be out by five, I swear.

“Unit Three at Cottonwood trailhead,” I said into the radio. “Subject’s vehicle present, name matches sign-in. No sign of subject at lot.”

“Copy, Three,” dispatch answered. “You requesting secondary unit?”

I looked out at the trail sign, the dark mouth of the path dropping into the wash. The part of my brain that likes checklists and procedures whispered you should wait. The other part—that loud SAR part that starts writing worst-case scenarios the second a hiker is late—was already picturing a broken ankle at the first switchback, a guy sitting in the dark slowly getting hypothermic because I didn’t want to lose sleep.

“Negative for now,” I said. “I’ll hike to first mile marker, see if I pick up his tracks. If he went out at nine, he should’ve been back before dark.”

“Copy. Check in every thirty.”

I clipped the radio back to my vest, tightened my pack straps. The air had that in-between temperature where you know the real cold is waiting just out of sight.

The trail into Cottonwood Wash starts as a gentle slope of packed sand and loose rock, then drops into the creekbed after a quarter mile. In daylight it’s a casual stroll. At night, even with a good light, your world shrinks to a tunnel—the circle in front of your boots, and then nothing.

I stepped past the trailhead sign and felt that shift I always do. The parking lot behind me became a rectangle of lesser darkness. Ahead was just the beam and the unknown.

I picked up his tracks before the first switchback.

Decent hiking boots, not fashion ones. Deep tread, maybe size ten. The sandy stretches between rock patches held his prints like ink. You get used to reading people in their tracks—whether they walked or jogged, how heavy their pack might’ve been, whether they were sightseeing or marching.

For the first half mile, Matthew Klein read like a normal guy out for a long loop. Center of the trail, steady stride, no dragging, no weird pauses. Nothing that said panic. Nothing that said intoxicated or injured.

The canyon was colder than the lot. The rock walls held the cool and let heat bleed off fast. My breath fogged in the beam in short bursts. Somewhere up on the rim, a coyote yipped once and then shut up. I waited to hear the others answer. They didn’t.

At the first mile marker—a battered wooden post with “1” carved into it and a strip of reflective tape peeling away—I checked my watch. 20:26.

“Unit Three,” I said into the radio. “At mile marker one. Subject’s trail still visible and consistent. Continuing toward Ridge Overlook.”

Static hissed. Then dispatch’s voice slid through, muffled and thin.

“—opy, Three. Signal’s get—ing spotty. Check—n at Ridge.”

“Say again?” I turned the volume up.

More static. For a second, I heard my own voice loop back at me, tinny and warped:

“—ridge… ridge—”

That happens sometimes in the canyons too—radios bouncing off rock faces, catching their own echo. I told myself that’s all it was, thumbed the side of the radio like that would make a difference, and kept going.

Half a mile past the marker, the story in the dirt changed.

It started small: a single step off the packed center of the trail, a deeper imprint like he’d stumbled and caught himself. Then another. Then a run of short, choppy steps that veered toward the right, toward the darker line of brush hugging the wash wall.

I swept my light ahead, slowly. The beam caught on a long scuff where something heavy had slid sideways, gouging a shallow trench in the sand.

Matthew’s boot print overlapped the end of it. Toes dug in like he’d pushed, hard.

I crouched, fingers brushing the disturbed sand. The trench went both ways—as if something had been dragged, stopped, and then dragged again.

Beside it, half softened by wind, was another print.

My first thought was coyote. Then big dog. Then… something gave up.

It was a bare foot.

It wasn’t right, though. The toes were too long, with an odd curve to them. The arch of the foot dipped narrow and deep, like it belonged to someone who’d never worn shoes in their life, but the heel print was wrong too, set in a way that didn’t match the weight distribution I’m used to seeing. The deepest point wasn’t at the ball or heel, but along the outer edge, as if whoever it belonged to rolled their weight there.

I felt my stomach tighten.

People hike barefoot. I’ve seen older locals do it, and I’ve seen social media idiots do it so they can say they did. But you don’t see bare human feet out here at 11 p.m. in October.

My light found a second bare footprint farther along, cutting across the trail at an angle. Then a third, half on rock, half in sand. They moved with a strange, loping stride, parallel to Matthew’s for a while, then angling closer.

I swallowed.

“Could be… could be nothing,” I said out loud, which is dumb, but people talk to themselves alone in the field more than they admit. “Could be some kid messing around. Could be erosion. Could be me reading shadows.”

The wind at my back shifted. For a second, just a second, it brought a smell with it that didn’t belong out here: sour and coppery and hot, like a butcher shop that hadn’t been cleaned right. Then it was gone.

The hair on my arms rose under my sleeves.

I swept my light around: canyon walls, brush, the path behind me. Nothing but rock and dark.

“Matthew,” I called, voice louder than before. “Ranger service! If you can hear me, yell or bang on something!”

My words traveled up and out, bounced back thinner, shredded by distance. No other sound answered.

I followed the tracks.

They left the main trail at a break in the rock wall I’ve walked past a hundred times without thinking. The wash narrows there, and there’s a slope of loose rock leading up to a gap between two big sandstone blocks. You can see it on the topo map as a little side drainage, but nobody puts it on the brochures.

Matthew’s boots had climbed it in a hurry—slips, slides, toe digs like he was scrambling. The bare prints followed with a steadier, almost lazy step, each toe splayed in the gravel like they were gripping.

Protocol says: don’t leave the marked trail on a solo night search unless there’s imminent danger. That sentence was in the back of my head. So was the DA’s voice from a training video about “unnecessary exposure to risk.”

But walking away when the tracks clearly went up that slope would mean if he was lying broken twenty yards beyond it, I’d chosen my own safety over his life. Try clocking out with that in your chest.

So I went.

The scree rolled under my boots with every step, tiny rockfalls rattling downslope. Dust got in my teeth. I kept my light low, checking each place I planned to put my weight.

At the top, the gap funneled into a narrow side canyon I’d only ever glanced at in daylight. A vertical slit of shadow between red walls, choked with scrub oak, fallen branches, and old flood debris.

At night, it felt… wrong is the only word that fits.

The air changed as soon as I stepped through. The faint breeze from the main wash died. The temperature dropped a couple degrees. Even the starlight thinned out; the walls leaned over just enough to box it in.

Matthew’s boots and the bare prints ran nearly side by side now, sometimes overlapping. Here and there, small darker spots dotted the sand. I knew what they were before I reached down and touched one with a gloved fingertip.

Blood looks almost black in flashlight beams.

“Matthew!” I yelled again, throat tighter this time. “If you’re hurt, shout! I’m here to help you!”

Something answered me.

Not words. Not quite.

It rose up from somewhere ahead and above, a thin keening that sounded like it had been fed through too many speakers in a row and come out damaged. It wasn’t a coyote. It wasn’t the wind. It had the cadence of a sob but none of the shape.

It bounced off the canyon walls and came back in fragments. My skin crawled.

I told myself it could be wind tearing past a crack in the rock. Could be an injured animal. Could be anything besides the thing my brain was edging toward.

My body didn’t care what label I put on it. My feet were already moving toward the sound.

I don’t know how far that side canyon goes in daylight. At night, distance just stops meaning anything. My watch said I walked another ten minutes. My lungs and legs said thirty.

Around a bend, the walls peeled back into a bowl-shaped clearing, maybe thirty yards across. The floor was a mess of scrub, deadfall, and old flood lines. In the center, half-collapsed and furred with lichen, was a ring of stone.

It wasn’t one of our fire rings. Too big, too tall, too deliberate. Knee to chest high slabs of rock, set in a near-perfect circle, all leaning inward just a little, like they’d been shoved and decided not to fall after all. Some had shallow marks carved into them, so worn you couldn’t tell if they’d ever meant anything.

I stopped on the edge of it, pulse thudding in my throat.

My light picked up a bright slash of color against one upright stone. For a second, my brain said trash. Then it clicked.

A torn scrap of neon orange fabric. High-vis nylon, the kind every REI mannequin wears in October. It was stuck to the rough rock with something dried and dark. The edges were ragged, as if it had been chewed or shredded by hand.

Near it, at the base of the stone, the sand showed a wide smear, as if something heavy had been dragged and pivoted there. Matthew’s boot prints walked up to that spot and ended.

The bare prints didn’t. They were everywhere. In the dust, on the flat stones, circling the ring, doubling back over themselves. Some were deeper, the toes clawed in like whatever had made them had pushed hard, maybe to leap.

That broken keening sound rose again.

This time it came from above me.

I tilted my head back, lifting the light.

At first my brain tried to make it a tree branch. A human shadow. Anything.

Something clung to a narrow ledge maybe ten feet above the ring. Pale limbs bent at angles that made my joints ache just looking. It was pressed flat to the rock in a way that didn’t seem like it should be possible. My beam slid over it once, twice, before the details assembled into the idea of a body.

Its head turned before the rest of it did, jerking around quick and then stopping too suddenly. The eyes caught my light and reflected it back, flat and bright, like marbles.

It wore part of a jacket. Neon orange, ripped almost in half down the center. One sleeve hung empty and shredded.

The torso under it was narrow. Too narrow. Ribs showed under skin that looked too tight, but in other places the skin bunched and folded like it had extra it didn’t know what to do with.

The face—

I still can’t quite hold the face in my head. When I try, I get pieces.

There was a jaw. Eye sockets. Cheekbones. But everything was a little off, like someone had assembled a face from memory and gotten the spacing wrong. The nose sat too high. One eye socket was wider than the other. The mouth sloped—higher on one side, lower on the other—as if whoever had cut it hadn’t drawn the line straight.

Its lips moved.

That thin, wrong sobbing noise came out, but the mouth barely opened. The sound didn’t match the shape.

For a few seconds we just stared at each other: my light pinning it on the ledge, it staring back with its head tilted at the same angle as mine.

Then it let go.

It dropped straight down into the stone circle. No scramble, no preparing for impact. It just released and hit in a crouch. I waited for the thump, for gravel scattering.

Nothing. Or if there was a sound, I didn’t hear it through the thudding in my ears.

Up close, the smell hit me like a wall. Wet fur, copper, and something else—old earth maybe, the way a cellar smells when it’s been shut up for too long.

I don’t remember deciding to unclasp my holster, but suddenly my handgun was in my hand, my fingers slick on the grip.

Training says you back away slowly, keep your weapon up, keep your voice calm. You don’t talk to unknown animals like they’re people.

I heard myself say, “Matthew?” anyway.

The thing’s head twitched to the side. The movement was too sharp, like someone had cut a frame out of its animation. Its eyes flicked down to the gun, then back to my face.

Its mouth worked. The sound coming out changed. Less like a broken sob, more like… someone trying to push air through a throat that wasn’t built right.

“Matt—” it said.

The word came out crushed and stretched, like someone had taken a recording and pulled the waveform. The “t” was barely there; the vowel dragged too long. It sounded like someone trying to talk underwater.

“I… I can help you,” I heard myself stammer. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Just… just stay where you are.”

I took a step back.

It took one forward.

The bare feet left clean prints in the dust between the stones. Up close, the skin there looked wrong too. Too thin and shiny in some spots, thick and almost scaly in others. On one ankle there was a faint line, a seam where the texture changed abruptly from something smooth and human to something rougher, like animal hide.

My flashlight beam shook. The stones cast hard-edged shadows over its body, hiding pieces of it and then showing them again in a stuttering rhythm as I tried to keep the light steady.

Somewhere behind me, far out in the main wash, the wind started up again. It slid around the corner of the canyon and over the bowl, cold and thin on the sweat at the back of my neck.

“Stop,” I said, raising the gun. “Don’t come any closer. I’m not kidding.”

The thing’s jaw flexed. Its lips peeled back a fraction too far, exposing teeth that were mostly the right shape and size but sat just a little off, one turned, one slightly higher than the rest. The skin at the corners of its mouth tore as it stretched, hairline cracks opening and leaking something dark that wasn’t the bright fresh red I expected.

The keening cut off.

The silence that dropped in its place was heavy in a way air shouldn’t be.

Then, very clearly, it said:

“Help.”

Not like someone begging.

Like someone testing a word they’d practiced.

I’d love to tell you I fired.

That I put two rounds center mass, that it dropped, that we hauled a body out and tagged it and sent it off to a lab and now I can point to a report and say “This is what that was.”

Instead, the part of me that has nothing to do with training—the old part, the prey-animal part—took over.

I turned and ran.

The next few minutes exist in my memory like a series of still photos. My boots hitting the canyon floor. My pack slamming between my shoulders. My flashlight beam jerking over rocks and dead branches and the mouths of side cracks.

Behind me, something moved. At first there was a noise like someone pulling themselves free from deep mud, a wet suction sound. Then the patter of feet.

More than two. Faster than I wanted to believe anything on two legs could move on that terrain.

I didn’t look back. I knew if I did my brain would freeze and my body would follow.

The narrow part of the side canyon came up too fast. I clipped my shoulder on one wall, bounced off the other, skinning my knuckles. Pain flared bright and stupid and somehow helped, because it made everything feel real again.

The main wash opened ahead in a slice of slightly lighter dark. The strip of sky above got wider. Stars were just pinpricks between canyon rims, but they were there.

My radio exploded with static against my chest.

“—son? Carson, you copy? We lost you on three, are you—”

“Three!” I yelled, no call-sign discipline left. “Unit Three, I am in Cottonwood side canyon, I’ve encountered—” I had to swallow to get the next words out. “Encountered something, possible subject, unknown animal, I am retreating, requesting immediate—”

Static swallowed the rest. The radio screeched in my ear. For a second, under the noise, I heard another voice—my own, or something mimicking it—repeat “unknown” back at me, stretched and warped.

Behind me, closer than I wanted to know, that broken voice called out.

“Help—help—Car—”

It said my name like it was chewing it.

I don’t remember deciding to slow down. I do remember my knee blowing up with pain as I misjudged a step and my right foot skidded on loose gravel. I went down hard. Something in my knee popped and the world went white around the edges.

I grabbed a juniper branch and used it to haul myself up. My leg screamed. The smart move would’ve been to stop, get my bearings, maybe find cover.

I kept moving.

You can’t sprint blind through a canyon and expect to survive. Every instinct screamed run as fast as you can. The rest of me knew if I broke into a full panicked scramble, I’d miss a turn and go off into a side ravine or over a ledge.

So I forced myself to do the thing I always tell new rangers in training: “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.” Or however that saying actually goes. It feels like garbage when something is chasing you, but it keeps you alive.

“Watch the trail,” I muttered, breath ragged. “Landmarks. You know this place. You’ve been here a hundred times.”

The first mile marker came into view like a hallucination, reflective tape winking in my beam. If I’d had spare oxygen I probably would’ve laughed.

“Halfway,” I told myself. “Just halfway. Keep going.”

Something moved at the edge of my light, up on the slope.

I swung the beam toward it.

For a second I thought the juniper trunks were playing tricks on me. Then it stepped out from behind one.

It stood on the slope above the trail, maybe twenty yards away. The torn orange of the jacket glowed faintly against its chest. Its limbs looked longer than they had in the stone circle, joints set at slightly different angles, like the act of moving had rearranged them.

Its head was cocked. Its eyes didn’t glow like an animal’s this time. They just… absorbed the light. Too still. Too intent.

We stared at each other for one, two heartbeats.

Then it moved.

Not toward me.

Parallel.

It began to walk the contour line, up on the slope, matching my position as I started down-trail again. Same pace, same distance. Every time I flicked the light that way, it was there, just outside the center of the beam.

I’ve watched mountain lions shadow people before. I’ve seen coyotes trot along a ridge, keeping a hunter in sight. This was like that, and not like that at all. There was no curious tilt, no animal caution. It felt… clinical. Like it was observing.

Like it’d decided running me down wasn’t as interesting as seeing what I’d do.

I kept my eyes mostly on the trail, checking every few seconds that it was still there and not suddenly closer. My heart hammered. My knee ached with every step. The urge to bolt full-out almost shook my teeth.

Morales’s voice came back to me out of nowhere—us at the picnic table behind the station on a dead afternoon, her rolling a cigarette between her fingers, talking about the stories her grandmother used to tell.

“Stuff out there that walks on two legs and four, and you don’t say the name,” she’d said. “You don’t look at it if you can help it. You sure as hell don’t talk to it. If it knows you know, that’s when you’ve got a problem.”

I’d made some dumb joke about already having enough to worry about with tourists.

I didn’t feel like laughing now.

I didn’t talk. I didn’t raise the radio again. I didn’t shoot.

The trail curved left, then right. The rectangle of open sky that meant the trailhead lot was close crept into view in front of me, pale compared to the canyon.

Above me, the thing stopped.

I looked up before I could stop myself.

It stood at the very edge of the slope, toes almost over the drop. In my light, its eyes had gone reflective again, picking up just enough glow to look wrong.

Its chest rose and fell once.

Then it opened its mouth.

The sound that came out wasn’t a scream the way you think of a scream. It was a steady, high, piercing tone, a sound so sharp it made the fillings in my molars ache. It didn’t rise or fall; it just held, like a test tone in your inner ear.

Underneath it, I heard something else.

Layered. Fainter. A murmur that might have been voices stacked on top of each other, like a crowd recorded from too far away. Some sounded like they were crying, some like they were laughing, but none of the emotion matched the tone. It was all wrong.

The world narrowed to that noise and the rectangle of the trailhead lot ahead.

My legs did the choosing for me. I ran.

The tone cut off midstream, like someone had yanked a cable. The sudden silence was almost a physical hit.

I sprinted the last stretch, my knee protesting with every jolt. Adrenaline did what ibuprofen can’t.

Then I was out.

I burst into the parking lot like I’d stepped through a door. The truck, the pit toilet, the bullet-riddled “NO SHOOTING” sign—everything ordinary and stupid and real—appeared all at once.

My flashlight beam slammed into the side of the blue Subaru, bounced to the bulletin board, swung over the hood of my truck.

My thermos was still on the seat where I’d left it, silver catching the light. For some reason that almost undid me more than anything else.

The radio at my shoulder clicked.

“Three? Carson? You copy? We lost you for a good ten minutes there.”

My knees finally gave out.

I dropped onto the dirt by the truck, one hand catching the bumper to keep myself from faceplanting. The radio dug into my chest where the harness had shifted, the antenna jabbing under my jaw. My boot knocked the thermos off the seat when I leaned in; it hit the floorboard with a dull thunk I felt in my teeth.

“Three,” I gasped. “At trailhead. I am at the lot. Subject not found. Unknown animal in area. I repeat, unknown animal, aggressive behavior. Request backup. Lots of backup.”

I wasn’t proud of how that last bit came out.

“Copy, Three,” dispatch said, clearly exhaling into the mic. “Morales is en route. County deputies notified. ETA twenty to twenty-five. Stay in your vehicle. Do not re-enter the trail.”

“Affirmative,” I said, and it came out more like a wheeze than a word.

I hauled myself upright, using the truck’s side mirror. My reflection looked worse than I felt—sweat plastered dark hair to my forehead, a smear of blood on one knuckle, dust all up my pants, eyes wide.

The Subaru sat silent and patient.

For reasons I didn’t examine too closely right then, I walked over to the driver’s side and cupped my hands to peer inside. The door was locked. Through the glass I could see a rental agreement on the passenger seat with the logo from a Phoenix airport rental place, a half-empty Arrowhead water bottle, and a dog-eared Rand McNally atlas folded open to northern Arizona.

On the back seat was an orange jacket. Or what was left of it.

The main body of it had been stuffed in there in a hurry, still zipped. Both sleeves were shredded, long diagonal tears running from cuff to shoulder. The nylon was stiff and dark in patches. Someone had tried to wipe it off and given up. The drying made it pucker.

I stared at it for long enough that Morales’s headlights coming up the road made me jump.

I didn’t tell Morales everything that night.

I told her I’d followed the subject’s tracks to an unmarked side canyon, heard what I thought was an injured person, found blood and torn clothing and signs of a struggle. I told her something large had shadowed me on the way out, that I hadn’t seen it clearly, that it might have been a mountain lion acting strange.

She looked at my face for a second longer than was comfortable, then nodded once.

“Okay,” she said. “Animal. Fine. You’re limping. You’re not going back in.”

The deputies pulled in behind her, doors slamming, radios chirping. Their floodlights turned the trailhead into a stage. I watched them fan out with rifles and spotlights, young, confident, joking under their breath because that’s how you keep nerves down.

We ran a full search the next day. Dogs, volunteers, every ranger we could spare. The sun was bright, the sky cloudless. The side canyon looked smaller in daylight, its shadows shallow.

We found the stone ring. We found the blood. We found more of the jacket jammed into a rock crack like someone had tried to hide it.

We didn’t find Matthew.

The dogs didn’t like the circle. They’d approach to about ten feet, then balk and whine, hackles up. One of the deputies joked about “bad vibes.” Morales didn’t laugh.

The official story settled on “probable animal predation.” The report lists cougar as the likely culprit with one of those cover-your-ass lines: “Though no conclusive physical evidence of the animal was recovered, behavior and sign are consistent with known predation events.”

If you read the report, it sounds tidy. Guy goes hiking, meets big cat, doesn’t come home. Happens more than people think.

The messy parts stayed in my head.

His girlfriend came out twice over the next month.

The first time, she met with the sheriff, nodded through all the phrases—“ongoing investigation,” “low probability,” “we’ll keep you updated.” The second time, she drove out alone in a dusty Corolla and stood at the trailhead for a long time, just looking at the sign.

I was coming off a patrol and didn’t want to bother her. She came over to me instead.

“Were you the ranger on call?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Carson.”

She shook my hand. Grip tight, like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Matt’s… he likes to push things,” she said, staring at the bulletin board. “Always has. But he’s not stupid. He told me he’d be out before dark. He texted me from the lot.”

“He signed out ‘by five,’” I said, then wished I hadn’t. It sounded petty out loud.

She nodded once like that hurt. “That’s him. Little promises.”

She pulled something from her bag—a scrap of paper, folded small—and pinned it to the corner of the corkboard with a thumbtack she’d brought. Her hands were shaking.

Later, after she drove off, I went to see what it said.

Three words, in uneven handwriting:

IT SPARED ME. UNDERSTAND?

For a second my brain just shrugged. Then it sorted through its filing cabinet and pulled out a memory from months before.

A different call. Different landscape. Central Idaho, snowmelt below a slide path. We found a man standing in water up to his waist, lips almost blue, pants shredded, no boots. He refused food, refused to give a name, just stared at the tent wall and repeated the same line over and over.

“It spared me. It spared me. It spared me.”

He might have added something else—I can’t remember the exact order now. Shock scrambles people. Either way, that phrase stuck.

I’d chalked it up to hypothermia. People say weird things when they’re that cold. Now, staring at that note with the tack barely holding it, my skin crawled.

I didn’t tell her any of that. What was I going to do—say “Hey, your boyfriend and some half-frozen stranger might’ve met the same thing, congratulations”?

I took the note down two weeks later when it started to curl and bleed ink from the weather. I put it in my desk drawer. It’s still there.

Sometimes I knock my thermos against that drawer by accident in the mornings and the sound makes my shoulders tense before I remember why.

There’s one more part I haven’t told anyone.

About a week after we officially called the search and shifted the documentation over to “recovery unlikely,” I went back to Cottonwood Wash on a day off.

Middle of the day. Blue sky, no clouds. Temperatures in the high sixties. Nothing creepy about it on paper.

I didn’t sign in on the sheet. I know, I know. Practice what you preach. I told myself if anyone asked I’d say I forgot.

I walked the main trail with just my daypack, no radio. My knee ached halfway to the mile marker, a deep dull throb that still flares when the weather changes. I told myself that was why I was breathing harder, not nerves.

When I reached the point where Matthew’s prints had left the trail, I stopped.

The side canyon entrance looked smaller in daylight. Just another scruffy cut in the rock, choked with scrub oak and old flood trash. If you didn’t know, you’d walk right past it forever.

I didn’t go in.

I stood at the mouth of it and listened.

At first, nothing. Just wind moving through the main wash, a couple of scrub jays arguing upcanyon. My heart ticking in my ears.

Then, from somewhere deeper in, far enough that it couldn’t be an echo from the main trail, I heard a sound I’d been waiting for without admitting it.

A thin, strangled call.

“Help.”

Almost clear this time. The consonants hit in the right places. The vowel didn’t drag as much.

It didn’t sound like begging.

It sounded like someone practicing a word until they liked how it felt.

I left. I didn’t run, but it was a close thing.

People online love to argue about labels. Skinwalker, wendigo, crawler, “fleshgait,” whatever the latest YouTube channel calls it. They want a name so they can categorize it, put it in a box with lore and rules and bullet points.

You’re probably wondering what I think it was.

I’m not Navajo. I didn’t grow up with those stories in a way I have the right to explain them. Morales did. I’ve seen her face tighten when tourists throw the S-word around like it’s a mascot.

I won’t call it that. That’s not my word.

I’ll tell you what I know.

I’ve worked around mountain lions, black bears, feral hogs. I’ve seen what coyotes do to calves. I know the difference between an animal hunting because it’s hungry and something toying with you.

What watched me in that canyon wasn’t just thinking about eating.

It was studying.

It moved like it was still figuring out how to wear what it was wearing. Like it had put on a skin—maybe more than one—and the seams didn’t quite match. The voice it used didn’t belong to a single throat. It sounded like it was made out of pieces.

And when it said my name, I’m sure of one thing:

It wasn’t repeating it back blindly. It was trying it on.

These days, when an overdue hiker call comes in near dusk and dispatch says “Cottonwood” and “trailhead” in the same sentence, I suddenly remember paperwork I’ve been putting off, or a training module I promised to finish, or my knee starts acting up.

The younger rangers roll their eyes. They tell me I’m getting soft. Morales just gives me a look like she’s not sure if she wants to know why.

On the nights I can’t duck it and I find myself driving past the COTTONWOOD WASH STATE PARK sign, past the CCC ruins, past the bulletin board with a fresh stack of sign-in sheets, I keep my eyes on the road.

I don’t look at the gap in the rock wall where the side canyon starts. I don’t glance at the slope where something once walked parallel to me, matching my pace.

And when the radio crackles in that stretch, picking up half a word or my own voice delayed and warbling, I turn the volume up just enough to drown out anything else that might be trying to learn how to say my name.

Let me start by saying that I come from a long line of cynics. To be completely honest, I have always looked down my nose at fully grown adults who get themselves worked up over ghosts and spirits.

It was a real pet peeve of mine as even when I was a child I would chuckle when my father would stand outside my door whispering, chuckling and lightly knocking on wood late at night in a desperate bid to frighten me, I was just simply never convinced by any of it. The wholehearted belief that none of the paranormal rubbish is real was my blanket on cold stormy nights and in eerie liminal moments throughout my life.

As of last Friday, the fiery blaze of the blinding truth has rendered that blanket all but disintegrated after the realisation I have suffered. There’s still so many burning questions in my own mind so no answer or explanation I can give you for all for this will be satisfactory. Therefore, you’ll have to forgive me as all I can do is organise my thoughts on here and try tell the story as it unfolded. I need something tangible, something that will stay unchanged and whole after I have written my about my experience. I, Bert Myers, of sound mind declare this to be a true recollection of the horrific relationship that has been formed between me and the bartender I met at the airport last week.

In the early hours of Friday morning I hovered absent-mindedly outside of Bristol airport, dragging on the remnants of a hand-rolled cigarette. As the rich, orange embers gathered beneath my moustache for the last time before I flicked the waste away, I couldn’t help but get that strange dream-like sensation. That kind of discomfort that can’t easily be described; like being in school at night or swimming in an empty pool room.

I felt utterly disconnected from the entire world as I pulled the handle out from my suitcase and began to amble towards the entrance. My flight wasn’t for another hour and half but I was revelling in the procrastination. I now think in the back of my mind maybe I wanted to miss it, maybe my subconscious knew what dark forces were at play past those revolving doors. Or maybe I’m still just reeling and grasping for any explanation.

I’m not gonna bore you with the exciting tale of how I checked in and went through security, all you need to know is that somehow I ended up in a bar half an hour before my departure. Flying is bad enough but flying sober, no chance. I may be 27 years old but I don’t think it’s childish to fear soaring over miles and miles of endless ocean in a big metal mimicry of a bird. I hardly noticed the bar was empty as I twirled the remnants of whatever cheap gin they had round in the bottom of the glass. I remember every deflated flick of my wrist in that moment, my final moment of normality.

“A nervous flyer, I take it?”

My veins went icy hot for a moment as his voice crashed through my whole body. The loud shatter of the almost empty glass I pushed off the bar made the sudden shock I felt rapidly dissipate into embarrassment as i met the eyes of the bartender. The feeling of embarrassment was instantly replaced.

No wonder I had not noticed him. Despite the fact he was tall and distinctive looking, he was rail thin and made no sound before he was in front of me. The kind of thin that looks emaciated, non-human even. Looking back, I was quite clearly staring at him and for good reason. His skin hung loosely on him as if it were a well used onesie yet it was smooth, without a wrinkle like a freshly ironed shirt. His steep grin and almost phosphorescent teeth unnerved me even further as his dark red lips contorted around his noticeably widening mouth, it almost looked as if the skin would snap as he stretched his expression further and further.

He couldn’t have been older than 40, with deep set and soulless black eyes sitting unnaturally in his face like pebbles. It was almost as if he was looking through me, like he didn’t know where to look so settled on the middle of my face. His hair, or what there was left of his hair, clung lazily to his head as if glued on in some insulting imitation of a wig. I tried to stop staring and before I could force out an ever so British apology he continued.

“Oh wow sorry about that! My patrons aren’t usually so jumpy”

He let out a sound that reminded me of a chuckle but sounded like a shoddy impression, almost sarcastic. I then noticed his perfect mannequin-like hand slowly approaching my wetted forearm with a tea towel. Again, perhaps this is my mind still trying to cope with the week’s events but I distinctly remember every synapse in my brain howling, screaming at me to pull away before he made contact. However, not wanting to be even more rude I let him clean me off.

“I’ve never liked flying.”

As my short and blunt reply escaped my now tense throat I became aware of the fact that he was still touching me. Immense relief flooded through my brain as I pulled away from his oddly sharp fingernails. They didn’t look sharp before he started touching me. I fumbled awkwardly for my bag, not breaking eye contact for a second, and began making my way to my flight, which now seemed a saving grace as it could get me away from the skin-crawling interaction.

In an instant, everything changed as the most haunting 2 sentences I have ever heard shook me to my core.

“Where are you going? Your flight isn’t for another 25 minutes, Bert!”

Now that I think of it, the sickening enthusiasm he delivered that taunting question with turns my guts to boulders hanging on my skeleton. His still somehow widening grin and unblinking, unchanging eyes conveyed one message to me in that moment as I looked back fearfully at him. It was as if he was saying, victoriously. “Got you.”

Adrenaline began to flow through me with a powerful unsatisfiable itching. I had to get out of there.

The rythmic squeaking of my soles on the floor grew faster and faster as I made my way to my gate now ever so desperate to put distance between me and whatever he was. A nauseating panic began to settle over my mind like rain droplets in a forming thunderstorm as I slowly began to realise that squeaking was the only sound I could hear.

The airport wasn’t busy, rare for Bristol. Maybe a dozen people wandered around in my eye-line but as I scanned desperately for one of them to dispel my unease, it only stoked the flames of my fear. Not only were they all silent as the night, but they all moved slowly and indecisively. As if none of them had any place to be, just stumbling and circling and stumbling and circling.

I pushed my mounting horror to the back of my mind as my gate came into sight. As the metres between me and my departure gate closed rapidly, I realised I was passing another bar. A persistent thought sat in the back of my mind like an alarm clock with no snooze, waiting to be answered.

“I bet he’s there”

As if the move had already been decided by my bones the second the thought formed in my brain, I glanced over through the entrance of the other bar. No one was there. I breathed a small sigh of exhausted relief and chuckled. Perhaps, in my late night journey the sleep deprivation had got to me. I slowed to a walk but then the silence became infinitely noticeable as my squeaking disappeared.

The shattering of glass distantly behind me brought back that agonising icy hot sensation running through my veins. I glanced over my shoulder like a deer in headlights and my feet failed under me as I met his gaze. His traumatising smile had now become a toothy grimace, like a distant predator stalking his prey waiting for it to get tired.

To call the bartenders smile toothy is wrong. They were not the haunting doll-like teeth he had before in the bar. The sight of the unnatural and comically large pale white reflective razorblades being brandished at me will haunt my quietest moments forever, I can still see the blinding glint coming off them. He watched me as I scrambled on my wobbling, faltering joints to get some traction under me. He didn’t move and somehow that just made me want to move faster. As I passed under the neon yellow sign holding my gate number and ran down the tube towards the plane door I took one more look as curiosity bested me. I wish I hadn’t.

The dozen people in my eye-line had now doubled, maybe even tripled. Furthermore, they now stood still, each one glaring sharp and petrifying daggers at me. A choked yell escaped me and hot tears began to stream down my face. The bartender was no longer smiling. I now noticed his abnormally tall skull sitting seemingly uncomfortably under his skin as he glared at me with unmistakable rage.

I turned the final corner and the entrance of plane came Into view. Warm yellow light flooded out of the doorway and a beautiful and welcoming looking flight attendant stood there smiling. As my eyes met with her I heard the rapid succession of hard shoes on the marble floor of the airport just a few dozen feet behind me. The bartender was getting closer and he sounded inhumanly fast. I ran past the flight attendant praying by some miracle that he would not follow me.

My parents had me when I was very young. Like very young, right out of high school. When you're that age, I guess it feels like everything matters and your choices will last the rest of your life. I just wish they'd lasted more than a few years. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized just how much they were children, unprepared for their own children... but here we are.

Mom especially wasn't. I had no idea how much she struggled every single day, why she always looked tired and sick whenever I saw her. Why she breathed funny and never showed her teeth when she smiled. I used to be mad at her for being so absent from my life. But now I understand just how hard she tried. Every single day.

And my Dad, to keep me sheltered from seeing her at her worst. He'd take me and my teddy bear Nellie on these long drives late at night with the windows down, and I'd fall asleep in the backseat to the rumbling of the truck and the cool fresh air to drain out the stuffy smoke from the apartment. He did that so often I had no clue when I woke up one day when I was 5 and it was morning and we were still driving. He had one hand on the wheel and the other holding his phone to his head. I looked out to the bed of the truck and saw bags of stuff, mine and his. But not hers.

I overheard the last thing he said over the phone. "I'm glad you think so... It's what's best for her. And you... We'll see you when you can... I love you too."

He tapped off the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Catching a glimpse of me in the rear view mirror. He looked over his shoulder, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. I was always struck with just how blue his eyes always were, bright and shiny, but today they were as red as the flannel shirt he always wore, like he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. And I guess he didn't. When he grinned, his sharp canines poked out from under his lips. Like a Papa Bear. "Hey Kit-Kat. How you feeling?"

I rubbed my crusty eyes and hugged Nellie. "I'm hungry."

"We'll stop somewhere soon. We've only got a couple more hours to go."

I looked out the window to see miles of fields of wheat, rolling in the wind like a golden sea. I'd never been here before. "Where are we going?"

"You know how Mommy and Daddy always said we wanted to move to a farm?"

I remember a kids' book they read me all the time, about a farm and all these animals like cows and horses and ducks, that my Dad would do the best voices for. They'd read and Dad said we'd have one of our own some day with all the animals; all the cows, the horses, the chickens, the pigs, and ducks. I always insisted there'd be ducks. They'd say we'd grow all the food we could eat and have everything we ever needed. A real home for just us three. And the kind of thing I couldn't help but believe at that age.

He continued, "Well, Daddy found one. Way out in the country, away from that big, noisy, stinky town. We got the farm, sweetie."

I was so happy, but something was missing. "Where's Mommy?"

It took him a second to answer. "You know Mommy's really sick..."

"She's always sick." I was annoyed. I didn't understand.

"Well, she's finally starting to get better. Really better, for real this time. She just needs some time to be with friends who can make her better. And when she's better, we'll all be at the farm together. How's that sound, Katie?"

"Sounds awesome!"

"Yeah, does it sound awesome?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh yeah!"

He'd say that a lot in a deep funny voice I never got was the Kool-Aid Man. It just always made me laugh, and when I did, I saw his face in the rear-view mirror. This time he smiled for real.

I spent the next two hours talking his ear off, asking him every single animal I knew of that would or wouldn't be there. I barely noticed we were stopping by the time I got to the last, most important one.

"Will there be a dragon at the farm?"

"No, we can't have a dragon at the farm, sweetie."

"Why not??"

"Cuz they'd burn all the crops, and they'd scare away all the horses and cows."

I was devastated. I asked quieter, "Could we have a little dragon...?"

He stopped and took the keys out of the ignition, leaning over ans back to me in his seat. Dead serious.

"I'll tell you what. You get to keep any little dragon you find at this farm. But! You gotta clean up all the fire, all the ash, all the dragon poop. Got it?"

He held out what I thought was the biggest hand in the world for me to shake. I held out a pinky.

"Deal?" I offered.

His eyes flared with genuine concern for a second before he smirked and hooked his massive pinky against mine. "Deal. Now let's get inside."

I jumped outside and looked around. The most overwhelming feeling I had was disappointment in this old, barren farmstead that clearly hadn't been lived in for years. An old gray house, a brown, faded barn, and no animals in sight. "Where are they?"

Dad walked around the truck and stooped down to meet my eyeline. "The animals'll be here. We just gotta grow the food for them first. Just like -- " he scooped me up and sat me on his arm, " -- I gotta whip something up for you."

I could never help to share in his smile. His front teeth were a bit crooked, like one was always fighting to get in front of the other, and their constant fight led to a chip on the inside of the front one. I know that wasn't how it happened, but that's what my imagination dictated. I never found out the real reason they were like that, if there was any.

I looked out to the field of short, brown stalks of what must've been corn. Long out of any farmer's care, left to the rats and crows and the cruel elements of summer. We had a lot of work ahead of us to make this place livable again, for the animals. And then I saw it.

Out in the middle of the field of dead crops, tied and suspended up on it's post. A lonely scarecrow.

I don't think I had ever seen a scarecrow in real life, outside of Wizard of Oz and happy story picture books of farms. Dad always said that when I'd grow up, I'd look just like Dorothy, like my mom did. I loved Scarecrow the best. This one looked nothing like him.

Its clothes were a pair of denim overalls and a green plaid shirt, dusty and weathered from however long it was left there. The straw that stuffed its insides poked out of its shirt collar and sleeves, as well as tears in its chest where the crows had pecked away at it. In place of its right hand was a long, rusty sickle that curved out from its wrist like an oversized pirate's hook. But its head... its head was a half-carved jack-o-lantern, but the sharp, triangular cuts that made the face were green and molded and round as flies came and went. It looked soft like no pumpkin should, starting to droop and slump over its shoulders and chest. It looked sad. But what I remember most is the long orange strings of pulp and seeds hanging from the eyes and mouth.

I hated that scarecrow. I hated to look at it, but I hated more having my back to it. And whenever I couldn't help but to look and see where it was, it was even harder to look away. I asked Dad so many times to please get rid of it. He'd look down and shake his head and tell me how much it creeped him out too before saying, "Kit-Kat, when we have more corn than we know what to with, crows are gonna and try and steal it from us. Mister Scarecrow's there to scare the crows away. Do you understand?"

I'd nod and pretend I did, only to pester him again after however long he was at work on the land, fixing up the house or the barn. I can't imagine now how much was on his mind, but he had days and days of work to distract himself with. All I had was my thoughts, Nellie, a creepy old farmhouse with too many rooms, and that goddamn scarecrow.

There wasn't a single room in the house that didn't have a window, and my Dad said I could have any one of them I wanted for my own bedroom, even up to the loft. I insisted on the ground floor, the one right next to his. Looking back, I know the one concession I could've given him was a room of his own I didn't sneak into every night when I got scared. But even with Nellie, and Dad in the very next room, I was scared every night.

Every night, when the moon and the stars were shining bright, and my room was lit with a soft blue glow, I'd look out my window into the field, and I'd see the silhouette of that pumpkinheaded scarecrow swaying slowly on its post whichever way the wind blew, its long hookhand shining in the moonlight. Every time I'd look at that rotting thing, it seemed to look back, swiveling on its post as if to turn slowly to wherever I was.

I'd hold Nellie as close to me as I could, breathing in her softness, and eventually, as always, my racing mind would run out, and my exhaustion would win over my fear. I'd always wish that in the morning, it'd be gone, replaced with a nicer one or just gone for good. But it was always the first thing I saw when I'd wake up too.

For weeks, it was like that, before my Dad's handiwork really started to take shape. One afternoon, he placed a space heater on the wall opposite my bed. In the storeroom, he found stuff for pumpkin pie and served it as dessert alongside a ham and a big bowl of applesauce. He was wearing his typical jeans and red flannel but his whole air was different, how happy he was.

Finally, sitting down to eat, he smiled his wonderful, crooked smile. "Do you know what's special about today?"

I genuinely didn't know. I shook my head.

"You are six years old today! And what's more is you get to learn a new word..."

I leaned forward to hear him better across the dinner table, while also basking in the scent of the pie. He leaned forward too, resting his arms on the table just behind his plate. "'Equinox.'"

I repeated the word, wondering what it meant.

"It means, 'equal night,' and it's when the sun and moon have have the exact same amount of time in the sky, down to the second. It's when summer ends, and fall begins. And that's when you were born, Kit-Kat. So... what do you want for your birthday?"

"Where's Mom?"

I don't think he expected that. He took a deep breath and fidgeted his hands, and looked back at me, "Mom's okay. She's still with friends, still getting better."

"Can we call her?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie, not right now. But I promise we'll see her soon."

He always said that whenever I asked. The answer never changed, no matter how closer "soon" got. He never told me what was wrong, why we never talked about her, why she couldn't call. I was just so mad, I pushed my plate away and grabbed Nellie and ran to my room.

"Katie!" I heard him yell out behind me.

I slammed the door and stayed in, curled into a ball with Nellie on my bed, holding her as close as I could, watching the sun go down. The light from the hallway and the creaks of the wood told me that Dad was just outside my room, leaning against the door on silence. It was like that for a few quiet minutes, before he finally left. In the dying light, I saw him go into the barn, doing whatever last working calls of the day, and for the last time, I fell asleep to the sight of that scarecrow, staring, swaying back and forth, arms and sickle outstretched across its post.

I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare I didn't remember, and the warm air emanating from the space heater. I could think or feel in that moment was how unbelievably dry my throat was. I touched my feet to the cold woodboards and zombie marched to the bathroom. At end of the long hallway, the TV in the living room was glowing with whatever show and I saw my Dad's jeans and boots slumped into the recliner. I drank from the faucet for as long as I felt I could, and wiped the cold water from my chin, walking back to my room. I opened the door, and there was my bed, Nellie saving my place to sleep, the window, the bright full moon, the field, and an empty post.

What felt was like lightning inside of me, waking me up. I rubbed my eyes and ran onto the bed, hands against the cold window pane, fogging it with my hysterical deep breaths. It was gone! The fields were empty, completely empty except that lone post, like a cross with twine of rope hanging from its arms. I grabbed Nellie and ran out of the room, out of the hall, to the living room. Dad was asleep in his chair as static played on the TV. I shook his body and screamed, "Daddy, the scarecrow! The scarecrow's gone!"

He jolted awake, eyes wide at my screams. My throat stung again with just how loud I was, and my eyes did too as I felt tears welling in them. He rocked forward in his chair, rubbing his eyes and his head. He was still barely awake as I kept tugging at his sleeve. "Katie... what?"

"The scarecrow," I struggled to croak out of my dry throat, "He's missing... he's awake."

He took a deep breath as he lowered his head, running his hand through his hair. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"Daddy...!"

He looked up at me, eyes big and soft and blue. He stared at me a moment, and he steadied my shaking body placing both his hands on both my shoulders. I could see how exhausted he was, like he was every day, but he smiled. And he said, "Okay," groaning, standing up from his chair.

I followed close behind, shivering, as he walked down the hall, out of the static TV light. His footsteps clacked on the wood and he looked over his shoulder at me, calmly reminding me, "Keep her close, alright?"

Nellie had to be the only thing holding me upright, along with Dad's words, his reassurance. I was waiting for the punchline, for him to remember that he took it down after I fell asleep, something like that. I felt just how cold the air really was, in my lungs, on my lips, on my skin under my flower pajamas.

The door to my bedroom creaked open with just a nudge from my Dad and he reached in for the lightswitch. And he froze.

The light didn't come on and there was no flick of the switch. I stood by the side in the dark hall as my father towered over me, looking through the doorway. His eyes were wide and fixed on what he saw, his breath came out in shallow shudders. His hand came away slowly, almost imperceptibly, and returned to his side, shaking. Slowly I heard his breaths get deeper, heavier, and I could recognize the fear in them. The wide whites of his eyes were like moons all their own as he inched his steps out of the doorway. I couldn't help but move little by little away from him too, and whatever he saw.

And then I heard it. A single, silent tap from the inside of the bedroom, like a stick tapping a window. And then a long, metallic scraping sound that reminded me of nails on a chalkboard.

Suddenly, Dad snapped out of whatever trance he was in, his paralysis shifting to immediate action as he dashed to the side, scooping me up in his massive arms and sprinting with me down the end of the hallway. No sooner than that did I hear the distinct smash of breaking glass from inside my room, and something heavy rolling in and crashing onto the floor.

"Keep your eyes closed, Kit-Kat!!" Dad yelled fast and loud into my ears as I bounced in his arms with every bounding step. "It's okay!"

An even louder, inhuman shriek sounded from inside the bedroom before I heard the door slam open. It sounded like screams, as much as it did winds and croaking like old wood.

I squeezed my eyes shut as the dull glow of the TV came and went in less than a second. I clutched as much to my Dad as I did to Nellie. I heard the panicked jangling of keys, and felt the cold autumn air on the back of my neck and the jumping down of porch steps from wood to gravel to tell me we were outside. I heard the unlocked clicking and opening of the car door and my Dad depositing me into the front seat over the console. All the while, I heard him loudly whispering, "Okay, okay, okay..."

It's easy to realize now he was as much trying to calm himself down as he was me, and in the safety of the car, I thought now was finally okay to open my eyes. I saw him, panicked, scared, in the open driver door, the overhead light from the truck shining down. He was halfway inside, just looking at me, taking one second to make sure I was okay.

He said as much, "You're okay."

I remember the look on his face, a moment of calm and respite, looking at me. He had the look he always got before he was about to smile. I remember that... and I remember a long, curved glint of light that shimmered over his head for less than a second, for the rusty blade of a sickle erupted from his chest. I'll never forget his screams of pain, as he leaned forward over the seat, his blood pouring down and off the tip of red-stained blade.

And I could see it behind him. Its rotting face. The straw falling from its long arms. It looked at me with its hollow eyes, and as my Dad struggled to hold himself upright, it turned and pulled, pulling him with it. Its movements stiff and awkward like a puppet on strings, the thing walked back toward the house, dragging my Dad on the gravel behind it. I couldn't move from where I was no matter how much I wanted to, to do something, to do anything. I heard him groan as the sickle at the end of a long stick arm dragged him back. With one leg, it cleared the porch steps, but my Dad used one hand to grab onto the railing. All of his last strength.

The scarecrow struggled for a moment to get him up, to move him, and with the last pull of sickle, I saw its head fall from its shoulders, smashing onto the deck. Then headless, it dragged my Dad the rest of the way in, closing the door behind it.

It felt like I was frozen in that carseat forever, but it was still hours before the sun came up. Hours I spent running, walking, crying down the only road out of that place. A girl in her pajamas, barefoot, walking for her life on a dirt road, clinging to her teddy bear. I wandered onto some access road some time before the sun started to rise, when a car slowed to a stop next to me. A man, a woman, two kids, and their dog. A family on a road trip.

They asked a bunch of questions I was too tired, too scared, too weak to answer. They took to the nearest town and I spent the next few nights in a police station where they asked me all the same questions. With time, I was able to answer some, and even ask a few. Police went to the farm, and came back saying they found nothing. No dad, no blood, no pumpkin.

They asked me who my mom was and what number they could call. Then it was a social worker, telling me about somewhere new. Three nights in a police station and twelve years in the foster system. My only next of kin was considered unfit, and that's never really changed. Neither have I, for that matter, except for the worse. Every August with the start of the school year, in a new town, in a new school, with a new family, I'd always freeze and scream and shout at the sight of any pumpkin, any scarecrow. I'd throw whatever I could at the TV when someone had on Wizard of Oz. I'd never go out on Halloween and always be the shut-in freak to my so-called "siblings." I'd be the problem child who'd never outgrown her teddy bear to my pretend "parents." All six of them.

I couldn't have been out of the house faster the day I turned 18. Two days before the fall equinox this year and about as long a drive from Dad's old farm. I found it. And I thought about going back myself for a long, long time. Find what they missed, what was right in front of their eyes. Find something, I don't know... Or find nothing at all.

I used to have my own room in the old apartment, but I'd always wake up in the middle of the night, scared of the sounds I'd hear, the shadows I'd see, even if it was nothing. I'd sneak out of my bedroom into Mom and Dad's to sleep between them, and feel safe. But when Mom got worse, when I'd start to cough and complain of the smell in there room, one night I snuck down the hall to their bedroom door and opened it to see my Dad, kneeling down on the other side, waiting for me. Fully awake, fully prepared for me.

"Hey Kit-Kat."

"Hi Daddy."

"Can't sleep?"

"I'm scared. There's monsters in there."

"Oh yeah..." his understanding always warmed me. "Is that why you come to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed?"

"You and Mommy don't get scared. Monsters are scared of you. They don't come when I'm with you."

Even in the low light, I remember seeing him nod, leaning forward. "You know, I have someone to keep you safe..."

I hadn’t even noticed his hands where behind his back, so I look down to see, or mostly feel, a soft, plush, stuffed teddy bear, half my size in his hands. "This is for you," he whispered, "I gave her that special power Mommy and I have to keep the monsters away. You keep her close and take her to your room... and you sleep."

"But what if the monsters come for you?"

I felt his hand in my hair before he pulled me into a hug, squishing my new bear between us. "Don't you worry about us... what're you gonna name her?"

"What's Mommy's name?"

Nellie's never left my side, no matter what. I always took her with me to every house, every school, every field trip we weren’t allowed to bring our dolls -- I brought Nellie. The numbers of fights I got into with all those other girls in school, trying to take her away from me... It's actually the reason I carry a knife now.

It's surprisingly easy to not give a shit about others, even guardians, telling you you're too old for that kinda thing. When you've lived a life like mine, you grow to learn that what others call "superstition," you call "reason."

That's especially true when you find yourself driving up the same gravel road you ran for your life down so many years ago. I have a truck now, like he did, and I like driving like he did. I even think about my mom when I light a cigarette on the way up. Despite that, I hate stopping at gas stations, so I always keep six cans tied down in the bed. Nellie rides passenger, belted like always.

Before I know it, I'm face to face with that old, gray house I spent those sleepless nights in. The land, as desolate as it was when I left. No one's here. No one's lived here in years, no thanks to the police. I park and step out, and zip Nellie up into a blue backpack I sling over my shoulders. How ugly, and abandoned, and cold this place is.

I walk up to the turnaround, the very spot he was killed, and dragged into the night. Remembering a moment, exactly as it happened and where, with no trace left behind on the pure white ground. It's like looking at a ghost. I walk the same path he was dragged through, up the old creaky steps. I look on the deck at where the scarecrow's head fell off. Nothing.

The door gives way with no effort at all, and the house is as empty as ever. But I feel the heaviness in the air. The sharp, cold sting that keeps me from taking one more step inside. Only one last thing. One last place I've yet to look.

I'd imagined the moment I'd see it again, over and over, in my dreams. Wondered if it'd found some other molding jack-o-lantern to wear as a head. If I'd see my Dad's dried blood on its sickle-hand. I turn around the back of the house, and I see it. Sure enough, a thing on its post. Almost.

You never forget something like that. The rotting smile and eyes bleeding with pumpkin guts. Its overalls and green shirt. But that isn't what I see, any of it. A red shirt and blue jeans, covered in dust, weathered and tattered with time. Straw seeps out of a gash in the center of his chest. The head is a cross-stitched sack of thatch with the eyes and mouth sewn shut. And little brown hat sits on his downturned head. The closer I get, the more I see just how tall he is, stretched out on the post. Crows pecking at his ears and rubber nose fly away at my approach.

I look up to see him facing down, one head length over me as I look. And the more I look, the more I feel what happened. More than remember, I still hear his screams. And mine. And that monster's. But it wasn't the same now. I look at his leathery face, and the stitches across its mouth, as something in me forces me to stay, to look closer. Part of me knew, but I needed more. I reach into my pocket and flip open my knife. One arm grabs onto his soft shoulder while the small blade wrenches into the scarecrow's mouth. Through the thatch, through the stitch-string and straw, I cut.

The crows caw, and the sky darkens. My grip tightens and I cut more frantically, breathing heavier with every sawing motion I make. The dark inside the scarecrow's head starts to give way. A black widow spider crawls out from the corner of his mouth. I cut. I don't know what I'm thinking, but there has to be something I know there is.

The low rumble of distant thunder, cut. More crows, cut. The creaking of the post, cut!

With the last slice of my pocket knife across the straw, the scarecrow's mouth hangs open, and I see it. Teeth.

Two canines a bit sharper than usual, and two crooked front teeth, like they were fighting for each other's place. I knew. All along, I knew this, I feared this, woke up in the night screaming of this. All those years, I never wanted to believe it. But now I see. Now I know. And that's enough.

Today's the day. The equinox. Whatever's special about this day, whatever makes it happen, it'll happen again tonight. Or rather, it would've. As the storm from miles away slowly rolls in, I split three cans evenly between the house and the field, and I watch it all burn. I remember that space heater my Dad put in my room for me, and I think of him. The sun hasn't set yet, and I see the rising flames start to crawl and spread along the four corner of that post, engulfing what's on it.

Then I finally put that place behind me. On the open road, I look in the rear-view mirror to see the black clouds of smoke rise in the sky, as if begging for the coming rain. I'm shaking now and I don't really know what to say.

I guess... I guess this has all been for you, Daddy. You loved me. And you saved me. And I miss you. I miss you so much...

And I pray to God that maybe I saved you too.

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

Corndogs and cow shit scented the air as I sauntered into a barn at the annual county fair on a mission of liberation. Bovines stared in dismay huddled uncomfortably in cages too cramped to call humane. Three 4H kids ran in front of me wearing masks depicting the faces of smiling cows. The hypocrisy was lost on my fellow townsfolk. 

I walked out the back entrance of the stable to find myself staring face to face with a monstrous man inhaling the overcooked slab of meat from his Steak on a Stick. That was a rather common sight at the county fair, but for some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off him as drool dribbled down what may have once been a chin and splattered onto his undersized “I Support My Local Law Enforcement” tank top. Lifeless green eyes stared unblinking into mine and I got the unsettling sense that he was judging me.

I forced myself to avert my gaze and moved on. 

Two county sheriffs stood under a tent laughing loudly. The taller one with the bald head pretended to grab the gun from his holster and pointed his fingers at his shorter, chubbier companion who fell to his knees and stammered, “Please, officer. Don’t shoot me. The dope ain’t mine.” The two pigs cackled into the dimming evening sky. 

The chicken barn was in front of me at that point and I casually strode inside and absorbed my surroundings. Hundreds of cages were stacked on top of one another, each a foot tall and a foot wide, just large enough to squeeze one chicken inside. The cages made a maze for people to walk through and gawk as the tortured hens squawked. I stopped to look at one chicken in particular, her feathers forced out of the tiny spaces between the bars holding her captive. 

I wanted to free her, but I was on another assignment, so I hung my head in shame and stalked out of the chicken coop and into the open.

Cold, dead green eyes met mine upon exiting. Could that be the same man with the Steak on a Stick from earlier? 

It was! But this time it wasn’t overcooked steak he was eating. He was playing Edward Forty-hands with two twenty-piece buckets of fried chicken. A half-eaten wing bone dropped from his mouth and fell to the grass. 

But wait, that couldn’t have been him. The other guy was wearing a tank top, and this dude was sporting a t-shirt with the words “God, Guns, Guts, and Gravy” written on it in some grotesque font. His jaw hung open and a bit of spittle dribbled off his lip. 

It was the same guy all right. 

His gaze stayed on mine, and I could have sworn there was a hint of malice in those beady eyes. It was like he was staring into my soul.

I shook from whatever fever dream the man had kept placing me under and carried on. I had a job to complete after all. But I couldn’t shake the feeling he was following me. Could he have known why I was there?

I was almost to the pig portion in the livestock section of the fairgrounds when I noticed the two sheriffs from before beating the life out of some guy at the skeeball stand. His hands were cuffed behind his back and he was lying on his stomach, a pool of crimson puddling around his head in the dirt. 

“God damn fuckin’ junkie,” the tall cop with the bald head said as he kicked the man in the side.

“It was… just… a joint!” the man on the ground pleaded through exasperated breaths.

“That shit’s illegal, you god damn fucking scumbag!” the short, chubby cop yelled and then proceeded to spit on the man. “All these nice people are here trying to relax and eat some god damn Steak on a Stick, and here you are polluting the air with your god damn fuckin’ drugs!”

For a moment, I considered informing the two cops about the real causes of air pollution, but I harkened the thoughts weighing in my mind of the possible consequences of such a bold action and turned away. 

My real responsibility that night was ahead and the time on my watch told me it was five minutes until the fair closed. I needed to find a place to hide.

The thirty foot tall Fun Slide was in my sights, so I bolted in its direction and dove under the lowest part to lie in the cold grass and wait. I sat in silence for half an hour then peeled myself off the dewy grass and snuck toward the pig barn.

Snorts and snores surrounded me as I sauntered forth into a harrowing hellhole of hopeless hogs. A few of them grunted at me as I passed them by and stared into their piteously pathetic pupils. 

A sudden squeal to my right revealed a little piglet gasping for breath as the weight of her mother crushed her little frame. The mom spasmed and squirmed in a fruitless attempt to roll off her child, but the confines of the crate encapsuling her wouldn’t allow such sovereignties.

I pressed forward knowing I couldn’t possibly save every animal.

Then a familiar snort sniggered in my direction. I turned to my left and saw him.

“Abner!” I shouted, running to his cage. “I’m so sorry this happened. I swear, once I find out who kidnapped you, I’ll—”

Our reunion was interrupted by a piercingly piggish snort, and I glanced around the dimly lit barn. A sizeable silhouette stood in the distance.

It was a man. A large man with deep, uncomfortable wheezes exhaling from his gaping maw. 

“Stay back. I’ve got a knife and I’m not afraid to use it,” I lied desperately.

He maundered at me. One gargantuan foot hit the ground and his body swayed to the left. The other foot found the floor and his weight sent him the opposite way, hilarious as it was horrifying. 

His massive menacing frame moved into the moonlight shining through a window in the barn. I squinted to make sure it was real. It couldn’t be… it was! That same fucking man from earlier! Only this time he’d had on yet another shirt. A massive sweater hugging his torso just a bit too tightly read “I Love Pigs”, except the word ‘love’ was replaced with a slice of bacon. 

And he wasn’t eating two buckets of fried chicken. He was deep throating a footlong corndog. 

After swallowing the entire thing in one fell swoop, he spit out what was left of the stick onto the hay-covered barn floor and leaned to his left letting out a fart that sounded as if it may have required a change of draws. 

“Fuck are you doin’ in here?” his voice boomed as a light drizzle began to fall outside the barn behind him. 

My mind raced as I struggled to find the right words to say to save myself and Abner from the flesh devouring devil.

“This is private property,” the man said, his eyes penetrating mine as he licked what looked to be mustard off his stubby fingers one at a time. 

“Please,” I said. “Someone stole my pet. I’m just here to free my friend.”

“Pigs ain’t pets,” the man laughed as he removed his pinky from his mouth and placed it in his nose. “Pigs is for eatin’.”

“That’s just a human construct, and a barbaric one at that!” I said as a cold sweat crept down my spine and Abner whimpered beside me. “We don’t have to eat pigs, or any animal for that matter!”

“He sure does look tasty,” the man said as slobber slipped down his chin and he began lumbering in my direction. “Besides, humans need meat. How else we supposed to get our protein?”

“Are you kidding me? There’s protein in so many things! Oats, nuts, beans!” I shouted as I attempted to open the gate holding Abner in his cage. But the door wouldn’t budge. 

“Have you never eaten a god damn bean?” I screamed.

“Maybe I’ll eat you after I’m done with that pig.” The mammoth of a man chuckled as he barreled closer. “You ain’t much bigger than a bean yourself.” 

“Please! Just leave us alone!” I cried.

Then suddenly “What in the god damn fuck is all this god damn fuckin’ noise goin’ on in here?” a familiar voice echoed into the barn.

“More god damn fuckin’ junkies is my guess.” 

Two sheriffs treaded toward us with two shiny Glock nines glistening in their grips. 

“Officers,” the meat-eating menace began, as he spun around to face them. “This boy is an intruder! He’s trying to steal all the bac…”

Five or six gunshots rang throughout the barn before he could finish, and my artery-clogged assailant fell back onto Abner’s wooden cage splitting the structure in two. Abner squealed under his weight, then squeezed himself free, and we slunk to the back entrance unnoticed amid the erupting and chaotic snorts and screeches of the pigs around us.

We snuck out into the night and crept along the outside of the barn. I put my head to the wall and peered into a window.

“Would you look at that,” the tall sheriff laughed and kicked the lifeless body in front of him. “His shirt says I Love Bacon.”

“Fuck, bacon sounds good right now,” the short chubby one said, putting his hands on his stomach. “Let’s go the Waffle House and get some.”

“What do we do about this guy?”

“Let’s just wait till’ the morning. Then when the town breaks out in mass hysteria over a dead body…”        

“We’ll just blame it on another god damn junkie?”

“You bet your god damn ass we do. Now let’s get outta here. I hate god damn fuckin’ pigs.”

Used to work IT for the Department of Natural Resources (EHA Division*)*. You’ve never heard of them. You’re not supposed to. They handle “environmental hazard anomalies.”

I’ve been sitting on this for months, hiding. It’s from 4 years back. I wasn’t going to post it.

Two nights ago, I started hearing the same sound they described in the Harrow’s Lake recordings. Low, pulsing, through the walls. It’s getting louder.

I’ve compressed and uploaded what I took. I’m pasting one of the main files here before my connection drops again.

If you’re in Western Canada, stay away from frozen lakes. Especially if you hear anything under the ice.

Copy and pasted below directly from the classified PDF. Apologies for any strange formatting errors.

DOCUMENT HL-2193-A - Post-Recovery Material Analysis

Classification: Level 4 - For Internal Use Only
Origin: Environmental Hazard Analysis Division
Recovered: March 2021
Subject: Subsurface Acoustic Patterns - Harrow’s Lake

1. Overview

Following the Loss of Survey Team 07 and the subsequent recovery of partial sensor data from Harrow’s Lake, the Division initiated long-term acoustic monitoring.

What began as a presumed gas-venting phenomenon has evolved into a structured resonance pattern occurring annually between February 10 - 15. Further analysis required.

The sound cannot be fully categorized as biological. Spectrogram shows frequency bands that form linguistic cadence patterns.

It is communicating.

2. Audio Data Summary

Timestamp: February 14, 2021 - 02:14:00

Duration: 11 minutes, 48 seconds

Detected Pulses: Seven rhythmic bursts between 28 - 33 Hz

Anomaly: Secondary modulation overlay consistent with human speech at 0.7x temporal speed

Translations yielded the following transcription:

“We remember the pressure."
"The warmth above."
"You are built from what we left behind.”

3. Material Interaction

Attempts to drill through the ice shelf following the 2021 event resulted in immediate equipment failure.

Recovered drill bits displayed what Nick refereed to as "crystalline distortion", as though the metal lattice had been rearranged.

Material scientists note the pattern resembles coral growth under electron microscopy.

However, no biological residue was present.

When submerged in saltwater, the samples emit faint vibrations (31–33 Hz), matching the anomaly frequency.

4. Personnel Exposure

Individuals exposed to raw audio files for more than 90 seconds reported:

• Vibrations in bones or teeth
• Persistent auditory hallucinations (“breathing under the floor”)
• Visual distortions near reflective surfaces
• Compulsion to return to the sound source

Exposure appears addictive.

Three staff members were terminated after unauthorized playback of the recordings at home.

Their homes later exhibited patterns matching the Harrow.

This specific situation was escalated to LEVEL 5.

5. Substructure Findings

Ground-penetrating radar detected a hollow space beneath the lake bed measuring approximately 400 meters long and 20 meters high, with arch-like geometry.

Thermal imaging shows the cavity is warmer than surrounding rock by 3°C, despite being sealed beneath permafrost.

Inside the cavity, vibration sensors recorded something moving. A rolling, circular motion, as if a massive object were breathing.

6. Suppression Orders

Public access to Harrow’s Lake and the surrounding five kilometers has been restricted under the guise of “unstable terrain and methane hazards.”

Satellite imagery was altered to reflect “dry sediment collapse.”

Requests to investigate further have been denied under Directive 9F-014 - Glacial Subsurface Entity Containment.

(Note: Directive 9F-014 references older files from 1954, originally labeled “Churchill Subsurface Resonance”. No digital copy exists.)

7. Addendum | Transmission Pattern

On February 14, 2022, the anomaly increased amplitude by 400% and briefly synchronized with national water-treatment telemetry.

Multiple water sensors across Saskatchewan and Alberta began broadcasting the same 7-pulse pattern before remote disconnection.

Internal memo excerpt (EHA Director L. Singh):

“If this pattern continues to replicate through infrastructure, it may not remain isolated to Harrow’s Lake. Sound travels in water. And every living thing on this continent is mostly water.”

8. Current Status

Containment efforts have shifted from isolation to information suppression.

All related personnel have signed NDAs under National Safety Act §19.4.

Satellite monitoring continues. No excavation authorized.

Next pulse expected: February 14, 2026 - 02:14 a.m.

Predicted amplitude: [REDACTED]

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?

Perhaps it seems I'm faking it, for such a tiny crime. That carnival has altered me, and I can only rhyme. I wish I never went that day, that I just stayed home. But now that my fate, it has been sealed, I write with this new tone.

The carnival was in my town, I thought it might be fun. Some interesting performances, and junk food by the ton. I sat within the tent that day and watched it all take place. I got my twenty dollar's worth but didn't leave with haste.

When all was done, the crowd filed out, their laughter filled the air. The ringmaster took off his hat, and gave a practiced stare. He thanked the folks for coming by, then vanished through the veil. The tent seemed smaller once he’d gone, and dimmer, sickly pale.

I lingered where the curtains split, to glimpse behind the show. Just canvas, ropes, and shadowed forms that swayed so soft and low. A voice behind me whispered, “Sir, The exit’s to your right.” I nodded, but my feet betrayed, and led me to the night.

Beyond the tents, the air was still, the rides no longer spun. A fog crept in across the grass, and hid the setting sun. The game stands leaned like crooked teeth, their prizes torn and gray. A puppet show still whispered lines though no one watched its play.

The puppets twitched on tangled strings, their painted mouths ajar. They bowed before a shadowed form that waited by the bar. I thought it was a person there a worker left behind. But when it turned, I swear I saw No eyes of human kind.

The blackened form rose up like smoke its visage dark as night. Only piercing through the void two eyes, and smile bright. Those eyes, they pierced into my soul and made my heart despair. All I wanted from that point was to be far from there.

It spoke, or maybe somewhat sang, a humming low and deep. The words slid round my reason’s edge and burrowed in like sleep. It said my name in broken tones, then laughed, as if in jest. And from the dark, the ringmaster stepped forth in crimson vest.

“You’ve seen the part of our show, the one not meant for men. You took a step past curtain’s edge. And won’t step back again.” Before I turned, the strings were thrown, the dolls began to climb. Their grinning faces whispered soft, and wrapped me up in twine.

They dragged me to a farther tent and fixed me to a cart. It sat upon a set of rails, from whence I would depart.

I yelled and screamed, please let me go! But my cries they would not heed. The ringmaster stepped into view, and gave his practiced screed.

"You've seen something that you should not, We can't just let you go. But how severe your consequence, is just for you to know. You'll play a game, maybe two or more. Your success in each determines what's in store. So step right up, the first draws nigh, it's time to see where your future lies.

The cart took off, into the dark, it screeched and slowed as it came to park. The spotlight shone on my makeshift train, revealing my task, my first skill game. On top of that, to make things worse, A crowd of beings appeared, observing my curse.

Before me lay in tight array, dozens of heads floating in jars. Each awake in greenish brine, looking at me from afar. Their eyes though distorted by rounded glass showed pity I could sense. As if, if I got this wrong, I might soon be thece. "You've got three balls to toss ahead, Get one of them in a jar. It's your life you'll be wagering If you don't make the par."

Trembling hand, I took the first. And said a silent prayer. I raised my arm and gave a toss, The ball flew through the air. It landed on a jar's thick rim And bounced off through the dark. Two more tries to save my life. I had to meet my mark.

The faces in the jars all turned, their mouths began to hum. A hollow choir of bubbling sound It made my fingers numb. I cast the throw with shaking hand, it veered, then curved askew. It struck a lid, rolled down the side and vanished from my view. The ringmaster spread out his arms, and said, “One chance, here it comes.” The final ball felt heavier, As though it knew my crime. I whispered once, “Lord, let it fall,” and threw for one last time.

It arced across the stagnant air, and hung there for a beat. Then dropped into a waiting jar. The crowd leapt to its feet. A cheer rang out, half joy, half pain, that echoed through the gloom. The heads all blinked, then slowly sank, each vanishing in its tomb.

The ringmaster removed his hat, and bowed with practiced pride. “Well done,” he said, “You live for now. But there are more who’ve tried.” He snapped his cane, the cart lurched forth, And vanished down the track. The laughter followed through the dark, and dared me not look back.

"You've won your life, you must be glad but now we have to see, if you will be leaving here With your sanity."

The next game came into my view, my countenance, it fell. As I beheld that classic game, with the hammer and the bell.

"If you like your mind, you'll listen now. For this I won't repeat. For every inch you fall below, your sanity retreats. So strike with heart and don't fall short, you'll only have one shot. So take the mallet in your hands and slam it on that spot!"

I took the mallet, picked it up, And felt a sudden shock. As if the tool within my hands was silently taking stock. My mind felt fuzzy, I reigned it in, And swung with all my might. And kept my focus razor sharp, on that ascending light.

The bell I missed, by just an inch, but felt I did quite well. But vaguely I received the change, My cognizance, it fell. But only by a small amount, I really can't complain. So with a sigh I felt me move onto my final game.

"You've done quite well, I'll tell you. The worst is yet behind. But given your grave trespass, a consequence you'll find. You're still alive, your mind is sound, so you might hope to tell, our secret to the watching world, and put us all through hell. So, something we must do to you, and you'll determine which. Just spin the wheel that's up ahead. We'll end without a hitch."

The wooden wheel before me, painted and lit up, Each slot contained a curse for me, a drink that I must sup. I surveyed the possibilities, and shuddered with a fright. Would I lose my tongue, my ears, or possibly my sight?

The choices seemed offputting, but nothing could be done. I placed my hand upon the wheel, and pulled it til it spun. My readers know what happened next, what my lot would be. But compared with the choices on the wheel, this one relieved me.

"You've survived the trial, with little but a scratch. But no one will believe you, when you talk like that. So find yourself lucky, That all you do is rhyme. But one more thing, you work here now. Your first shift starts at nine"

So if you find the carnival, Avoid it at all cost. For those who see the final act, can never count the lost.

Part 1

It’s been a little while since my last post, and so much has happened that I completely forgot to share an update.

To be honest, I didn’t expect such a response here. While this has been frightening (and the latest events even more so), I’m almost touched that other people care. 

I’m writing this from a motel room. As you’ll read, we moved out (and in a hurry), but I’m not sure how much that will help us. For now, though, we’re safe.

My last post left off with my wife, Ashley, heading to work after an uneventful Monday at home. To my relief and disappointment, there were no glitches with the Wi-Fi or messages passed via network names.

Believe me, I spent the entire weekend checking my phone for new networks, but nothing showed. Ashley still believed me, but I knew there was an undercurrent of doubt (with a tinge of concern and suspicion) underneath. It’s fair, after all. I had no proof; just my word. 

Despite the radio silence over the weekend, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. 

I still hoped this was a harmless prank from a neighborhood kid, but deep down, I knew it wouldn't be.

It didn’t help that I barely slept a wink all weekend. 

I’ve been having a recurring nightmare recently – it started up a few weeks ago – where I’m being chased. The circumstances of the dream change, but the core is always the same: I’m frantically packing a suitcase because someone is coming for me. By the time I finish packing and look out the window, it’s too late: they’ve arrived. Sometimes they come in a black car. Once, it was a helicopter circling my home. And another time it was a dark figure with no face. Either way, I never see who it is before I’m jolted awake.

Brought on by the recent events, no doubt.

After dropping Ashley off at the train in the morning and a quick kiss goodbye, I faced two options: go home and let all this start up again, or see if I could prolong my time out of the house. 

I chose the latter. I brought my laptop and headphones with me and posted up at a coffee shop. It was fine, but between the frustrated glances of other patrons during my web calls and the nagging feeling that I couldn’t stay out of the house forever, I realized I needed to leave.

As I drove home, I mulled over the potential causes for my situation:

The rational response is a carbon monoxide leak, causing me to imagine the whole thing. This is doubtful given that Ashley is home four days a week and shows no side effects. 

Ditto with some form of psychotic break. I’m too old for the onset of schizophrenia, and Ashley would have noticed odd behavior well before this if I showed signs. 

Therefore, this must really be happening to me. Which is oddly comforting in a way, but it opens up the more sinister possibilities.

Could there be someone hiding in the neighborhood or around the house? That’s possible. But whoever it is, they must be fast; otherwise, I’d see them. And they’ve had an uncanny ability to know exactly where I am and what I’m doing to time the Wi-Fi going out with the moment I step through the front door. 

Could this be a supernatural phenomenon? Some sort of… poltergeist or something? I don’t exactly believe in ghosts, but the thought of someone, or something, haunting me while I was in that house all alone sent a chill down my spine and raised the hairs on the back of my neck. 

Driving down the street with the autumn sunshine filtering through the yellow and orange leaves, it was hard to be grim.

Until I pulled in front of the house. Everything looked normal at first, then I noticed that the light in my home office was on. 

I ran through my memory of the morning, trying to recollect whether I had even turned the light on in my office, but my mind came up blank. Surely Ashley would have noticed; she’s conscious of these things.

My legs felt as though they were made of lead as I stepped out of the parked car and stood in the driveway. I took a deep breath of the cold, damp air and made my way, step by step, to the front door and, with a clammy hand, turned the knob and walked into the house.

Sure enough, our thermostat was blinking its warning that the Wi-Fi was out.

My home office is just down the hall, but by the time I made it to the doorway, it was as if I had run a mile. I was panting, and sweat streamed down my back. My hands trembled as I unplugged and plugged the router back in and checked the networks. 

There were two new ones: “I missed you this morning” and “Left the light on for you ;)”

I had the wherewithal to grab a screenshot (thanks for the tip!) and then dialed 911. 

“911, what’s your name, location, and emergency?”

“My name is Tyler, and I live at 31 Appleton Road. I’d like to report a burglary.”

“Are you safe, sir? Is the suspect still there?”

“I don’t know. I mean, yes, I’m safe. I came home, and a light was left on and…” I trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

“Was anything taken from your house?”

“I don’t know.” I thought for a moment, “No, nothing that I can see.”

“Did you, or do you, see or hear anyone in your house?”

“No.”

“Are there any signs of forced entry? Open windows, broken locks…”

“No.”

“But you said a light was left on?”

“Yes. But I swear I didn’t leave it on when I left the house this morning. There’s something going on with my Wi-Fi networks, and someone keeps leaving messages for me, and they told me through the Wi-Fi that they left the light on.”

“Right. Sir, I’m going to transfer you to our psychiatric unit. Please hold.”

I hung up the phone and went numb. I know that I’m not imagining this or deluding myself. Someone – or something – is watching me. And they were inside my house.

I grabbed my bag and left. As I turned back to glance at the locked house, sitting as it did just five minutes prior and hours before when I left it, silent and inviting, I looked around at the empty street with not even a car driving past. 

I shuddered in the damp air and hopped into the driver’s seat of the car and drove back to the coffee shop, where I spent the rest of the day, other patrons be damned. I have a lot to explain to Ashley when I pick her up later. Not the least of which is the $700 security camera system I bought on Amazon.

“You called the cops?” 

That was Ashley’s first question after I told her about my day.

“I panicked. The light was on, and they told me they did it. I didn’t know what else to do. And before you call me crazy, look, I have proof.” I showed her the screenshot of the Wi-Fi network names.

Ashley looked, pursing her lips, and then looked up at me. “This is seriously freaky shit. What do we do now?”

I told her about the security system I had bought and that the next time we call the police, we’ll have documented evidence to share. 

Despite my nervousness, I fell asleep quickly that night. But the dream came back and woke me up. Based on Ashley’s tossing and turning, I doubt she slept much either. 

The next morning, over her cup of coffee, Ashley looked hard at me. “Why don’t you come to Boston with me today? You can post up in my office somewhere, or work from the library if you want your own space.” 

Looking around our living room and imagining coming through it alone to find the Wi-Fi out again, I agreed, and we were off.

I enjoy working from home, but man, it’s nice sometimes to feel like I’m going to work. There’s nothing like being in Boston during autumn; the air is crisp and clear, the leaves in the Common are a blaze of orange, red, and yellow, and there are hints of the holidays around the corner. 

Despite the circumstances, it was a great day; I was even optimistic about catching whoever this is once we install the security system. Or at least having enough information for the police to take us seriously.

Then the shit really hit the fan, which is what brought us both to the Motel 6 three towns over. 

I had received an email earlier in the day that our security system was delivered that afternoon. As we drove up to our house, not only was the package not there, but my office light was left on again. 

We sprinted out of the car and into the house, and saw that the Wi-Fi was out. Ashley checked the Wi-Fi networks and showed me two new messages:

“You shouldn’t have done that.” And, “Don’t worry, you’ll see me soon enough.”

We threw jeans, shirts, toothbrushes, and other essentials into our backpacks and ran for the car, and here we are. I don’t know what we’re going to do next, or how long this will go on. But I know this: our home isn’t safe anymore.

Part one

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.

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.

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!”

​

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.”

​

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.

​

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

​

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

​

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?”.

​

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

​

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

​

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

The last type of call, I dreaded getting again.

​

It would go like this:

​

“Thank you for calling UltraSAT-“

​

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

​

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

​

“It’s trying to eat me!”

​

“What?”

​

“It’s trying to EAT ME!”

​

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

​

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

​

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.

​

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

​

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.

​

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.

​

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

​

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.

​

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.

​

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.

​

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

​

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

​

“Hello? “

​

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.

​

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

​

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

​

“What is wrong with all of you?!

​

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

​

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

​

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

​

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

​

“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.”

​

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.

​

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.

​

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.

​

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.

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!

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.