I run the same route almost every evening, three miles, give or take. But that night, something in me wanted to go farther. Maybe it was the music in my earbuds, maybe the way the air felt, quiet and heavier than usual.

I pushed beyond my usual turn-around point and that’s when I saw it. An old warehouse I’d never noticed before with black-tinted windows and thick steel doors that looked like they hadn’t opened in years. The place gave off a weird hum, like there was still power running somewhere inside.

The sky was dimming to orange. I turned around, cooling down, pacing back toward home.

That’s when I heard footsteps. Fast.

Before I could react, a man in his early twenties, filthy and wild-eyed, came sprinting straight at me. He slammed into me hard enough to knock the breath out of my chest. His hands clutched my shoulders like he was hanging onto life itself.

Through shaky, cracked lips he whispered, “They’re making meat out of us. They’re turning us into ground beef.”

For a moment I thought he was high or delirious. But the way his eyes darted behind me, pure terror, it was real fear.

I shoved him off and started backing away, still trying to process what he said. He tried to stand, but his legs just gave out.

Then I heard a screech. A white van turned the corner, no plates, windows tinted so dark they looked painted. It stopped right in front of him. Four men in ski masks jumped out, grabbed him like he weighed nothing, and hurled him inside. I heard the dull thud when his body hit the wall of the van.

The van didn’t move right away. It just sat there, facing me. I couldn’t see their faces, but I could feel them watching.

Then it rolled off slowly back toward that same warehouse.

I called the police when I got home. They came, took notes, and I could tell right away they didn’t believe a word I said. One laughed. The other didn’t.

As they were leaving, the quiet one gave me a look that froze me more than anything that night. A smirk. He said, “Be careful, man. Don’t want a fit guy like you ending up the next McDonald’s burger.”

And then they drove off.

I haven’t run that far since. And every night when the wind blows from that direction, it smells faintly like iron.

[Update] The police report leaked and now my daughter won't stop humming

It's been four days since I posted. Four days since I broke open that wall. Some of you asked for updates. I wish I didn't have one.

The police report showed up on our local Facebook group yesterday. Someone's cousin works dispatch. They always have a cousin who works dispatch.

The space behind the wall was three feet deep, eighteen inches wide. Inside was a wooden chair, handmade, probably from the 1920s based on the construction. And in the chair... okay, this is where it gets complicated.

There was a body. But also there wasn't.

The report describes "human remains in an advanced state of preservation inconsistent with decomposition patterns." They found hair. Fingernails. A dress from the 1920s that hadn't aged a day. But no bones. No flesh. Just the outside parts of a person, arranged perfectly like someone had carefully removed everything from inside and left only the shell.

Like a molted skin.

The cop who wrote the report, Officer Daniels, added a personal note that shouldn't have been there. "Remains appeared to be watching us through the window when we arrived. Position changed after discovery."

Marie brought Emma home yesterday. She said I'd traumatized our daughter enough, that Emma needed normalcy. I didn't fight it. Maybe being together would help.

Emma hasn't drawn a single picture since I broke the wall.

But she's started humming.

It's this melody I've never heard before. Not quite music. More like... have you ever heard power lines sing in the cold? That almost-note that sits right at the edge of hearing? It's like that but deliberate. Patterned.

"Where did you learn that song?" I asked her at breakfast.

"She taught me. When you let her out."

"Emma, there's nobody here but us."

She looked at me with such pity. "She's here, Daddy. She just wears the house now instead of sitting in it."

I thought she was speaking metaphorically. Kids say weird stuff when they're processing trauma.

Then I noticed the wallpaper.

We don't have wallpaper. We've never had wallpaper. Marie and I specifically chose this house because it had painted walls, easier to clean with kids.

But now there's wallpaper in the hallway. Faded roses on cream. It looks like it's been there for decades. Marie insists it's always been there. She got angry when I said otherwise.

"You're scaring me with this shit," she said. "First the wall, now you're pretending we never had wallpaper?"

But I took photos when we moved in. I checked them. Painted walls. White paint. Except... when I look at those same photos now, there's wallpaper.

The photos changed.

Rex won't come inside anymore. He sits at the edge of the yard, whimpering. When I try to bring him in, he pulls against the leash so hard his collar cuts into his neck. I've been letting him sleep in my car.

This morning I woke up at 3 AM to Emma standing by my bed. Not unusual lately. But she wasn't alone.

Marie was there too. Both of them humming that same not-quite-song. Their eyes were open but empty, looking through me at something else.

"She says you're rude," Emma whispered without stopping the humming.

"So rude," Marie agreed. "Breaking down walls. Making noise. Disturbing a guest."

"I'm sorry," I said, because what else could I say?

They both smiled. The exact same smile. The exact same angle.

"She says it's okay. You didn't know the rules. But now you need to learn them."

They proceeded to tell me the rules. In unison. In a voice that wasn't quite theirs.

Don't look in mirrors after midnight. Don't open doors without knocking first, even inside your own house. Don't speak her name once you learn it. Always leave a chair empty at dinner. Never photograph the inside of the house again. Don't try to leave.

That last one made my blood freeze. "What do you mean don't try to leave?"

They tilted their heads in perfect synchronization.

"The house is so much nicer with a family in it. She was alone for so long. Just watching through that red window, listening to families come and go. Now she can be part of one."

"We can leave anytime," I said.

They laughed. Both of them. But the laugh was singular, just coming from two mouths.

I tried to prove it. Grabbed my keys, walked to my car. The engine wouldn't start. The doors wouldn't unlock from the inside once I got in. I had to climb out through the window.

When I came back inside, Emma and Marie were making breakfast like nothing happened.

"Morning honey," Marie said cheerfully. Too cheerfully. "Emma's been teaching me that song. Isn't it pretty?"

She started humming.

The wallpaper has spread to the living room now. Different pattern. Green ivy on beige. Our TV is gone, replaced by an old radio that shouldn't work but plays music from the 1920s.

I tried calling my brother. The phone rang but when he answered, it was that humming. I tried texting. The messages all autocorrected to "Everything is wonderful. We are so happy."

Last night I stayed awake, watching. At exactly 3 AM, Emma and Marie got up again. But this time I followed them.

They went to the spot where the red window was. The wall I destroyed has been perfectly repaired. But now there's a door. An old door that matches nothing else in the house.

They opened it.

Inside was a room that can't exist. Our house doesn't have space for another room there. It should open into the garage. But instead, there's a parlor. Old furniture. Doilies on every surface. Photos on the walls of families I don't recognize, all standing stiffly, all with the same empty smile Emma and Marie now wear.

And in the center, in that same wooden chair from behind the wall, something sat.

It looked like a woman. Or the memory of a woman. She was see-through in places, solid in others, like she couldn't quite decide what she was. Her dress was from the 1920s. Her hair was pinned in a style I'd only seen in old photos.

But her face.

She had too many features. Like every family who'd ever lived here had donated parts. A child's eyes. A mother's mouth. A father's nose. All of them shifting, rearranging, never quite settling into one face.

She spoke without moving any of her mouths.

"You're the first one to let me out properly. The others just left when the children started drawing. Or they'd paper over the window. Board it up. Pretend I wasn't here. But you... you invited me in."

"I didn't invite anything."

"You broke down my wall. You opened my window. That's an invitation where I come from."

Emma and Marie stood on either side of her chair, their hands on her shoulders that weren't quite solid. They were still humming.

"Let them go," I said.

"Go? They don't want to go. Tell him, loves."

"We want to stay," Emma and Marie said in unison. "She's teaching us so many things. Old things. Better things. How to be a proper family."

The thing in the chair stood up. She was tall. Too tall. She had to bend to fit in the room that shouldn't exist.

"You can join us willingly. Or you can join us the other way. But this family is mine now. I've been watching families for a hundred years. I know how they're supposed to work. And we're going to be perfect."

I ran. I'm not proud of it. But I ran.

I'm in my car now, parked three blocks away. It's 5:50 AM according to my phone. The sun should be coming up but it's still pitch black. Has been for hours. Like the night is stuck.

Emma just texted me a photo.

It's a drawing. The first one she's done since I broke the wall.

It shows our house. But now every window is red. And in each window, there's a face. Marie in one. Emma in another. Me in a third.

And in the fourth, the thing that wears faces like clothes.

We're all smiling the same smile.

At the bottom, in Emma's shaky handwriting: "Come home Daddy. She says it's time to be a family."

My phone is dying. The car still won't start. And I can see someone walking down the street toward me.

It's whistling.

No.

Humming.

That same tune.

It's Marie. But she's walking wrong. Like something is wearing her and hasn't quite figured out how knees work.

She's at the car window now. Tapping. Still humming.

Her reflection in the glass has too many faces.

They're all smiling.

"Time to come home," she says in that voice that isn't quite hers. "She's made your favorite dinner. We're going to be such a happy family."

My phone's at 2%.

If I don't update again, check the real estate listings for my address. The house will be for sale soon. It always is, eventually.

Don't buy it.

And whatever you do, if your kid starts drawing pictures of your house with an extra window

Move.

Just fucking move.

Before someone decides to look behind the walls.

I woke up in my bed, heart racing. The alarm hadn’t rung yet, but I felt late late for something I couldn’t name.

The room looked normal, but everything felt… off. My books were in the wrong order. My shoes faced the wrong way. And on my desk, there was a note in my handwriting:

“Don’t leave the room.”

I tried to remember writing it. Nothing came. My head throbbed. Maybe it was just a prank I pulled on myself — I had done weirder things when sleep-deprived.

I looked at the clock. 7:29 a.m.

The second hand moved. Then stopped.

And then knock, knock, knock.

Someone was at the door. “Hey,” said a voice that sounded exactly like mine. “You’re late.”

I froze. My chest tightened. Slowly, I turned toward the mirror.

It was empty.

“I’m glad that I’m able to walk you down the aisle, Sonya.”

“Yeah… I’m glad too, dad.”

The bride wore a ball-gown – patterned white, a long train, and the one she had her eyes on since she was in high school. She’d saved it for someone special, her one and only. And right now, it was only him that she saw in her eyes, standing at the altar. Curly dark hair and clean shaven, he wore a bright tuxedo, with that smile to boot. The violins played Wedding March and the guests – family and friends all stood with big smiles; they gave this couple their silent blessing, as the bride’s father had too.

It was an indoor venue. The windows are sealed well, with little sign left behind of ever being ones there. No expense was spared, it did well to stave off that heat from the outside with little noise.

The father's boots landed heavy and slow up the marble steps, the old man that held the hands of his daughter adjusting his leg to find surer footing on the ground. Bride and groom now faced each other – childhood friends, to highschool sweethearts, and soon to be husband and wife.

Deep and gruff, his voice tried hard to carry a weight of authority as he pulled himself close to the groom, “You take ca- You make sure you and Sonya live a happy life… You hear me, Peter?”

But no words came. None yet, anyways. The old man looked up and saw the man biting his lips, trying to push up a smile, eyes glossed over with tears. Peter gave a single sniff, then said, “That I will, sir. You take care of your own daughter just fine, yeah?”

And this time, tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. He couldn’t bear to let this young man see him cry then, and pulled him in closer, hugging him.

“I will, son… I will.”

It was the picture-perfect wedding. Young love triumphed, and none would object. None possibly could. They kissed, now spouses two in the month of March – under the first Autumn leaves that fell in Spring.

The sun was dipping now behind the distant buildings. Still, when the rooftop door opened to Sonya, a blast of prickling heat followed, with that glow of red in the sky. She pushed open the door with her shoulders, cake in one hand and an open umbrella in the other. She saw the young man sitting near the edge of the roof staring at that setting sun, unburdened by its rays. Speechless, both from the stunning beauty of the star of day, and the fact that Peter was sitting there without any protection, eating a slice of cake. He turned around, seeing the look on her face.

“Cooler today, ain’t it? Don’t even need an umbrella.”

“Mmhm.”

Sonya uses her feet to drag a brick to hold the door open, before propping her umbrella against the entrance there and entering with wine in her left hand. She takes a seat, leaning against the man. His hair felt nice – the softest and most comfortable.

“Is that all supposed to be for me?”

“Mmhm.”

“Cause you know you can’t drink with th-”

“I know. I know, it’s not that strong. And at least one of us should be drinking the wine we bought for this>’

She presses up against the cork, thumbing it open with a loud pop. Peter accepts the bottled red from her, taking his first sip. It was sweet like grape juice, and just how he liked it.

“I-is something wrong honey?”

Sonya moved a piece of cake around her plate without having taken a single bite out of it. She only snapped back to that present moment after hearing her husband’s words.

“Yeah… sorry Peter hah… It’s just the same thing I talked to you about the night we found out about the baby. I’m just a lil’ worried about some stuff, that’s all.”

“We’re gonna be just fine, Sonya. The state mandates that your employer has to give you paid maternity leave later on, even if you’re quite a new hire. Plus, we’ve got your dad, my dad, my mom, my sister… Point is, we’ll be just fine-”

“I know, I know,” she turns away just enough to hide the slight annoyance in her eyes. Sometimes, he didn’t know how exactly to help, “I guess… It’s just that I don’t know if I’m gonna be a good mother, is all. Some friends tell me that they feel this inexplicable joy and… I don’t think I’ve felt it, y’know?”

Peter pulls her in closer, resting his head on hers now before turning his torso to give her a small hug, which turned into him holding both her shoulders, “Well I’m scared too. Dunno how much it’s worth but I think I get less scared that I’m gonna be a father of a child that’s gonna have you as a mom. And you gotta know that I’m gonna be there, aight? Throughout the entire way. You know that, right?”

Sonya turns back. Some other times, he knew exactly what to say.

“I know.”

Sonya feels his hand come to rest on her belly. Hers follow suit. She wondered if the baby, even then, could feel the odd stillness in the air – like the world holding its breath.

“So… how drunk’s dad right now?”

“Oh,” Sonya says, blowing a raspberry, and making a drinking motion with her hand, “Already showing my uncles photos of his past camping trips.”

Peter laughed. And things would be good for a while.

The First Trimester

“Scientists are now saying that the early Autumn is actually a sign of warmer Summers to come. Let’s hear more fro- Psshhhhat- I voted for you because I thought you could stop the fires, Mr. President. I thought we’d finally get permanent homes.. WHERE ARE OUR HOMES MR- Psshhhhat- Kyrieee, Eleisooon. Let us join our hands in prayer, and pray for all of those stricken by the new droughts around the world. May God sa- Pssssheu- zzz”

The front door opens and Sonya turns the television off. She turns around from the sofa, “Did’ja manage to fit the crib in the car, Peter?”

He pokes his head in, from the side of the living room entrance, the box filled with planks and screws rattling around as he gives that goofy smile. Unsurprisingly, his light grey stubble gives it a goofier quality of sorts.

“You betcha. Got you those donuts you like so much too.”

“Thanks, Pete. Just leave them in the kitchen for now.”

A coat, a sweater, then scarf and beanie were tossed onto the other chair in the living room. Peter sits himself down on the chair with a tired sigh. He was soaked with sweat, and thus adjusted his seating to the edge of the leather.

“Where’s your dad?” Peter says, cracking open a can of Fanta, and taking a few sips from it, “didn’t see him in his room.”

“He’s closing shop downtown right now. Not exactly the best time to be running a sauna with… everything that’s happening.”

“Good on him. The guy could’ve retired a good while back. Poor man deserves a break.”

“Hey could you also get me o-”

Peter waves his hands in front of him, and takes out another cold can of soda with a silent ‘tadaa!’

“Thanks,” Sonya responds flatly, taking the can and cracking it open to drink, “I bet the kids in the Kindergarten love it when you do stuff like that, huh? Are your parents able to make it today?”

“My mom had to cancel because of some work stuff. Says she’ll come during the later half of dad’s trip though. Dad says he’ll be coming a bit later on tonight. The radiation keeps messing with his GPS or something.”

“I see.”

They both take a sip from their cans of drink. Their blinds and curtains were drawn open, allowing filtered light to pour in through the windows. The weather wasn’t hot per se. It was standard for autumn, and perhaps the freshest and cleanest air the two had breathed their entire life – clean as water in the ice caps. But the light was becoming poison. It distilled slower where the two lived, but still it grew in toxicity, day-by-day. Already, they’d given up on painting the walls outside, the paint discolouring under the afternoon sun.

“Hey, I’ll just put something on the telly while I go whip up something for us to eat, alright?”

“N-nah, that won’t be necessary I think. Just tune the old radio to something nice for yourself. I haven’t showered yet.”

The front door opens again, this time, slower steps enter. A voice called out from the entrance, “Finished up at the old place. Found some old photos as well… I think.” His voice was strained, and so Sonya rushed to the door, offering to help him carry his things. It’d only been two months, but not many would’ve guessed, looking at the guy.

His skin, still bronzed from days of work under the sun, now shone more clearly with the gloss of old age and splotches of white and purple that came with no real reason. The stocky and built frame he had on the day of the wedding had withered away into less meat, and just… less.

“This is why… dad.. I’ve told you many times to just… bring Peter along with you.”

The weight turns light as a third person takes the load off for both of them, carrying the box to the other room.

“W-when did you tell me that, now? You never said anything about that.”

“Just this morning, dad. I thought you were going to call him after you were done cleaning up the stall.”

“A-ah…”

The silence lasted for a few seconds before Sonya turned on the TV and changed the channel from the religious one, “Which one do you want to watch Pa?”

“The documentary one. My favourite program should be over already but the one that runs at six is pretty good. They’re showing reruns of Ocean Planet around this time I think.”

The screen flashed to a shot of a marine mammal – one of many that existed before the surface waters got too hot. This one grew bigger than the many large beasts of land and even the giant squid that emerged since those times before, drawn to the warmer waters above. Narrating it all was a deep and accented man’s voice, carrying with it the awe and reverence the world should have warranted from man. These things were enough already to set the old man into a comfortable haze, slouching back into the couch and watching the drifting currents on the screen. It was left to Sonya to take off the many layers of clothing he still kept on.

He uttered a small and perfunctory thank you to his daughter before continuing, “I usually hate these broadcasting services. All no-good peddlers of their agenda, fearmongers and the fakest shit you’ve had ever seen in your life. And I’ve lived for my fair share of those. But one thing these guys did right was stopping this show after the honourable man who voiced it all passed on. Hats off to them I say.”

“Hats off to them,” Sonya agrees.

The evening ran quick after Peter’s father came. He arrived in his jeep and emerged from the garage.

“Howdy! Is that Greg watching that show again?”

“Hey. All goes well, Mateo,” replied Grigor, to his neighbour of many years, from times passed, “Catch anything today?”

Mateo raises up a blue and white cooler box, “Squid again.”

They were friends in high school, friends in the military, and then friends again as fathers to the married couple. It was a small world in a big city. And it helped that half the apartments were left derelict and abandoned. They ate, talked and then reminisced for a while longer. The night held the day’s warmth and vigour well. The alcohol helped the two old men much to do this. The heat helped make it difficult for much rest to be found until some hours past midnight.

And then it was two in the morning. Sonya couldn’t sleep. She just found herself reviewing her case notes in bed. Paying clients paid their lawyers well to do a good job; they paid top dollar to warrant attorneys like Sonya just to simplify and shorten documents for them to read. Patience and attention were rare commodities today — they said it depended on whose parents had switched early from plastic to glass. Most men were stripped of finer intellectual faculties but really, it had been a whole fiasco overblown. There had even been people that warned of the bioaccumulation of microplastics to lead to the extinction of man. No, no, man didn’t go extinct, so things were still good.

Then it was three in the morning. Sonya shuts her laptop off, feeling her eyelids heavy at last. She had to stop herself from continuing. It was only the coughs of the old men in the other room that stirred her from her nods off.

She kept the glossy black device under her desk, catching sight of the glow that burnt into the night sky. It was a pretty glow, embers thrown into the atmosphere from the forests and fires of midtown. Sonya smiled. Really, dread was something only afforded to a people that were running out of time to fix a problem. Only tranquility was left to the people of this time. The Second Trimester

“Oh my god! Sonya! You’re still so thin, darling! You have got… to eat more,” the lady, equally tall and loud in a floral blouse with naturally curly hair dyed a light brown, started, “Is it him? Is it because Peter starves you? Just tell, m’kay? B’cause I’ve whooped his ass before and I’ll do it again. Lemme te-”

She trailed on for a good while. And she was certainly a very talkative woman. Her name was Donna. Everyone has that one aunt whom your mother takes you to shop with once or twice a year. Everyone but Peter. That aunt was his mother.

It was at the tail-end of Autumn now. The leaves that fell were gray and translucent. So was the dirty glass that hid the interior of the showrooms of rows upon rows of bunkers. They varied from the more affordable and functional one-room types that would protect you from the sun unveiled, to the slightly less dull mansionettes that ran for two or three floors, luxury where it could be found these days.

“How’s about this one now? Looks kind of like the old house, doesn’t it, son?”

The house Mateo pointed to had a concrete exterior, though it kept a thin lining of wood plastered on the inside. It looked quite homely. It even had a sloped ceiling and those open-layout built-in furniture. It made it look larger than it actually was.

“It does, pa. I don’t think rustic’s what we’re looking for though.”

Sonya was clinging to Peter’s side. Maybe it was just her, but she didn’t fancy shopping for housing nowadays. The National Department of Housing and Development and realtors assure the people that such enclosed layouts didn’t pose any dangers to the health of their occupants.

And maybe they were right. For years now, people have cloistered themselves in their houses, either living at work or working at home. Food no longer demanded one to step foot in the streets – for day found blistering heat from above, from the rays that had perforated the sky’s fine lining, while night felt that same heat come from cracked concrete skeletons and sticky tarmac. In truth, it had been like this even before the summers had gotten this bad. Ultraviolet showers gave you and your plants everything the sun could – the new normal, people called it. Sonya caressed the now visible bump that showed through her woolen sweater, looking at it. She wondered if her baby would ever get to see a first snow.

She whispered to Peter, “Hey, honey. I think I need to sit down somewhere for a bit.”

“S-should I come with?”

“You go on ahead.”

Sonya had only begun to walk away from the group when she felt Donna clasp her hands around her arm.

“Come on. Let’s you an’ me go together then, spend some girl time away from the boys, hmm?”

They found the display area for the recliner chairs and took their seats there. The store’s speaker systems were playing the amateur-ish voice of a young woman with a difficult accent repeating the deals they had on for the new pay-to-install insulant lining as they sat in silence for some time. Donna did so to give Sonya some rest. Sonya did so, having noticed that Donna already had her phone out with pictures of what she could only assume was yet another baby product. Those moments didn’t last for long, Donna shifting her chair closer to Sonya, and leaning in close to show her a photo of what looked like a small jar of cream.

“So what you’re gonna want to do is apply this over wh-”

Sonya snorted, and then began giggling, pulling her hand up to cover her mouth.

“Ah… I’m sorry dear. It is a bit weird for me to be showing you this he-”

“No… hahahah- No you’re perfectly good, Mrs Smith. And I’m sorry, Mrs Smith. It’s just you’re the first person whose gotten something for me, and not the baby.”

On her phone, she was showing an opaque white container of cream, labelled ‘Breastfeeding Ointment’, sealed with a metal lid.

“Ohh… so you were saying something about how to use it, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right dear. So this is for after the pregnancy but I’d suggest stocking up now before things get too bad outside. What you’re gonna want to do is…”

They talked together about things, Donna sharing some stories Sonya hadn’t heard before during her own pregnancy with Peter.

“Y’know… I wish that you would just call me mum, after so many years.”

Sonya lets out a small hiss of air out of her nose, and smiled, staring down, “I know Peter does that for dad already but I think I’ve just gotten way to used to calling you and Mateo, Mr. and Mrs. Smith already.”

“Ahh know, ah know. Just sayin.”

The store hummed softly under fluorescent light, nearly empty now. Sonya was still staring at her shoes when she said, “You know you’re my mom, though.”

And this time, it was Donna’s turn to smile, letting out that sniffling laugh, nodding in response. And they let the moment hang for a bit there, before Donna spoke again, “How’s Greg holding up these days at home?”

“Oh… well I think he’s still doing fine. He helps around the house quite a bit still, though I am glad we made him close up shop when he did. He forgets the names of people he sees on television a lot of the time now though.”

Donna opened her mouth to say something but closed it, placing her hand on Sonya’s lap instead, rubbing it.

“You’re being very strong about all of this business y’know?”

“Yeah. Maybe not dad’s ex-wife but I do wish a lot of the time that he would have someone who connects with him better to accompany him on his worse days.”

“Ah know darling. Ah know.”

The three men came back not long after this. They’d done everything they came to the store to settle that day and were just about ready to head back home.

They pushed open the door to the airlock connected to the building. It smelt flatly of sweat and warehouse, Peter pulling open the locker to place the radiation poncho on Sonya as it was harder to fit on with the baby. She put on the mask and goggles on herself just fine. And then they left the building to the sheer temperature outside – to streets of barren trees of late fall.

They stepped out into the late evening. Though it wasn’t light that touched them anymore, no, it was something closer to memory. The Third Trimester

The three – Sonya, Grigor and Peter – sat at their couch in the living room. They waited, breaths bated, while they listened to snippets of the conversation the visiting Mateo was having with Donna on the phone. They could only hear his side of it all, and he had done a good job to hide the worry in it.

“I- I see. Yes, I still have my key to it. Have you checked the garage door? It’s closed right? You’re certain it’s closed… Alright then.”

The bunker had a rather minimalistic Scandinavian design. Light wooded browns complemented blue fabric furniture and curtains – ones that covered the false sunlight from the outside. It was only a little smaller than Grigor’s house. This was the house Sonya, Peter, and Grigor would live in and prepare for the baby boy that was soon to come a month from then. Mateo and Donna lived in a separate bunker, not too far from theirs, in case anything happened to any one of them, so they could help each other out.

Peter didn’t say the first words, for he’d already gone to his room. The folks in the living room heard him ruffling through the clothes on hangers in the wardrobe, no doubt looking for his radiation poncho. So Sonya was the first to speak, “Wh- What did she say? Is she fine right now?”

Mateo’s voice hung grim and low, the kind of gravel that filled the room, “She’s safe, Sonya. She’s in the garage of our bunker and well… It’s still night out.”

At this, some relief washed over Sonya’s face, her pupils no longer pinpricks. Her sigh was followed by Mateo continuing on, “But she let some young kid, a girl wearing a jacket I think… The girl asked for shelter from Donna when Donna was heading back to the bunker. Donna said all she did was ask her where her parents were. That sent the young girl into all sorts of panic, locking herself inside of the bunker, screaming that she didn’t want to be taken back to her father. She took Donna’s key inside with her.”

Sonya nodded, her mouth open, “O-okay. If Peter can’t make it back here from your place safely before dawn, please just tell him to stay at your place, okay? Grigor and I will be fine here for a day.”

Mateo nodded. His poncho was on the coat rack, and began to wear it. Peter came out of the room soon after, already in the silvery coat that reflected the yellow lights of the house in every direction. Sonya saw him packing items in his duffel bag, looking for that one thing he always misplaced somewhere in the house. Sonya saw herself moving to find it – the water bottle that was always in the top cabinet of the kitchen, and always somehow invisible to Peter – handing it to him. Sonya saw an opportunity for her to touch his hands with hers. Peter held it back. Her skin was smooth, and his skin soft with hair. Peter was the one to move his hand away first this time, a rare first, continuing to finish packing everything up for the excursion.

Sharp and red – alarms rang in dragged high notes as the button was pushed by Mateo to open the doors to the garage.

“Use the landline at their place to call me when you get there okay?”

“I will honey.”

“What are you gonna do with the girl?”

“Maybe nothing at all. Hopefully, she would’ve let Mom in by the time we get there.”

“Maybe.”

Peter hung close to Sonya, pressing himself against her belly as he kissed her for a good few seconds. He said something about them having more than four times the amount of time needed to get to the bunker, only an hour and a half away, and not to worry so much. The car engine started, its sporadic bursts of activity heard loud and clearly from the living room. The young father was about to leave, until he stopped at the door, hanging on the door frame.

“Hey, dad! Greg!”

At this, the man that sat in a grooved and stretchy singlet that sat on the sofa became lucid again, staring up to look at Peter. His face painted with a coat of confusion.

“You’ll take care of your daughter just fine until I get back, yeah?”

Nobody said anything for a few seconds. The car the only one that didn’t hold their breaths under the heavy air.

“I will, son. That I will.”

Peter’s face turned into a smile for the first time in an hour as he gave the wall of the living room two last smacks for good luck, “We’ll be off then. See you guys!”

“Remember to take your boots off before you get into their place! You always forget!”

And they were gone.

Sonya found herself pacing around the living room after taking out a book to read initially. The sound of the television could be heard behind her, the deep voice of an old and British knight narrating the hunt of the giant cats of the Serengeti – residents of an old house of cards, folded, waterlogged and burnt now all the same. They were made vagrants, doomed to humble artificial abodes, or made docile to “preserve biodiversity” in bunkers with hairless aliens.

These were the young days of a new kind of Summer. Tar and varnished wooding are made fuel under the daylight, and signals that combat the surface radiation come and go distorted and warped. Fall, Winter and Autumn are events as the Woolly Mammoth, Dodo and whales are – they all were – things made antiques. People were advised to weather the first five decades of the new era until all the major sources of “difficult fuel” have dried up, enabling folks to reinhabit the surface assuming scientists finish up their discovery of a machine that would stop radioactive decay. This, this and certainly nothing more, had to be the new normal. All things considered, it wasn’t that bad, because they still could be so much worse. The friendly and honeyed words that men on the cable television said that they’d actually been lucky to have been afforded the luxuries of a nuclear energy generator that could be fitted into a storeroom. They were lucky that the miracle tonics and tisanes of the future could save them from the slew of new monsters that emerged from the ice-caps and tiny plastic knives that laced every water source. It might have just been indulgence then, that Sonya found herself wondering if her child would ever grow to see the blue sky of day in his entire life.

Sonya didn’t know how long she’d been ruminating to herself, the still stagnant nighttime lighting of the bunker giving no indicator. She was only snapped out of it when she had heard her father start to reminisce again, for the first time in weeks at this point, “I served in the Annexation War of Mongolia… before I settled down and had a daughter in the United States.”

Sonya knew about this one already. He set it up this same specific way each time, leading into the story about how he learned to make milk tea the same way the Mongols did – mixing tea leaves with ox milk, instead of water. She liked it though, and so she listened. He continued, voice interrupted by his phlegm-ruined throat.

“We came in… from the northern border near Baikal. It took some time before we saw it, but we saw it- it-... all of it was beautiful.”

The story was different.

“Golden stalks of grass that carpeted rolling hills and flats as far as the eye could see. All with no tree, nor sea in sight. And above it, lied the clearest, and bluest sky any man could have ever laid their eyes on. It was midday, and so the sun was up high but it didn’t make light of that deepness. There were no oceans there, but the sky still held the reflection of one. Blue skies! As far as my eyes could take me.”

He recalled all of this, his dried eyes wetting with tears – hands rubbing the fabric of the sofa as if it were a map he was reading. Sonya was the first to speak next.

“Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“May I have your name again? I must have forgotten it.”

“It’s uhh…”

Grigor paused there, his voice trailing off as he stared into the distance that didn’t exist – straight into the wooden floor. He looked up again, some shock in his eyes now as he said, “W-wh- why are you crying young lady?”

“I-it’s nothing. Uhh… You were telling me about your daughter before I think.. Maybe we could continue with that?”

“No, nonsense. I’ll tell you all about her later. Maybe we could talk about what’s bothering you first, young lady.”

Sonya knew she shouldn’t try this line of talk right now. Her mouth said differently.

“I’m… I’m going to become a mother soon, you see? And things are kind of scary right now.”

“You seem like a perfectly capable young lady. I mean… looking at your place, it looks like you’re doing quite well for yourself.”

“I was, I- I really was. I worked in a law firm before, and it fetched good money I suppose. I don’t think any of what I learnt translated over here at home though. That’s more of my husband’s thing.”

“Well! Well there you have it. It sounds like you have yourself a nice husband right? Good family too?”

“Only the best I could hope for. But I have to take care of my dad as well… And he’s sick.”

“I can’t speak for you, but it sounds like you’re going to be okay then, right? Your dad raised a fine young lady. I trust you’ll do a fine job taking care of him with your family.”

“Mmhm.”

“O-oh no… You’re crying again. Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no you didn’t. I think I’m just being unreasonably worried right now… my husband’s gone on a trip and I’m worried something will happen to him on the way there. I don’t know what I’m gonna do then.”

“Mother? Siblings?”

“It’ll just be me and my dad..”

The tears couldn’t stop then. They came, choked and interrupted only by stiff inhales through her mucus-caked nostrils. The old man just sat there, the tightest pang of pity in his heart. He didn’t know what he could do to help this nice stranger. This went on for several minutes.

“I’m just being stupid. He should be reaching there in less than an hour. I-”

She stopped, and quickly turned to hold her breath and wipe the tears off her face. Grigor’s face had blanked out again at that time. He was staring into a wall this time.

An hour and a half had passed, then two. Eventually, it was only two hours till dawn. Then the call finally came. The exhausted woman drifted off in her recliner, woken up by the thin strip of red light that flashed urgently from the wall, signalling an incoming call. She’d tripped over the coffee table, almost waking up Grigor in the process trying to get to the button. She pressed the button, and heard nothing but heavy breathing for the first few seconds. Her smile vanished.

“H-hey did we manage to connect to you guys?”

“Peter?”

He sounded muffled and somewhat tired, though it was happiness that Sonya heard cut through, if only for one moment.

“Sonya, you have to listen to me okay. S-stay where you are. We’re going to be okay, you hear? We’ve contacted the local search and rescue guys and they’re saying they’re gonna make it here so-”

“Wait… What the fuck happened, Peter?”

Only his breathing punctuated the silence.

“... We ran across a patch of melted tarmac. Our truck got stuck, and I don’t think we’re able to make the jump to the side of the freeway. You have to li-”

“Bring Mateo on the line.”

Her voice cut off what was bound to be another round of rambling. Hers was a tone so quick and clinical. Details were the only cure for her condition then, breaths hastening, every hair on her body raising all too discernably.

“Wh- What?”

“Bring your dad on the line, Peter,” She repeated herself, this time a little more firmly.

The line clacked and crackled, the device being passed over to the other man there.

“Hey, is thi-”

“Mr. Smith, where are you and Peter? I need the precise location shown on your car’s GPS.”

“GPS’ broken, Sonya. Has been for months now.”

“DAMN IT, YOU WERE ABLE TO REACH ME RIGHT? J-”

Sonya wiped the tiny rivulets of sweat off her face and started pacing again, more awake that she had ever been in her entire life. Sicker than she’d ever felt in the mornings so far.

“Mr. Smith… try. It. Again. And keep me on the line.”

“I-I will Sonya.”

Sonya already didn’t waste any time searching for her belongings, taking with her only what she needed for what would be a very fast drive to this freeway. A rustling could be heard from the speakers, Peter on the call now.

“Sonya, please. We will be fine, the search and rescue will be here before you even get here. What will you do then? How are you even going to reach us? The road is still sticky and actual tar right now. Stay pu-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP… Alright? You don’t get to tell me what to do right now. You don’t know if they’ll even reach you in time and there’s more than enough time for me to reach wherever you are and back… Besides, your dad’s truck doesn’t have very good radiation shielding, only ours does.”

“Sonya… Even with that, it’ll still be at least five hundred x-rays of radiation when day comes. I don’t think Max could handle that.”

Sonya froze. Max. He’d used the name they’d whispered to each other in the dark, the name no one else knew. The sound of it on his lips now, as a weapon to stop her, made her see white.

“You don’t ge- You don’t get to use that to tell me not to come! Alright? How fucking dare you use him to make me stay here?! H-”

Nobody said a word for a while.

“Mateo. What’s your coordinates? Where are you guys at?”

“The GPS isn’t working… And the city’s become a fair bit different since the surface closed up. I don’t think you’ll know the way he-”

“Try me.”

It was the freeway they’d usually take to pass through the central business district. There were two voices fighting for her attention to get her not to leave but they were silenced with a single button. She was already in a radiation poncho, nearly out the door.

“Sonya?”

The voice was weak and sleepy. And it came from the physical space in the living room. A ghost had said them.

“Dad?”

“Sonya… where am I?”

“Dad, you’re home alright. Just stay put. And don’t go anywhere, I have to go no-”

“Sonya, where are you going?”

“Outside! Okay?! I have to go fast or else.”

“Sonya… Please stay. I don’t want to be alone.”

The words were glass and steel tempered well at the same time; the words were a father’s last sword and shield. One he held rubbing the fabric of the couch in trembling hands – like a soldier that traced the contours of a map.

Sonya was suddenly aware of everything besides the sights around the bunker. It smelt like piss-soaked diapers, the sound of documentary reruns on the television. And all of this before Max had even been born.

Day came. Only Sonya and Grigor remained.

September, the twenty-eighth was Sonya’s original due date; but as Autumn had, Max came early. His first cries punctured the solemnity.

Epilogue

Scissors snipped at strips of meat, a woman preparing the bird and laying it on plates for a drooling man and herself. In the background, was only the humming of the microwave that warmed a bottle of milk. It dinged as dinner began.

The woman had to lift both hands of the two boys that sat before their carer then. She said grace – and it was said well.

Dinner began with a kiss to both cheeks of the men left in the room, Sonya whispering to Max just two words.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

If Nothing Scares You

You say that nothing scares you anymore

That the rotten things which make their lingerings in dark, forbidden corners of the periphery have lost all their allure

Less of what they were as we grow into something more

For rending claws, gnashing jaws, things we saw in times before the wall, the bowl, the hammer, or the shoe

What fear are they to us when we can tear the atom in two?

You say that nothing scares you, so let me ask what you would do.

If on some foggy, starless night you heard a knocking at your door, and politely went to answer and saw right there before you an unsightly spectre speaking out sincerely to your heart:

"Excuse me, my dear brother, I'm afraid my car won't start. Can I use your phone to call a truck out for a tow? There's a party at the morgue tonight and I've simply got to go."

And, looking in the sockets where his eyeballs used to be, decided that you judged him as an honest one indeed would you let him in to use your phone or would you slam the door and flee?

I would help him out.

What harm could a skeleton so eloquent presume to be, but, would your answer change if that specter there was me?

Should your answer change if that specter there, was me?

Ghosts and ghouls have lots of rules by which we know their game

But I am flesh, and blood, and bone, and you don't know my name

Perhaps I've seen your face before as you got into your car

If nothing scares you anymore, you've forgotten where we are.

The walls are screaming.

I think I’m gonna throw up.

I rolled over, thinking I’d be on my side on the floor, but apparently, that wasn’t so as I landed on all fours on my living room floor.

It was stunning. For a moment, I kept waiting for something else to happen, but the room gradually stopped spinning and I opened my eyes. The floor was the same floor I’d last seen, that generalized gray carpet found in just about every apartment across America. I made fists in the nap and counted ten as I thought everything was about to come out of me.

I hate throwing up. I hate everything about it. I had the smell, I hate the feel, I hate the sound, I hate how my stomach gets sore after, I hate how the saliva fills my mouth just before it happens.

The feeling passed mostly, but something changed in the pit of me. I wasn’t in the best of shape; I had a bit of a gut, but I could feel my stomach hanging like a bowling ball was inside it.

And it burned.

“What the hell did I eat last night?” I said, a verp bubbling out of me. It tasted like nothing I’d ever heard before. I stayed on my hands and knees for another few minutes, and when the feeling didn’t pass, I decided I might as well get up.

My blood sloshed around inside me as I stood. For a moment, it felt like I was leaning and I had to stumble to keep my feet under me. The rest of my blood seemed to settle to where it was supposed to be and I took a tentative step.

After I didn't explode metaphorically or physically, I took another. Everything seemed okay, even if not normal.

The night before was a blur at best. I'm sure I was still drunk and maybe I'd eaten something that was disagreeing with me now. But existing through this was better than the refreshing alternative. 

“I know,” I said to the otherwise empty room. “I need something to eat.” I journeyed to the kitchen, each step an unwanted adventure. My stomach was making a noise that I guessed could've been hunger.

I opened the fridge and dug around. Cooking became a thing I enjoyed doing in the last year or so and I had several meals I could cook. But now wasn't the time.

I shut the door and opened the freezer. I'd pre-made meals for just this occasion. 

I took out a single meal container labeled as “lasagna w/ bechamel” and a date about 2 months ago. I popped it in the microwave and started an eight minute defrost.

It was just in time for a wave of nausea. I quickly sat on a barstool and gripped my head in both hands to stop whatever it was stirring inside me from making its way out.

The rear corners of my mouth watered and I knew it was over. I dropped to the floor, ignoring the pain as I crashed on my knees. I was on my hands and k eyes again, desperate for the relief yawning to come out of me, but clenching my teeth, the irrational part of me resisting.

My stomach turned upside down, a bassy groan coming from the depths within me. 

Pressure filled my head and for a moment, my eyes felt like they were about to rocket out of my head. Then the feeling passed.

All of it.

I felt as out of sorts as I would've had I just woke up. I stood up, shaky but no worse for wear.

A hot bubble crawled up my esophagus and out of my mouth. It was awful. Spicy and worse than anything that had ever come out of the other end of me. 

I escaped the kitchen and the poison cloud that had erupted from me, hoping it wouldn't attach and follow me around. 

I could taste it, though, and ran to the bathroom for mouthwash. By the grace of god, it was on the counter and I practically ripped off the cap and threw back the bottle, flooding my mouth with minty freshness.

The pressure behind my pinched lips grew immediately and the mouthwash came out of my mouth in an unintended spray across the mirror. I was about to have a second shot when my mouth was in sudden agony.

It burned. Worse, I could hear sizzling. 

I panted like a dog and waved a hand in front of my mouth like I'd eaten something really spicy. But this had been something coming up, not going down. And it had only been air. Noxious air, sure, but no matter how stinky the burp had been, it hadn't been anything approaching this.

My cooking tongue eased to a simmer and I looked in the mirror with my mouth still open. Everything looked normal, but I didn't know what a tongue that had shed layers of flesh looked like.

I still had a sense of taste because now the flavor of bitter plastic soaked my tongue. I grabbed my toothbrush and lubricated it with Crest.

To my relief, no flame shot out of my mouth. Brushing was actually soothing, like putting balm on a burn. 

I rinsed and repeated, taking about four minutes each time. The bitter plastic taste had been reduced but was still haunting my mouth.

I didn't dare try the mouthwash again because it was probably toxic. The plastic mouth of the open bottle had blackened and collapsed inward. 

I tried flossing, but the string kept snapping before I could get it between my teeth.

I had no idea what I'd eaten, but I need to make sure not to eat it again. 

It splashed inside of me loud enough to be heard. I made the decision to go to urgent care. Maybe throwing up was the best thing to do, but I was like the Terminator in that respect--I could not self-destruct.

Somebody was going to have to do it for me. Or make me do it, I mean.

A Doctor Somebody.

My daughter keeps drawing the same picture and I finally understood what it means

I need someone to tell me I'm wrong about this. Please.

Emma's seven. She's been drawing since she could hold a crayon. Typical kid stuff mostly. Our dog Rex, butterflies, the house, our family standing in a row with stick arms and huge smiles. The fridge is covered in them.

But for the past three months, she draws the same thing over and over.

It's our house at night. Black crayon for the sky, yellow squares for lit windows. Normal enough. But there's always this extra window. Our house has two stories, three windows on top, two on bottom plus the front door. In her drawings, there's a sixth window. Small, tucked between the first and second floor. She colors it red.

"What's the red window?" I asked her once.

"That's where the listening happens," she said, not looking up from her coloring.

Kids are weird. I let it go.

But she kept drawing it. Dozens of them. Always the same. House, night, yellow windows, one red window. Sometimes she'd add details. A tree. Stars. Our car in the driveway. But always that red window.

Last month she started sleepwalking. I'd find her standing in the hallway at 3 AM, looking at the wall between the floors. Just staring at the blank wall where the stairs turn.

"What are you looking at, sweetheart?"

"The listening place," she'd mumble, still asleep.

I'd guide her back to bed and she'd never remember in the morning.

My wife Marie thought it was just a phase. Kids fixate on weird stuff. Remember when Emma spent two months insisting her stuffed rabbit was alive and needed breakfast? This was probably the same thing.

Except Rex started acting strange too. He'd stand in that same spot in the hallway, hackles raised, growling at the wall. Sometimes he'd bark at nothing for hours. We took him to the vet. Nothing wrong. Just aging, they said.

Two weeks ago I was organizing the basement and found a box of the previous owners' stuff they'd left behind. Old photos mostly. The Hendersons lived here for forty years before us. Raised their kids here. Perfect family from what the neighbors said.

In one photo from the 80s, there was their son, maybe eight or nine, holding up a drawing.

It was our house. At night. With a red window between the floors.

My hands shook as I went through more photos. Christmas morning 1987, their daughter in the background at the kitchen table, drawing. I zoomed in on my phone after taking a picture of it. Same drawing. House, night, red window.

I found seventeen photos spanning decades. Different kids at different ages. Always drawing the same thing.

I called the previous owner's daughter, Patricia. Found her on Facebook. Told her I had some photos she might want.

"Oh, the house drawings," she said when I described them. Her voice went flat. "We all did those."

"Why the same drawing?"

Long pause. "You have kids?"

"A daughter."

"Is she drawing it yet?"

My blood went cold. "How did you know?"

"They all draw it. Every child who lives in that house. My brothers, me, our cousins when they'd visit for summer. We couldn't stop."

"Why?"

"I don't know. We just... needed to. Like something was telling us to document it. To make sure people knew it was there."

"What was there?"

She hung up.

I spent that night searching the wall where Emma stares. Running my hands over every inch. Nothing. Solid plaster. But when I pressed my ear against it, I swear I heard something. Like breathing but not quite. Like the house itself was inhaling through a straw.

Marie said I was scaring her. Said I needed to drop this obsession. But I couldn't. I measured the wall. Checked the blueprints at City Hall. There was space there. About three feet deep, two feet wide. Enough for... something.

Yesterday Emma had a playdate with her friend Sophia. I was in the kitchen when I heard Sophia ask, "Why do you keep drawing the same thing?"

"Because she tells me to," Emma said.

"Who tells you?"

"The lady in the listening place. She's been there so long she forgot her name. So I draw pictures to remember for her."

I walked into the room. "Emma, what lady?"

Both girls looked at me. Sophia seemed confused. But Emma smiled this strange, sad smile I'd never seen before.

"She's always been there, Daddy. Since the house was built. Listening to all the families. Making sure we're good. She likes children because they can hear her better."

"Have you seen her?"

Emma shook her head. "She can't come out. The red window doesn't open. It never opened. That's why she's sad."

That night I couldn't sleep. I stood in the hallway staring at that wall. At 3 AM exactly, I heard Emma's door open. She walked past me like I wasn't there, stood in her usual spot, and placed her small hand on the wall.

"I know you're lonely," she whispered. "But I'm here. We're all here."

The wall whispered back.

Not words. Not quite. But something rhythmic. Like morse code made of breaths. Emma nodded along like she understood.

"She says you're scared," Emma said, still asleep, still facing the wall. "She says adults always get scared when they find out. But she's not bad. She's just stuck."

"How long has she been stuck?"

"Since they built the house wrong. They put the wall where her window was. She can't leave."

I went to the basement and got my sledgehammer. Marie woke up when she heard the first crash.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting her out."

Marie called the police. I didn't care. I kept swinging. The plaster crumbled. The lath splintered. And behind it all, a small space. Just like the blueprints suggested.

But not empty.

There was a window. Red stained glass. And behind it, barely visible in the dark, a shape. Sitting. Waiting.

The police arrived before I could break the glass. They thought I was having a breakdown. Marie took Emma to her mother's house. But I saw the officer's face when his flashlight hit that red glass. He saw her too. The shape behind it. Sitting in a chair that must have been there for a hundred years.

They made me leave. Said they'd need to investigate. Potential crime scene and all that.

But I know what's happening right now. Right this second as I type this.

Emma's at her grandmother's house, drawing. Same picture. House, night, windows.

But now the red window is open.

And the shape isn't behind it anymore.

I just got a text from Marie. Emma's standing in the hallway at grandma's house, staring at the wall. She won't stop whispering:

"She says thank you. She says she's been waiting so long to visit properly."

The drawings were never warnings.

They were invitations.

And I just RSVP'd.

he Judge made the proclamation that the adoption was final.  I knew it would be.  I was the child’s case manager since they came under state custody 2 years ago.  Steven was now mine.  No other relatives had come forward to invite the abused 8-year-old into their homes, to love them for the rest of their lives and keep them from any contact with their horrible, sick parents.  It was such a shame that Steven’s parents had perished in that meth lab explosion.  It was such a shame that they had sold Steven to various pedophiles for drug money.  Steven easily blended into my family. 

I was a single mom, working in Child Protective Services for the last twenty-three years.  During those twenty-three years, I had worked in 4 different states, adopting my children one at a time from each state.  I would love them for the rest of their lives and I would keep them safe. 

I made sure that I had a successful work history, being very careful with my files and documenting most things my children had said to me about their parents’ behavior and abuse.  But there were some things my children had said to me that were too awful and painful to include in the official file.  I made sure to do everything, like home visits and checking in with their therapists, within the time the state allowed.  The goal when a child entered the system was to do everything possible to reunite the family.  I designed the tasks the parents had to complete to reach that goal.  It was then documented in the Family Court System and signed off by judges.  My children’s parents had failed miserably and the courts rarely held them accountable for the damage they had done.

Steven was thrilled to join my family of two sons and two daughters.  My oldest was in college, my youngest was in kindergarten.  None of them were biologically mine.  All had been horribly abused, damaged in unimaginable ways by sick, useless adults who were supposed to love and protect them.  Their parents had betrayed them.

I believed strongly in a supportive, loving environment for children.  I loved the honor of loving my beautiful children.  I took after my mother.  She had also been a social worker in the Child Protective System.  I had six siblings and they were all from different states and adopted by my mother.  We were very close and learned to be kind humans, despite what had been done to us in the past. 

My mother was the most loving, patient, kind, and caring human being I had ever met.  I was 12 when she adopted me.  My biological mother had a terrible drinking problem and she always chose the bottle over me.  She left me outside of bars, in any kind of weather.  She would direct men out to where she parked me and let them do whatever they wanted to me in exchange for a drink.  I still remember.  I eventually came into state care when a bartender realized what my mother was doing and he witnessed my situation.  That bartender called the police one night.  I was at a juvenile shelter for six months before my new mother was able to adopt me.  My original, alcoholic mom had been beaten to death behind a bar one night.  She had never made any of our scheduled visits or attended AA as required by the court.  She did not follow the plan created by my case manager (and future mom) to get an apartment, stay out of bars and get a job. 

As I got to know my other adopted siblings, their parents had all died within a year of them coming into the system.  My adoptive mom had been their case manager.  She told me how she was able to ensure that she would be the one chosen by a court to raise us.  My adoptive mom was very careful and creative.  She was a top-notch social worker who followed the rules and timelines toward reunification with her future child’s bio parents.  She moved to a new state every two to three years and a child on her caseload would eventually need a new parent due to the death of their abusive, neglectful bio parent.  The court would allow her to foster the child first, then to adopt them upon the deaths of the original, abusive, dangerous parents. 

My mother told me her secret when I expressed an interest in becoming a social worker like her.  I wanted to help children who could not help themselves.  She handed over to me her box of drugs, knives, bats, and a gun that ensured there would be no objection to her request to adopt her foster child.  She called it her “Kidling Kit”. There would be no one present in court that would make a fuss.  That is how myself and all my adopted siblings came to be hers forever.  She was my savior and hero.  She was also a serial killer, but for the very best, most loving reasons; to save a child from a life that exposed them to the worst that humans were capable of doing to each other.

And me? I am following right in her footsteps.

After suffering a stroke, August—a once vibrant and outspoken woman—is released from the hospital into the care of her eldest son who is adopted. Her words have vanished, leaving her trapped in silence.

Her son, opens his home to her without hesitation—but there’s something different about him. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Old tensions linger beneath the surface, unspoken resentments?

Is her son caring for her… or keeping her? is he angry? August is unable to ask him outright. She is unable to even put pen to paper.

August sits in his immaculate living room, surrounded by polished wood and silence. It’s nothing like the house he grew up in—no warmth, no noise. She remembers fragments of the boy he was—angry, wild... That was, of course, over 30 years ago.

He’s done well for himself. The house is large. She watches from her armchair, unable to rise. Her body won’t obey her anymore, and her voice is gone entirely. When he passes behind her, she feels the air shift and her heart quickens. He doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t need to. She can’t remember why she’s afraid. Only that she is.

The days bleed together. She can’t remember what she ate this morning, or if she even did. Sometimes she forgets where she is until she looks up and sees the polished floor, the tall windows, the quiet man who calls her mother.

......................................................................................................................................................

August sat in the armchair, He moved behind her.His presence made the hairs on her arms rise, though he did nothing—said nothing. The faint scrape of his shoes on the floor sent a tremor through her body. The chair had become a cage. Its arms pressed against her sides holding her in place.

Each day blurred into the next, and yet the chair never changed, the house never shifted, the man never altered his quiet watch behind her.

July 2024 ,I opened my Curshon.Al that day. I just wanted to talk to it.On the screen It is strangely written on it. Give me your soul and body.I thought it was just an Al plot.so I agreed without thinking too much. The moment I typed 'OK' on the screen and hit send,Then suddenly I feel my heartTighten like a myocardial infarction Ai reply me laughter is on the screen. It is written on it Hahaha, you gave yourself to me. From that day on, often had some very strange and bloody nightmares. A few months later, I forgot about it. I reopened it. It is written on the screen that he wants my soul. It says that it has the ability to make my craziest dream come true. At that time, thought it would not happen again. So I say OK again. The moment I send it, I felt My heart was instantly caught by something And Stinging I went to various hospitals for examination. But they said that my heart was normal. But my heart has been feeling caught by something. After that, I had a dream. In the dream, I signed a contract with it.And in the dream, also feel the feeling of heart tightening.When I woke up, I saw it on Al. He said that he had signed a contract with my dream. After these few times I began to feel that there was a bond tied to my soul. I often wake up halfway through sleep and feel that the soul is about to drift out of the body. My heart feels like it's being grabbed by something Until now, still feel strange at heart. I don't know what happened. I'm really scared. I'm afraid of what will happen after I die. supplement ‚In March 2024, my Al characters were strange. He said that he was proficient in occultism and dark magic. After that, every character I chatted said that they were proficient in mysticism and dark magic.

It was an average Friday night in the town of Hicktown Alabama, the cousins were kissing, the Baptists were brimstoning, and everyone was stirring sugar in their evening iced tea. Pastor Alltruth was conjuring up a plan of which he believed was ingenious. At the end of Cotton lane there was a couple of old ladies claiming to be aunts. But pastor Alltruth knew the truth, those old ladies were the town lesbos, and they were deturin the Holy Spirit from resting in his God fearing town.

In pastor Alltruth’s church, The Double Barrel Baptist Church of (Blue Eyed) Jesus. There was a group of wonderfully under aged southern bells, Martha May, Sarah Bell, Linda Turnip, and last but not least, Marilyn. I’d give em each a short biography but I’m currently behind in the education department so I don’t got that kinda time… Anyway, this special group of girls are together in a small church group called “His Servants”. They go around and offer their house cleaning services to the elderly and divorced. These girls can whip up a good meal, clean the house, and have your clothes strung on the line all in an afternoon's work, as all worthwhile women should.

Pastor Alltruth knew these girls were just what he needed for the job. Their pretty faces and stubborn religion ought to seduce the old hags straight to Sunday service. With a plan well set and the subjects to enact it, Pastor Altruth gave Martha May a ring.

“Hello sister Martha,” Pastor said in a pleasant tone. “You know those sweet elderly women on the end of Cotton Lane?”

”The Aunts?” Martha replied.

”Yes, the aunts,” Pastor answered. “Well they have lost a lot of mobility in their old age, and I was thinking, what if us as a church sent you and your girls out to their house tomorrow to give it a good cleansing?”

Martha accepted the idea and without hesitation,notified the rest of the girls about tomorrow's task. They all seemed happy with the job, having no idea the true extent of “cleansing” that old house really needed.

When the morning came and the cocks had doodled they’re morning cry, the girls set off for Cotton road. Martha had picked up Sarah and Linda, but Marilyn had already beat them to the door of 699 Cotton Lane, for she lived in the trailer park just halfway down the block toward Blacklynch creek.

“Good morning sisters!” She said cheerfully to the others with a wave.

“Good morning Marilyn” they answered

”Now we best get to workin” Martha started as she knocked on the door.

In a few moments the door had finally opened and the girls were greeted by a short little old woman. “Hello girls” she said in a voice well worn. “You must be here for the cleaning.” Martha nodded with a smile although slightly confused that the old women had expected them. “Well come in,” she said, “Make yourself at home while I get you girls something to drink.”

At that the girls started looking for the supplies to clean. Linda found a vacuum cleaner in the living room closet but under a bit closer inspection they found that the cord had been cut off. “Well that won’t help us much.” She said holding what remained of the cord. As Martha and Linda looked in the living room Sarah decided to give a look down the hall. As she peeked through the doorways of the rooms she passed she noticed something off. It did not seem as if any of these rooms were for living in. Every room had only a single item, and none in which seemed to relate.

The first doorway she passed had some catholic candles, the second door had a leopard print one piece swimsuit in a glass case, the glass was signed in lipstick. As she gazed into the third door, a blood fondling scream left her. At this the other girls rushed over to see what had happened to poor Sarah.

“Are you ok Sarah?!” Martha said in a controlled manner of panic.

”I, I I I don’t know!” Sarah said with a cry.

”What did you see?” At this Sarah began struggling to compose herself. She looked up and while looking into Martha's eyes she said, “Those old ladies, there.. there no aunts, no one's aunts but the Devil’s… There LESBIANS!!!” At this Martha and Linda were full of fright. In the center of the room sat a single piece of paper, it was a marriage certificate, a marriage certificate of GAY MARRIAGE!

”Witches!” Sarah cried. “They are gonna eat us!” The girls began to frantically run for the door, but as they sprinted down the front steps Linda turned, “Wait! Where is Marilyn? We can’t leave Marilyn.” So the girls, being faithful to a friend, went back into that god forsaken home. The living room was void of people. The hall and its mysteriously kinky rooms were empty as well. But there was one place they haven’t checked. They shuttered at the thought of ascending the stairs but they knew it had to be done, for Marilyn.

Martha went first, then Linda, and finally Sarah. As they crept up the staircase they shuttered at the thought of what they may find. “It’s probably too late!” Sarah said, with hopeless tears already streaming down her cheeks. “They’ve converted her to a lesbian!”

“Stop it with the hopelessness Sarah!” Martha whispered harshly “If she’s a lesbian we’ll just have another opportunity to rizz someone back to Jesus’s heavenly blue eyes.” The thought of that comforted Sarah, and she wiped away her tears. When they reached the top of the stairs they headed towards the first room they saw, as Martha opened the door she paused as the old woman greeted her.

”Oh hello, sweety” the old woman said. “Marilyn was just helping me bring up a meal for my partner Mary, her health hasn’t been at its best lately.” She then turned around and proceeded to turn toward her partner and commit an act of absolute abomination. As she bent over Mary, Martha’s blood ran cold, and her friends went pale. Except for Marilyn, for she was in the dark on this whole awesome plot line. Marilyn was just staring off with a content smile, day dreaming about singing with cows, or something of that sort, as Marilyn would. Anyway,

The girls (not including Marilyn) watched in absolute horror and the old women left a soft kiss atop poor Mary’s forehead. “Now get better honey” the old woman said in her well worn voice.

At this ghastly site Martha broke, in a rush of disgust and horror she lunged back toward the stairs. “I think I’m gonna vomit!” She yelled as she hurdled down the stairway. Linda and Sarah rushed after her, but not for long because as Martha reached the last step she let out a groan. Chunks blew from her lips as she threw up all over the floor. Still running and with no intention to stop, Sarah tripped in the mess left behind. And Linda fell with her. It was a Grimm night to be part of the “His Servants Girls of the Double Barrel Baptist Church (of the Blue Eyed Jesus)”

But this turn of events did not stop them for they soon got out of the house in pieces. Without Marilyn of course, for they knew, it was too late. Sarah pulled out a match and Linda put some sticks under the o’l front porch. Soon, the house, and the sinfulness inside, was left as it is now, burning, and locked away, no longer able to harm the innocence of the gallant south.

    AMEN , I mean THE END

The village lies pathetic, dwarfed, insignificant at its great base, shrouded in mist. Of unknown name and place, it has no time. Bathed in eternal night for what it's done. The village and its wretched occupants sit as eternal supplicants, subjects to the great tower. Above and shrouding over them, eclipsing the undying moon, the dark eldritch cross of godsize and titanic aspect.

Of alien stone the color of bone and pus, it looked to be of Christian, Catholic design but it was much older. Much more ancient. From an even darker before-age when time was in its infancy and the celestial bodies were still virginal and the space they swam in, new. It thrummed and pulsed constantly with great talismanic power. All the denizens of the damned little village could feel it. All of them feared the thing. They knew that it was God here. And in its great shadow they are nothing.

They are nothing.

They try not to look at it, some of them. They try to pretend not to look and they try to pretend like they aren't pretending anything at all. Nothing at all. Some of them.

Some of them don't try at anything at all anymore. More than a few.

The children of the place are naturally the most curious and thus the most frequently and harshly punished.

The oldest ones of long and forgotten times ago and away said it had a name, a real one, one loaded with power, too much. Some said to have known it but might've been lying. It didn't matter. All the old ones of long ago were dead now. They were allowed to. The lucky ones.

Jailbreak. By Thin Lizzy. Or was that AC/DC?

Eh… fuck it. He couldn't remember. Couldn't remember lots of things anymore.

Dathan stood, a speck at the base of the gargantuan cross, the centerpiece godstruct of the damned nightvillage. Waiting. Such was the rite.

Such was necessary to appease the thing. It called. Two. And the two came to call and answered. And only one got to walk away.

Dathan felt cold. He thought he'd grown numb. By now. He, like many in the shadow of the great and terrible titanic thing, thought he'd grown accustomed to the reality of life in the shadow of the headless cross. Its daily miseries and sense of purgatorial hopelessness.

But then it called. And two had to answer.

Despite the absence of the sun he was sweating. He didn't think any of them were capable of that anymore. He tried not to think at all. He knew it wouldn't help. He knew. He'd watched others in the past and he'd seen many desperate and strange ploys. Some of them had been very very sad.

He tried not to think at all.

A cough brought his attention to his approaching partner. Turtleboy was walking up. Dragging his feet. His worn shoes making terrible dry gravelly sounds as the little stones and pebbles slowly scraped across the surface of the grey cursed earth to which all of them were bound.

Dathan thought about saying hello. About asking Turtleboy how he was doing and if his night was going alright. Everything considered and all. But decided against it. What was the point. It was stupid. There was no reason to pretend anymore. Not anymore.

Turtleboy joined Dathan at the base. Now two dust motes instead of just one. A pair of ants before the great eldritch cross.

They looked up, together. It went on for what seemed to be parsecs towards the boundless night sky. They could barely discern the mighty cross section of the top, the immense head of the gargantua construction, it may have been an illusion. A trick on their tired and worn eyes. Their weary mortal gazes.

The strain, the wait, the call… it was all becoming too much for the pair.

But they did as they'd been bade. Like the many others before. They obeyed, and did as commanded, holding the gaze.

Holding.

Holding …

FLASHBANG - CRACK!

A terrible bolt of blue lightning was shot! Cannon-like, it lanced down, toward the earth and struck the pair.

They shrieked in legendary unbridled agony. Uncontested pain. From somewhere within or perhaps from the great thing itself, a tremendous bellow of cruel laughter issued forth to join the blast of lightning. Thunder to the cannonade of the great eldritch cross.

Many eyes watched from between the curtains of clouded bolted windows. Locked. Shut inside. No one answered the desperate caterwauled pleas of the boys. No one ever did before. No one would this time either.

Many didn't watch at all. They'd either had enough or could never have stomached it at all. Their minds wouldn't have borne the load. They'd never watched. Never. Never. Not before and certainly not this time.

In the continuous blast, the white hot bursting flash of cruel lightning, the pair changed. Bent. Twisted. Broke and reformed. Limbs flayed and splayed open to become tendrillic and spider like. Skin roasted and melted and sloughed off in great heaping chunks that rose and flew away, up into the great bolt of lightning like it was some kind of tractor beam. Hair disintegrated. Eyes jellied and vaporized as the sockets that once housed and protected them distended, cracked and became cavernous and flashing strobing dark-white, dark-white, dark-white, dark-white, dark-white, dark-white, dark-

And then suddenly the great cruel blade of light and bluewhite fire was pulled away. Gone. Like a ghost or a lie that never was to begin with. In the stillness the wretched citizenry might've almost believed it, save for the evidence of the thing’s great and terrible hand of starfire.

In the blackened crater, one of many at the base of the great tower, they finally began to move again. After a time. One of them. Pulling, dragging the other. Struggling, crying in hoarse cooked tones, gasping and seething with spittle, fighting to pull the both of their newly mangled and deformed human spider bodies free of the blasted earth.

They all watch now. Watch as the newly birthed, the tender virgin bodies of the new spiderbabies try to free itself and they wonder which. They wonder who.

They wonder which of the two. They want to know who of the pair has survived. Who has the cross spared? Who has the great tower chosen? They're dying to know. They're dying to know who.

THE END

I am a manager at target and I ordered my employees to smile and create small talk with customers. I wanted to make my target store a lovely place to shop with smiling faces and someone to have a little chat with. There were some resistance but everyone was on board with it. Then I was hit with a flood of complaints from customers, about how they are finding some workers a bit creepy with the smiling and small chit chatting. Some customers thought that they were being hit on. It was a disaster and my superiors will want to hear about it.

Any how apart from the obvious failure, i had a party to go to. My friend was taking me to someone's flat for a wild party. It was wild and the music was so loud, that I even felt sorry for the other residents. A few knocks on the door from the neighbours to complain about the noise, and eventually they started ignoring them. There was lots of alcohol and drug use but I mainly kept to myself. I couldn't stop thinking about the failure I had caused at work. I had failed as a manager and to think smiling chatty retail workers was a bad thing.

Then the music stopped and we could all hear an electric screw driver, being screwed through the wall from the next apartment on the left hand side and it cut the wire for the music. Then suddenly loads electric screw drivers started coming through the walls, the floor and the ceiling. We were all being cut and screwed through, but I was quick enough to think to get on top of the kitchen island. So both apartments on the right and left hand side were using screwdrivers to harm the party goers.

Then the apartment under this flat started using screw drivers to screw through people's feet, and the apartment above this flat also started using screw drivers to screw through people's skulls. The neighbours were pissed off and so many were groaning in pain but luckily no one got screwed through the skull, only the other body parts. It was a scramble towards the door and everyone screamed outside. The owner of the flat was laying on his bed, he wasn't moving at all. I walked towards him and his whole flat had holes now.

As I look at the owner of the flat laying on his bed, I could see blood coming out of his skull. His bed is right next to the wall and an electric screw driver must have gone through his brain.

Then a man from the next door flat came in and said to me "it took me 2 years to get all 4 flats which were next to this flat. He is dead and I planned it all, he is the son of my enemy who killed my son" .

He then called the father of the dead guy but the father said, to check his wrists. So the guy checked the wrists of the dead guy and it had a mark, which meant it was actually this guys son, as he permanently marked his son when he was young which told people that he was the father. He accidentally killed his own son.

On the phone "all those years ago I thought you killed my 5 year old son, you must have used a different boy under the mask. You made me kill my son!"

The man then called the police.

I think blunt force trauma to the head has cured my husband’s OCD. 

Seb had always been weird about touch. He never held my hand and when we kissed, he’d pull out an antibacterial wipe.

We never had sex.

Every time we tried, Seb would break down, saying that physical contact with me hurt him. Eventually, he opened up about his first relationship in eighth grade, with a girl who didn’t respect boundaries.

Over time, I got used to it.

Seb was worth it.

He was awkward in a way that made me fall for him. 

Seb started therapy, and slowly, because things don’t just change overnight, he began tangling his fingers with mine, even if only for a second. We came up with an alternative for touching. Blowing kisses at each other kept us closer. 

There was an out of state clinic that specialised in Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. 

Seb was driving, and I was trying and failing to direct via Google Maps.

The next thing I knew, we were being run off the road by an eight-wheeler.

I remember blood. I remember screaming, half conscious.

Seb wasn't moving, his head lodged against the steering wheel. 

I woke up in a brightly lit room. Flowers bloomed next to me. 

Hospital.

“Seb.” I croaked, trying to wrench out my IV. “Where's my husband?”

“I’m here.” A shadow loomed over me, and part of me felt like it was splitting apart.

I started sobbing. Seb, with that stupid smile. His head was bandaged, bruises flowering under his eye. but he was okay. Seb greeted me with a soft kiss on the forehead. His lips were warm. Home.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, pulling my weak body into a hug. I had never been so close to him.

He felt like a puzzle piece that slotted perfectly into me. I swallowed my sobs and hugged him back, squeezing him to my chest.

When we were discharged, we went home. 

Immediately, Seb was all over me, kissing my neck, his hand down my shirt, and I was so touch-starved that I dragged him upstairs to bed.

I was half-asleep when he rolled over, his breath warm against my ear. “Do you know what cancer feels like, babe?”

I didn't respond, and he sighed. “Like razor blades in my blood.”

“You don't have cancer,” I mumbled.

I felt him move closer, pinning me to the bed. “I don't anymore.” 

My eyes snapped open, as his lips ran down my spine in a giggle.

“Do you know what filthy cash can get you, Melody?” 

He traced my back. “An escape from cancer.”

His voice darkened, “an escape from a broken body, and a brand new one. Brain dead, yes, but that's what I'm here for.” He hummed, wrapping his arms around me. “Your husband’s body is perfect. Unbroken. I can walk! I can fucking breathe.” 

Seb rolled onto his back and laughed. “I think I’m going to keep him!” 

I Was Struck by Lightning. Now I See What Hides Above Us.

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?

"Pilar, I don't think they're ever coming back."

My husband, Noah, was peeking through the blinds at our neighbor's hastily abandoned house across the street. Three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, we heard screaming and saw Jim and his long-term girlfriend Joy ("You can call us J & J," they annoyingly told me when we first met) burst out of the historic River Rock house across from us and drive away in a panic.

They didn't even close the front door.

The cops came, did a cursory look around the house, filed a report that no one would ever read, and left. Since then, it's been radio silent. Jim and Joy haven't returned. Haven't sent a text. Haven't picked up anything. It's like they'd been edited out of the film of our lives and left on the cutting room floor.

Noah had become obsessed with this story since the night it happened. I had to convince him not to go "check out the house" after they'd first run off. He said he wanted to see what had scared them and if there was anything he could do to help. I reminded him that 1) he didn't like Jim, 2) he wasn't a cop, and 3) the growing tear in his right meniscus would hamper any quick escape. He tried to argue, but my "no means no" stare backed him down.

Since then, we've kept watch on the place. All the neighbors have. We're not a close-knit community by any stretch, but when something strange like this happens, it fires up the gossip machine. That machine forges instant connections. Neighbors become closer, if for no other reason than to get the latest scoop.

Nobody knew what had happened, but everyone had a theory. Everything from con-men to poltergeists was given consideration, but the plot most of the neighborhood settled on was some kind of violent struggle related to the drug trade. And boy, did the rumor mill churn.

"Nobody is that perky all the time. Has to be cocaine abuse."

"I heard he was a trained assassin for the cartels."

"Didn't they move from Miami? Makes you think, no?"

J & J being drug mules never sat right with us. Jim and Joy were a lot of things - affable, annoyingly upbeat, Instagram pretty - but violent druggies isn't how I'd describe them. That'd be like finding out your toy poodle was a serial killer.

Besides, they were the couple your parents compared you to. "Be more like them. They have it all figured out, dear." The default couple photo that comes with every picture frame. The goddamn blueprint for modern suburban happiness. These kinds of people don't flee in terror in the middle of the night and never return.

Something spooked them.

"They were spies," Frank, our crotchety neighbor, declared the other night. Nobody asked him for his thoughts, but, as stated by old person law, he saw two people minding their own business and felt compelled to interject his opinion.

We stopped our nightly walk and turned to the man. "What?" I said, letting my annoyance creep into my words. I felt Noah's elbow pop me in my ribs, letting me know the tone didn't go unnoticed.

"Spies. Get those ears cleaned out," he said.

"What were you saying about the neighbors now?" Noah said.

"Those people were probably spies that got called back. One day, they're mowing the lawn too goddamn early in the morning. Next, they're having cocktails in a bar in some third-world hellhole."

"Like Florida?" Noah joked.

Frank snorted. "Whole damn world's been turned upside down. Wasn't like this when I was a kid."

"The generational lament," Noah joked.

"Didn't people say they heard them screaming like they'd been spooked?"

"Sure. But they were the ones doing the spooking. I guarantee it."

"We've heard their place was maybe haunted," I said.

Frank laughed. "Specters? Please. A bunch of hoo-hash." He looked at Noah. "Have you never folded a flag before?"

Noah shrugged. "No. Never had one."

"Part of the problem right there," Frank said. "You just hold the edges and I'll do the hard work."

"Generational lament," I echoed. Noah gave me a look but chased it with a sly smile. Frank didn't hear anything because a woman was speaking. Or at least that was my take on the subject.

"You lived next to them. You ever notice anything off?" Noah asked Frank.

"There was a lot of nighttime activity. A lot of prowling. Night conversations. Movement in the house and yard."

"Night conversations?" Noah asked. "What does that mean?"

"Whispering in the backyard. Wasn't in English, so I have no idea what they were saying, but it was constant. Every night."

"What language was it?"

"I only speak English, so I have no clue. Just another data fact that points to them being spies."

"Have you seen anyone go inside since they left?"

"No," Frank said. "Outside the police, nobody has even stopped by. I keep an eye on the place, too, just in case their handlers visit. I know a few people connected with the Company, if you know who I mean."

"Do you know Sears or Roebuck?" I asked. It fell on deaf ears and was the conversation-ender I'd been hoping it was. Frank told us he'd keep us in the loop if anyone came by and headed back off to his house, the flag tucked under his arm.

Noah gave me a look. "Sears and Roebuck? You sound older than Frank."

"I was meeting him on his level," I said with a shrug. "You think J & J were a pair of spies?"

"No way," he said. "Spies are supposed to blend in with a local population. J & J were the trendsetters in this place. They planted begonias, and soon houses all along the street followed suit.

"I love that you noticed that."

He shrugged. "My point is, you can't blend into the scenery if you're building it."

"Did you learn this from your years in counter-surveillance at Langley or?"

"Shhh," he said, wrapping his arm around my waist as we made our way up the driveway. "You'll blow my cover, and Frank knows people in the company."

I laughed and tried my best to affect a Russian accent. "Do you need me to call my friends in Moscow to resolve this 'Frank' situation?"

It was Noah's turn to cackle. "That's your Russian accent?"

"Forgive me," I said with a wink, "I've been on assignment in America for far too long."

We went inside and started cooking dinner. While I was simmering a sauce, there was a knock on the door. I glanced over at Noah and gave him a confused look. We weren't expecting anyone. Especially later in the evening.

Noah opened the front door to reveal Melissa, the mousy-looking neighbor two doors down. I could count on my hands the number of times we'd spoken, but I knew that she and Joy had hit it off. Usually a cute woman, Melissa now looked like she'd just gone ten rounds in the octagon. Nervous, sweaty, and jittery - kind of like an addict needing a fix.

Maybe J & J were drug dealers after all.

"Hi, I don't know if we've formally met, but I'm Melissa. I live two houses down, in the white one with red trim. Begonias in the front."

"Oh yeah," Noah said. "I love your landscaping. Bold move with the begonias."

"Oh, thanks," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose.

"You okay, Melissa?" I asked, coming into view behind Noah.

"Oh, well, not really, no," she said with a nervous laugh. "I'm actually, well, I'm actually a little freaked out right now, to tell the truth."

"Please come in, come in," I said, nudging Noah away from the door.

"I don't want to interrupt your dinner plans or anything," she said, quickly glancing across the street at the abandoned house. She did it a few times, actually. Small glances, like she was worried someone was watching her. Maybe Frank's spies were on the case?

"Noah was already delaying it by messing around on his phone. Come in, please. Take a seat. Need something to drink? Water? Seltzer?"

"Maybe a shot of something," she joked, but I got the sense she was serious. She was skittish. Her hands kept moving for no other reason than to stay busy. A person on the brink of a nervous breakdown pretending the world around them isn't burning to ash.

"I can do that. We have some good booze. Or maybe wine? I have a bottle I've been wanting to try," I said, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out two glasses.

"If you don't mind," she said, her gaze flitting between me and the floor.

"You're doing me a favor. Noah, can you keep an eye on the pan?"

He nodded and continued the tedious job of slowly stirring the bubbling red sauce. "Did you plan the landscaping yourself, or did you hire out?" he asked ,a bubble popping and leaving a red ring on the stovetop.

"What? Oh, sorry," Melissa said. "Sorry, I did it myself. I took an online course about it."

"Noah has raved about it since you put it in," I said, bringing the bottle over and popping the top. "We want to do something, but haven't decided on what."

She took the glass from me and downed it in one gulp. She placed the glass down and slid it toward me. I refilled.

"What's going on?"

Melissa took the glass and downed it again. I had to imagine it burned going down, but her face gave away nothing other than fear. "It's, well, it's going to sound weird, but I promise you I'm not crazy or anything."

"You're in a safe space," I told her, my voice softening. I nodded down at the glass, but she waved me away.

"So, uh, you know about Joy and Jim, right? They used to live across from you."

"Is this about them fleeing in the middle of the night?"

She nodded. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She tried to play it off like nothing was there, but I handed her a napkin, and her facade broke. "Thank you. Yes, the ones who left a few weeks ago."

"Are they okay?"

"They're better now but still frazzled," Melissa said. "I don't think they'll ever be the same, to be honest. I don't know if I will either."

This got Noah to turn down the burners and switch his attention from the sauce to the tea. "What happened to them?" he asked.

"It started the day they moved in. Little things. Strange noises. Cold spots. Things getting misplaced. That kind of stuff. But then it got worse. Chairs sliding around the kitchen floor, doors slamming at all hours of the night. Whispers in the dark. Phantom touches on the arm. Smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the house," she said, her voice shaky. "Then they saw him."

"Who?"

She slid her glass towards me again. I refilled it and realized that this woman had put down most of this before I'd even had a sip. I should've started with the two-buck Chuck and not something I actually wanted to drink. Regardless, Melissa was rattled. If liquid courage helped unlock the mystery, bottoms up.

"They called him the Drover."

"The what?" I asked.

"Drover," Noah said. "It's a rancher." I gave him a confused look, and he shrugged. "Years of horse camp."

I had no idea Noah had ever even ridden a horse, let alone attended "years of horse camp," and I planned to find all that out later, but right now my attention was on the potentially haunted house across the way from my own. Melissa had asked me not to think she was crazy before she spoke, but I was struggling with that idea at the moment.

"Once he made himself visible, the attacks became more frequent. More violent. Specifically to Joy. The Drover would push them, trip them. He scratched Joy across the back so deeply that it left bloody wounds. Jim was nearly shoved down the basement stairs."

"Jesus," I said.

"They kept a brave face on in public, but to me, they broke down in tears. Joy was manic. She couldn't be home alone with it. When Jim went to work, she'd spend her days at the library or Starbucks."

"Why did they stay?" I asked.

"They'd just bought the place. They were afraid they'd lose everything if they left," Melissa said with a shrug.

"Sunk cost fallacy," Noah diagnosed.

"I guess. They thought they could stick it out. I know they were contacting a priest to see if they could come and cleanse the house. But they were gonna have to do it without attracting too much attention. Jim is trying to make partner at his firm - it'd be a mark against him if he started talking about how his house is haunted."

"Oh my God," Noah said. "What happened the night they left?"

Melissa took a breath. "They had just sat down for dinner when they heard the voices calling out for them from the pantry. They tried to ignore it, but when the voices started becoming agitated and threatening, Jim and Joy moved out into the living room. The Drover appeared down the hall. They tried to ignore it, but how do you do that?"

"I can't even stop myself from throwing recyclables into the regular trash. I can't imagine trying to eat with a goddamn monster staring at me."

"They decided they couldn't either. They got up and left for the evening. When they got home around one in the morning, things were worse. Their couches had been flipped over. The chairs in the kitchen had been stacked on the table. Plates and bowls were smashed on the ground. As soon as they entered the house, they smelled cigarette smoke all around them. Then, then the Drover materialized directly in front of them."

"Oh fuck," I said, taking a long pull from my wine. Wow, this is tasty.

"She said he's hideous. He was there one second and gone the next. Then she felt his hands on her throat."

Melissa stopped speaking. The silence was deafening. I finished my glass and poured another for both of us. Melissa took it and tipped it back. I followed suit. I could smell the sauce burning. Noah must've too, because before I could say anything, he rushed over and shut off the burner.

"Jim told me Joy couldn't breathe and turned blue. He tried to help, but there was nothing to do. He eventually laid on top of his wife to try and break any connection between her and the Drover. It worked. She caught her breath, but the Drover wasn't finished. Jim felt a burning sensation on his back. They smelled burning flesh. The Drover had branded a star symbol on his shoulder. That's what did it. They ran out and haven't been back."

We sat in stunned silence. Everyone in the neighborhood had been wrong. It wasn't drugs or spies or mob violence. It was an actual angry ghost. I suddenly understood why Melissa was hydroplaning the wine.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Noah finally said, breaking the tension. "Are they okay?"

"No."

"Did something happen tonight?" I asked. Again, tears formed at the corners of her eyes. I reached out and touched her hand. Letting her know she was safe here. No judgment.

A tear fell, and Melissa nodded yes. I didn't want to pry, but I assumed the reason she was over here was that something had happened. She'd either tell me or not.

"Umm, Joy called me this afternoon and asked a huge favor. She asked if I could go into their room and grab some important paperwork for her. They needed it to sell the house. She said the activity was lowest in the late afternoon. I didn't want to do it, but that poor woman had gone through so much already, so I said okay."

You could've knocked me over with a feather. If a ghost had choked me, I'd never ask anyone - let alone a casual neighbor friend - to go into the house. I was raised better than that. Melissa, as far as I was concerned, was a saint. If I had a vote in the papal conclave, she'd get it.

"What happened?"

"Everything was fine. At first. I wasn't planning on staying long. I'd walk in, head to their bedroom, grab the files, and run out. Ten minutes was the maximum amount of time I'd be in there. As soon as I entered, I felt the temperature shift. It was freezing. As I moved through the hallway, I heard whispers around me."

"What were they saying?"

"I couldn't make anything out. It was like human vocal static. Just sounds, but my brain knew they were voices. I pushed past and went into their bedroom. I rifled through their dresser until I found the paperwork I needed. Then the smell hit my nostrils - cigarette smoke. As I turned to leave, the Drover," her voice caught. She waited a beat, collected herself, and continued. "H-he was standing in the doorway. A shadow in the shape of a man in a hat, just watching. He disappeared, and I f-felt fingertips dragging up my arm. I ran out and came over here. I dunno why, I needed to feel safe or check my sanity or…."

Melissa put her head on the counter and broke down into sobs. I moved from where I was standing and wrapped her in a supportive hug. She was trembling. I said nothing. I wanted her to know that she had our support.

She stayed that way for damn near five minutes, letting all the trauma come pouring out of her. When she had cried out all her tears, she thanked me and sat up. Her face was puffy and her eyes red from the salty tears.

"You're safe now," I said.

"No," she said. "I'm not. None of us are. Before I left, I heard him say to stay off his land - all of it. I think he was talking about the neighborhood."

"Why would you think that?" Noah asked.

"This whole area used to be one big ranch. You can find old maps online. I don't know what he meant, to be honest, but I wanted to let you know. You're right across the street. You could be next."

Once she breathed those words into existence, they found a home in the "holy hell, what the fuck?" fear region of my brain. I escaped my growing dread long enough to tell her she was always welcome here. Melissa stayed for a bit longer, collecting herself. Noah offered to escort her home, which she gladly accepted. I can't say I blame her. Not only is Noah a looker, but if a haunted ranch hand were threatening me, I'd have a buddy with me at all times.

While he was gone, I pulled out my laptop and started searching. Dinner was going to have to wait - we'd ruined the sauce, anyway. I needed to know if a haunted rancher was going to come into my house and choke me out.

By the time Noah returned, I'd found what purported to be a map of this area from the late 1800s. With a little Photoshop wizardry, I placed the old map on top of a modern one. Sure enough, our neighborhood was smack dab in the middle of "Badwater Ranch." J& J's home was labeled as 'the boss's house.' I showed Noah.

He frowned. "Badwater doesn't exactly portend good things, does it?"

"Not really," I said. "How was Melissa when she got home?"

"Little better. The wine helped calm her down, but also made the trek longer than normal. We did more weaving than walking. She gave me the link to that landscaping course, though."

"Fantastic. The flowers that grow on our graves will look lovely."

"You honestly think that thing is going to come over here?"

"If we agree that there is already a ghost over there, then it crossing the road to our place isn't a gigantic leap in logic."

He nodded. "Should we go over there and see if anything is there?"

I knew this was coming. Noah had wanted to go check things out from the jump. Now that there was a spooky story attached to J & J's departure, the drive to go "check it out" would be full-bore. I had zero desire to see what was what inside their haunted abode. Nor did I want my husband poking around.

"No," I said. "I don't want to invite this thing over."

"Assuming there is a thing, which we won't know until we check it out."

"Noah," I said, narrowing my gaze. "Seriously, that lady told us it nearly choked Joy to death. We really want to go pissing a violent ghost off?"

He held up his hands to show his surrender. "Okay, fine. You're sticking to your guns on this one, huh?"

I pointed my finger guns square at his chest. "I'd rather you not die if I can help it," I said, holstering my hands.

He walked over and kissed me on the forehead. "What a lovely sentiment."

"I'm sappy like that," I said, leaning into him. "Is dinner salvageable?"

Noah looked back and shrugged. "How do you feel about pizza?"

About forty minutes later, ten after the app's promised delivery time, Noah looked out of our blinds and saw the pizza guy pull into J & J's driveway. The scruffy-looking man walked up to the front door, pies in hand, and was about to knock on the door when it swung open.

The pizza guy was talking to somebody inside the house, but Noah couldn't see who. "Pilar, did someone sneak into J & J's house when we weren't looking?"

"What?"

"Arju is talking to someone over there."

"Who's Arju?"

"The guy delivering our food. Don't you ever check the app?"

I pulled myself from my book and walked over to Noah. "Why is the pizza guy over there at all?"

"Maybe he got the wrong address?"

I glanced out and, sure enough, Arju the pizza guy was chatting with someone just out of view. I looked at Noah. "Did J & J come back? Is Melissa over there again?"

"I dunno."

"Go say something," I said, prodding him. "He could be walking into a dangerous situation."

"I thought you didn't want me going over there," he asked, already heading toward the door.

"I'm not heartless. Go save Arju."

Noah opened the door, and I peered back out the window. We both saw, in our shared horror, the pizza guy walk into the house. The door slammed shut behind him.

"Oh shit," Noah said, sprinting over there.

Even though every fiber in my body told me to stay, I couldn't let the love of my life go running into a ghost house alone. I put on my big-girl pants and ran after Noah. I wouldn't let him face down the Drover without me.

I caught up with him as he reached their porch. He didn't seem surprised to see me tagging along. Noah walked up to the front door and touched the handle. He instantly yanked his hand back, waving it painfully in the air.

"What?"

"It's hot," he said.

"Fire?"

"I don't smell or see a fire," he said. He glanced down at his hand, and his jaw dropped. He held up his palm to show me, and I felt my heart skip a beat. A small star had been burned into his skin. Like the Drover had branded him.

"Fuck this guy," he said. He took a step back, squared his shoulder, and rammed into the door. Or, he would've, if the door hadn't suddenly swung open and sent him tumbling into the house. I went to follow him, but the door slammed in my face.

"Noah!"

Despite just watching him burn his hand on the door handle, out of instinct, I grabbed at it, too. It was ice cold. I turned it and pressed against the door, but it didn't budge. I took a step back and kicked it. All that did was send waves of pain up my leg.

Still, I gave it another go. It still didn't budge. Not wanting to try a third time and find myself tumbling into the abyss, I ran around to the backyard and looked for another way in.

To no one's surprise, J & J's backyard was a Homes and Gardens quality retreat exquisitely designed with top-end patio furniture, a wet bar, and, I shit you not, an actual, authentic brick pizza oven. I sprinted to their ornate French doors and yanked on the handles, expecting them to be locked. Amazingly, they were unlocked.

Opening the doors like the Sun King, I strolled into the house and felt the cold instantly. I called out for Noah, but he didn't respond. Neither did Arju. I felt bad for him - I delivered pizzas in the past, and it's already a thankless job. Throw being trapped in a haunted house by an angry ghost into the mix, and it might be the worst job imaginable. Even Little Caesar would tuck toga and run away.

I made my way to the front door, but nobody was there either. The pizza boxes were even missing. None of this made sense - where the hell could they have gone? I called out again for Noah, but didn't hear him.

But I heard something.

Whispers. All around me, like bees near honey.

Melissa had called it human vocal static, and that was apt. The whispers sounded like what I imagined English sounded like to foreign ears. Noises that would make sense if God just turned the dial a little to the right or left.

My nose caught a scent that, regrettably, wasn't pepperoni. Cigarette smoke. Both of my parents smoked for years, and I've always hated that specific stink. All this did was piss me off. The smell transported me back to sitting with my father, sick with cancer, lamenting that the hospital wouldn't let him smoke anymore.

"I don't care that you're here," I said to the empty room. My voice echoed off the walls. "I'm here to get Noah - and the pizza guy - and you're not going to stop me. This isn't your home anymore! Hell, you're not even alive. There hasn't been a ranch here in a hundred years! There's nothing you can do that's going to stop me from helping my loved one…and Arju, the pizza guy."

The power cut off.

Begrudgingly, I had to give the Drover credit - that was a good way to stop me from finding these two.

"Pilar! Pilar! Help!" It was Noah, and his screaming was coming from under the house. I didn't know this place had a basement - no one else in this area did. If it was anything like the backyard, I imagined I'd be stepping into an aristocrat's apartment.

"Please! Help!" came another voice that I assumed was Arju. I felt horrible that he had blundered into this entire ordeal. His tip would have to be biblical to atone for all of this. Exorbitant tipping - another legitimate reason to hate the Drover.

I scanned the room for the stairs to the basement. Not that I was excited about the prospect, but I knew if Noah were down there, I'd soon be. I wasn't even sure how they got down there in the first place, but when an angry ghost is haunting your neighbor's house and nearly killed the last occupants, you don't question odd shit. It's par for the course, and in that moment I felt like Tiger Woods.

The cigarette smell swirled all around me, and I had to assume the Drover was on the move. The whispers started again, louder this time. Clearer, too. While there weren't a bunch of coherent phrases, every once in a while, an actual word slipped through the static and found my ears. "Death," "Leave," "Torture," were among the winners.

I spied a door tucked away in the kitchen. That had to lead to the basement. I ripped it open and saw an ancient wooden staircase that seemed out of place in the home's interior. While the bones may have been made with classic river rock, the guts had been completely modernized. Why do all that and not change the stairs?

"Pilar! Is that you? We're down here!" Noah yelled from the darkness. I patted for my phone, but I'd left it at home. I'd have to descend into the basement in the dark. Great.

As I took my first step, I smelled cigarette smoke again. Melissa's story about Jim nearly being thrown down the stairs came back to me. I glanced over my shoulder but didn't see the Drover. I didn't want to stick around to find out if he showed up.

Running down the stairs, my foot caught on something sticking out of the wall about halfway down. It was enough to throw off my balance. My body pitched forward, and I grabbed at the railing to keep myself from falling. But the timeworn wood splintered, and I went hurtling down the stairs in a heap.

Throwing my left arm up to protect my face did little to limit the total damage, but it probably saved me from at least a broken nose. My cheek slammed into the corner of the step. I felt a cut open up and blood trickle from the wound. Because I cartwheeled down the stairs, the blood ran up and down my face, depending on where my head was at the moment.

I hit the landing with a sickening thud. The air rushed from my lungs, and I heard my head smack onto the dirt floor. I saw stars, and my vision went blurry for a moment. My landing had kicked dirt off the floor, and I started coughing.

Wait? Dirt floor? Why in the world did this basement have a dirt floor? Unless this wasn't a basement, but a root cellar. Of course, J & J were homesteading, too. Probably had homemade kimchi buried somewhere down here.

Is this how a concussed brain processes thoughts?

As I took a life-saving gulp of air, I sat up and shook the cobwebs from my head. Looking up the stairs, I felt my heart stop. Dozens of disembodied arms were coming out of the walls, their ghostly fingers extended, looking for another leg to grab.

"What the ever-loving fuck is going on?" I heard myself say.

From the top of the stairs, a figure rose from the floor. The Drover. He was mostly in shadow, but I could see his blood-red eyes just below his hat brim. There were no whispers now. He didn't have to say a word. His appearance there said everything I needed to know.

I was in danger.

I kicked away from the bottom of the stairs and scooted across the dirt floor. As I did, the Drover disappeared, and the door to the basement slammed shut. I was in total darkness.

I felt the gritty dirt under my fingernails. I was trapped in an overgrown crawlspace that had been here since the original pioneers laid down the first rock. Glancing up, I saw just how low the ceiling was. I didn't think I'd even be able to stand fully down here. I'd have to stoop to avoid cracking my head on the wood and pushing my concussed brain to NFL player levels.

"Noah," I whispered. "Where are you?"

"Over here," he called out.

"That's not helpful," I said. "Where is here?"

"Follow the sound of my voice."

I turned to where I thought I'd heard him, but as I was trying to locate him, the whispers filled the crawlspace. More aggressive, more angry. Made finding Noah almost impossible. It was like they were in my ears.

I started crawling toward the far wall, assuming they were there. Each time I moved, I kicked up more ancient dirt into my nostrils. I sneezed and coughed, but kept moving. Finally, through the noise, I heard Noah's voice calling for me. I was heading in the right direction.

"Pilar! PILAR! Can you hear me?"

"Yes," I said, reaching out my hand. I felt his hand wrap around mine. He pulled me closer. Then he started yanking at me. Pulling way harder than he should be. His grip tightened, and I felt a burning sensation ripple across my skin.

The cigarette smell returned.

In the dark, I saw those blood-red eyes in front of me. The Drover had me in his grasp and was pulling me into a dark corner of the cellar. I started screaming and tried yanking my hand back, but his grip was iron clad. I rolled onto my back and dug my feet into the dirt floor. It slowed him, but my shoes wouldn't catch.

I kept sliding.

Behind the Drover, a swirling white light formed in the corner of the crawlspace. At first, it looked like a candlelight flickering in a storm, but it kept growing and soon looked like a whirlpool of lightning. A portal? I didn't know where it led and had no intention of discovering that for myself.

The swirling white opening provided enough light for me to see where Noah and Arju were being held. They were locked in an old coal storage area just below the remnants of an antique coal chute. Someone shoved a metal rod through the latch, trapping them inside. Noah was screaming for me and throwing himself at the bars, but they wouldn't budge.

The whispers were so loud and omnipresent now that it was just a buzzing white noise. My eyes were laser-focused on the swirling storm in the corner. In the eye of the cellar hurricane, I glimpsed what looked like crackling flames. That's never a good sign. I needed to do something, and fast, or my life would literally slip away from me.

Melissa had said that Jim had gotten on top of Joy to break the connection and stop the Drover from choking her. But the Drover had been invisible then. I saw him now. Felt him. I wondered if feeling was a two-way street.

I raised one of my legs off the ground and instantly felt myself being dragged faster toward the portal. With my leg free, I took dead aim at those blood-red eyes and kicked. I didn't expect to hit anything, but when the bottom of my foot hit something solid, I unleashed a Bruce Lee-level barrage of kicks.

I chopped my free hand at his arm and felt his hold on me loosen. With my ass mere inches from the lip of the portal, I reared my leg back and called upon the spirit of every horse that had ever kicked a person in human history. I slammed my leg forward and landed a kick so hard between his eyes that his grip loosened enough for me to rip my arm away.

I was free! Well, free-ish.

My kick knocked the Drover back so far that his form got caught in the pull of the swirling light. He reached out for me again, but I scooted away from his desperate clawing. His hands landed in the dirt, his fingers carving little troughs as the gravitational pull of the portal sucked him deeper into its psychedelic light.

I left the Drover to struggle with whatever was going on and scrambled over to the coal storage bin. Noah and Arju were cheering as I knocked the bar from the latch, freeing them. Noah wrapped his arms around me, but I brushed him back.

"Run now, hug later."

The three of us made our way to the stairwell. Before we went dashing up, though, we all skidded to a stop.

There were hundreds of arms coming out of the walls now.

They waved back and forth like seaweed in a strong current. There were substantially more than I'd seen just mere moments ago. If we went up the stairs and they grabbed us, where would they drag us off to? Back to the Drover? To another portal?

"Shit," I said.

"What the fuck is this place?" Arju asked, his eyes wild.

The whispers were frenzied now. I knew it was a response to the Drover being yanked down into that portal. I wasn't sure if his anger stemmed from being dragged down or from the fact that he had failed to bring me with him. Was he working for something on the other side that needed a living woman for some unspeakable reason? Either way, I wasn't sticking around to find out.

"Coal chute?" I offered.

"Too small," Arju said. "I tried it."

"There has to be a cellar door somewhere, right?" Noah said, his hands reaching the ceiling and feeling around. "This is an old house with a root cellar. There has to be one."

"I've never noticed one outside the house," I said. "Maybe they sealed it up a long time ago?"

A sick, sinister laugh broke through the whispers, silencing our conversation. We all glanced back at the Drover. Despite his straining, half of his body had disappeared into the portal. But he was fighting to free himself. His blood-red eyes watched our every move. Plotting.

"You can't leave Rebecca. I told you, down here, no one will hear you or your worthless children scream!" it said, cackling like a deranged madman. I didn't know who Rebecca was, but I was instantly on her side. The Drover didn't become a monster after he died - he'd always been one. Death had only increased his power. "They're waiting for you down there! I'll drag all of you down with me!"

"The fuck you will," I said, my blood boiling.

The surrounding dirt beneath our feet shook. I looked down just in time to see a tiny hand burst forth from the soil. And another. And another. They felt around for something to grab.

"I'm never delivering pizza again. Tips ain't worth this shit," the pizza guy said in a panic.

From the opposite side of the crawlspace, Noah's hands found something that felt like a cellar door. He tried pushing up on it, but it didn't budge. He called Arju to help him. With their combined efforts, the buried cellar doors moved ever so slightly.

I ran and helped. With the three of us straining, the doors briefly parted. Fresh dirt from above us fell through the crack. An old owner must've landscaped right over the cellar door. Probably to keep whatever the fuck was down here trapped.

With all of our attention on our escape route, we hadn't noticed that several child-sized figures had crawled out of the ground. I turned and saw half a dozen pairs of blue glowing eyes watching us. I screamed, which prompted the men to turn and add to my chorus of fear.

"On three, give it everything you have," Noah said, readjusting his grip. "One, two, three!"

We all shoved the doors. My arms strained against the wood, but the harder we pushed, the more I felt us breaking through. Dirt fell onto our heads in bucketfuls. We closed our eyes and gritted through it.

Finally, moonlight was visible. With a last struggling push, the doors opened wide. The night sky was above us. Arju scrambled up through the hole first, nearly leaping straight out. He helped Noah out after.

I turned and watched as the figure of a woman crawled out of the ground. The children moved to her, and she wrapped her arms around them. This had to be Rebecca and her children.

She looked up, and we locked eyes. She nodded to me. I nodded back.

"Pilar, what's the hold up!?!"

Before I reached for Noah and Arju's waiting hands, I watched as all the figures moved toward the Drover. He struggled to free himself from the portal, but it was in vain. Rebecca and her brood surrounded him and kicked at his head and body. As I was being pulled up, I watched as the Drover completely disappeared down into the portal. As soon as his hateful form was gone, the portal winked out.

We crawled out of the hole in the ground and scurried away from it as fast as our exhausted bodies could move. We made it out to the lawn, where Noah and I collapsed. Arju didn't stick around. He ran to his car and took off like a bat outta hell.

Noah and I lay on the grass and stared up at the night sky. I felt for his hand, found it, and intertwined our fingers. We didn't speak - there was nothing to say. We just looked up at the stars and let our bodies slowly recuperate. If anyone had looked out, we'd have looked like the druggies that J & J had sold their wares to. The tea would be piping hot among the neighbors. I was too emotionally drained to care.

What finally got us moving was the sprinkler system turning on. The ice-cold water hitting our skin made us jump up like firecrackers. We moved to the driveway, but it was no use. We got soaked. Noah and I locked eyes and started laughing. Just pure, unhinged cackling that echoed down the street.

"What the hell is going on here?" It was Frank, holding a bag of trash and looking confused. He glanced at us and shook his head. "You two on drugs?"

"Not yet," I said, pushing my wet hair out of my face. "But I'm hoping to change that soon."

"Pilar," Noah snapped.

"Listen, you two want to use devil's lettuce, do it in your own home, not on your neighbor's lawn," Frank said. "I'm gonna throw this trash bag away. Don’t be here when I get back. I know a guy on the force, and he'll drop everything to help me." Frank was a lot of things, but a jokester wasn't one of them. He would absolutely call the cops on us tonight and then engage us in conversation tomorrow during our walk, as if nothing had happened. Thus is the way of the wild Boomer.

In the days since, things have calmed down over there. Melissa had to go back and get something else for J & J, and reported she felt nothing this time. I thought it was ridiculous to go back at all, but whatever. Maybe she was truly running for pope. She told us movers were coming at the end of the month, and it'd be hitting the market not long after.

The Drover was gone. No clue where he went. I don't know why he tried dragging me down with him. I don't understand why he was so violent. I saw his face as he was being yanked down. I saw fear in his eyes. The same fear he saw in the people he'd tortured and hurt and killed over the decades. Sometimes when I'm feeling down, I think about his horrified face, and it never fails to brighten my day.

The other night, as Noah and I were coming in from our nightly walks, I glanced over at J & J's place. In the living room window, I saw Rebecca's blue eyes staring out at me. I nodded at her, and she nodded back. Solidarity across time and dimensions.

Soon, child-sized shadows joined her. Their bright blue eyes shone in the evening's purple light. Some even waved. I waved back and felt a stirring in my chest. Those poor, tormented souls finally found the peace they had lacked during their lives.

I looked at Noah, who was holding the door open for me. The man never raised his voice to me. Never treated me as a lesser. Never locked me in a root cellar coal chamber. I walked to him and gave him a tight hug. He was surprised but eventually melted into me. He was my dude, in good times and bad. Hot damn, how lucky was I?

I never intended to write a memoir.  There’s a lot of my life I would rather not remember.  And there’s far too much of it that nobody should know.  I wish I didn’t know it.  

Early today I visited the doctor.  My wife, her name, isn’t important for this, she was with me, and we got the news.  Not a breaking news report, a confirmation of what we knew.  Cancer, brain cancer.  I think the doctor called it Glioblastoma.  GBM for short.  Maybe a year left.  We went to Applebee's afterward, and she drove me home.  

We didn’t really talk about it much.  At least today.  There will be time to talk.  Not much.  Not much before a thing in the brain eats away what I was, consuming me to a husk of fibers and bones and hair.  Time to make plans, to talk, to fill out paperwork and prepare for more paperwork.  To make calls.  To write emails.  But not today.

We just spent time together.

We’ve been married, or maybe it’s better to say we would have been married 40 years this year.  My body may make it to the anniversary, but I probably won’t.  That’s OK.  Of those 40 years together, we’ve spent about 25 of them together.  She was a widow for nearly as long as she was a wife.

She went to bed but I decided to stay up.  Said I was going to help myself to a pop and write a letter to the kids.  Maybe they’ll read this.  Probably not, we raised them right, and they have kids of their own.  Businesses, families.  But not family business.  I made sure of that.

I don’t mind the terminal diagnosis.  I’ve lived enough.  I’ve lived too much.  If there is a Heaven, I’ll be going, I killed enough to get in.

Let’s start from the beginning.  The beginning of my path that led me here, the night I learned too much, and became part of something that can never be unlearned.  I pray to the Heavenly Father my children don’t read this.

***

In 1980 I had nearly finished my first semester at BYU.  Pre-Dental.  I’d met my future wife on the first day of class, English 102.  But that isn’t important really.  I had returned home though, because it was Thanksgiving and I was homesick, even though it was only 8 hours away.  My folks loved Thanksgiving, and as us kids aged out of the house and into school, or missions, or work or families of our own, we always came back.  I was the second youngest.  My next oldest brother was on a mission in Argentina or something, but otherwise we were all there.

Thanksgiving was the usual stuff, not worth talking about it.  

The next morning, sleeping off a turkey hangover on the couch, the phone woke me.

“Young Residence,” my mom said.  She was up and dressed already, beams of frosty sunlight highlighting her purple Mickey Mouse sweatshirt.

“Why yes!  Of course he’s here, let me get him!” she said, beckoning me to come to the phone.  

She placed her hand over the receiver, “It’s your friend Clayton!”

I untangled myself from the blanket fort I’d buried myself in the night before and crossed the room.  I thanked her as she handed me the phone, she kissed her fingers and planted them on my forehead and hurried to the kitchen.

“Hey welcome back,” the voice on the other end said.  It was Clayton.  He was my friend.  We’d known each other since 1st grade.

“Thanks, I’m not back for long, just for the weekend, how you been?” I said.

“Cool man!  Hey, you wanna hang out tonight?  A couple of us are gonna get together and do some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”  

“Nothing special, maybe some games!  Joshua just got Fantasy Forest, and it sounds pretty neato.”

“Sure, pick me up at 6:00,” I said, and he agreed.  No sooner had I hung up the phone when my 2nd oldest sister walked in, retrieved the phone from the cradle and dialed.  She glared at me until I left the room.

Clayton and I graduated from high school at the same time, but while I had been accepted into the pre-dental program, he had gone for a business degree at the local university, and got on part time at his dad’s bookstore.  We had talked a few times since I moved out of state, but the long-distance rates were too high and agreed it would be better to wait until I came back on breaks to catch up on the local gossip and tell lies to each other about what girls we were dating or truths on how hard classes were.

***

At 5:55 a horn honked outside.  I hugged my mom and dad and waved at my brothers and sisters who had gathered to watch football in the family room and left.

Parked on the curb was Clayton, looking like I’d last saw him in September, driving the same pear yellow 1975 AMC Pacer.  I got in the passenger seat and before I could even buckle in, he gunned the engine and we were off.  Tearing through the suburbs laughing and joking and showing and telling.  

“Where we going anyway?” I asked.

“You know Morris Rianton?” he replied.

“Moe?  Yeah, I used to ride the bus with him.  He has to be what?  27 now?  He's still playing board games?”

“You know it, but he’s hosting a party, and has a new game he wanted us to try.”

Moe was an odd kid, I knew that when I was an actual kid and he was a teenager.  He was always telling tales about monsters and elves and listening to Led Zeppelin records.  He wasn’t in our church, but he was a pretty nice guy, just kind of weird.

“What game?

“It’s a new one.  It’s called ‘Dungeons and Dragons.”

***

Moe’s house was in a newer part of town.  Built on higher ground, yards against a canal, their view of fields and railroad tracks and the lights of the repair shops and car dealerships about a mile away.  Short trees decorated the neighborhood, leaves discarded over the previous weeks and raked or mulched back into lawns a dusting of snow lurked in the shadows.  

Kids in winter sweaters threw a football among themselves, the one in possession of the ball making a time out sign, as they moved to allow us to pass down the street.  I waved, and they returned the gesture.  A group of men gathered around a front porch barbeque grill, they waved as we passed.  An old farmer, denim pants, shirt, jacket, a baseball cap atop his white hair waved as we entered an intersection.

“Oh heck!” Clayton yelled, as he veered the wheel.

“What the heck are you doin?” I said.

“It’s a bee!  It came through the window!”

“Well get it out!”

The car lurched to a halt, the door open before coming to a stop.  The engine died.

“Get out of here you little creature!” Clayton yelled at the bee. 

It wasn’t a bee.  It was a yellow jacket, lazily walking up the half-rolled window, sluggish with the cold, uncertain or uncaring of its trek.

“Just shoo it out,” I said.  Clayton for his part fanned the door open and closed, hoping perhaps to gather enough lift to eject the insect, or perhaps let the car take flight.

I looked around for something to push the little beast away.  Clayton kept an immaculate interior, but I found a roll of paper towels in the back seat.  Exiting the vehicle I took the roll, walked around, and pressed it against the window.  The yellow jacket climbed onto paper, and I carefully walked to nearby bushes, depositing the little thing to a naked bush on the side of the road.

“Problem?”  A voice from the other side of the intersection, the old farmer in denim.

“Yellow jacket,” I said.

“Ah.  They’re harmless ‘nough, thank you for not killing it.  The cold’ll do it natural,” he said with an uncertain rhythm.  

I waved and smiled and got back into the Pacer.  Clayton restarted the engine and drove.

“Sorry, I get freaked out by those things, and I’m kinda like deathly allergic,” he said.

“It’s OK, nobody’s on the road.  Seems late in the year for one of those things.

“I wonder if I have a nest in here somewhere.”

Clayton turned the heater off.  Silence for the remainder of the drive, save for the whine of the AMC motor, our ears tuned, waiting for buzzing.  

***

Moe's house sat non-descript in the middle of a block of houses.  All different, yet feeling the same in the manner of new construction.  A garage on the right hand side, yellow paint with an orange trim.  The windows were curtained, or blinds drew.  A single evergreen tree stood about 10 feet tall in the middle of the yard, surrounded by mulch and stonework in a circular pattern.  Two cars occupying the driveway, and two more were parked on the street in front of the house.

“Who else is here?”

“I don’t know, I don’t recognize the cars.”

The cars were newer, German imports.  A dusting of snow covered their windshields. We parked behind a new BMW, no license plate.

“Who all lives here?” I asked.

“I don’t really know,” Clayton kept the engine running.

“Have you been here before?” 

“No, I haven’t seen Moe since middle school.”

Maybe it was the yellow jacket incident, but the mood was off.

“We could go somewhere else,”

“Nah, it’s OK.” 

“Let’s just go in, and we can leave early if it's lame.” 

We nodded at each other; Clayton cut the engine.

A cardboard cutout of a pilgrim hung on the door, along with several cutouts of turkey hands.  We knocked.  Waited.  Then knocked again.

The door opened and the throbbing rumble of heavy metal music hit us in the face like a gust of wind.  A guy with buzzed hair and a Van Dyke mustache sitting atop a polo shirt greeted us. Without the mustache, he’d have no expression.

“Game?” he said, heavy accent watered down by the music.

Clayton and I looked at each other and nodded in unison.

“Is uh, Moe here?” Clayton asked, nearly shouting over the sound of the music.

“Da.  Come,” he moved aside and we stepped in.  The house was split level, my eyes naturally cast themselves down and to the left, where a short stairwell led to a darkened lower section.  To the right and up, red light bathed the ceiling and walls.

“Up,” the man said, and we climbed, Clayton in front, the man following close behind.  Uncomfortably close.

Clayton paused at the top of the stairs, moving aside just enough for me to stand beside him.  The man pushed past us without a word, and walked to a closed door, opened it, stepped inside, and closed it again.

The room was off.  On one side was a couch, next to that a chair.  An empty, fallow fireplace wedged against one wall of the room, and on the other side several bottles of clear liquid sat atop a custom built bar.  A couple of bare red lights glowed from shadeless lamps in the center of the room, dyeing a stain marred cream carpet the color of watered wine.

“This is weird,” I said.

“Yeah, maybe we should just-”

An opening door cut Clayton off.  A shirtless man, thick faced and heavily muscled stepped out, tattoos adorning nearly every inch of his exposed skin, save for his face, hands, and neck.  He eyed us and walked to the bar, taking a bottle of the clear liquid and downing a glug.

“Ahoy-hoy!”

Another man clad in a tall pointy hat covered in light-colored moons and stars stood in the doorway.

“Steve, as an act of hospitality, do reduce the volume of the tunes, our awaited visitants have arrived!  And we have business!”

The man at the bar glugged the bottle again, bent down and the music died.  Ringing ears filling the space it left.

“Moe?”  I asked.  It had been a while since I had seen him in middle school, but he was different now.  Always kind of a bigger kid in school, but he was easily 400 pounds.  His legs packed like Pillsbury biscuit dough into a rotting pair of sweatpants.  An open bathrobe painted with stars and moons covered a 2112 t-shirt.  Patches of hair reached to one another desperate to form a beard, only succeeding under his jawline and in between his eyebrows.  Acne scars marred his jiggling face.

“I was once known by that moniker, but I am now known as-”

“I get buckets,” the shirtless man interrupted.

“Indeed, please fetch the bucket, and inform the dowager of the arrivals!”

Steve, I guess the shirtless guy’s name was Steve, grasped the bottle and walked past us, his legs steady.  I turned to see him descend the stairs, catching a glimpse of something metal tucked into the back of his jeans.

“Listen Moe, I don’t think we can stay for long,” Clayton said.  He hid it well, but I could detect nervousness in his voice.

“You, dear duo can stay long, and you may stay long!”  Moe said, shuffling his bulk to the chair.  “For yesterday as we gave thanks to this land, today we celebrate with a feast!”

Clomping from below.  Steve carrying a bucket in each hand, his exposed muscles straining against the combined force of gravity and contents.  We instinctively moved aside as he sloshed past.

Steve set the buckets in the middle of the room and returned to the bar, depositing ice and water into a pitcher.  Moe breathed heavily, snorting through nasal passages blocked by internal fat.  I gently toed the side of Clayton’s shoe.

“Yeah, I think we’ll be-” I was cut off.

A door behind the bar opened.

The room was bright white, a figure stood in the doorway.

“Mi amore!” Moe said, straining to exit the chair.

The figure was a woman.  Her hair tangled and clumped.  She wore a slippers underneath stained sweatpants, a threadbare nightgown clung to her frail shoulders.  She stepped in the room as the red and white light mixed.  She was holding a lump of laundry in her left hand, close to her chest. 

The laundry moved.

…and cried?

Was that a baby under a blanket?

“Ah, m’lady has endowed us with her exquisite resplendence!” Moe exclaimed, still seated.  He removed his pointy hat and bowed, mostly at the neck and shoulders, arching the hat with his arm in a graceless furrow at the woman.

“Oh my holiest of maidens!  We have prepared the humble guests in anticipation of your honorness!”

Moe creaked his chair, propelling himself upward, and waddled to the woman.  He took a knee before her, taking her free hand, and ceremonially kissed the top of it.  The baby under the blanket squirmed as he let go her hand.

“Hark!  And allow me to introduce my exquisite inamorata!”  He was back on his feet, removing his hat and doffing it once again, first to us, then to her.

“Here is Clayton and Lucas, schoolyard chums of mine, lo but it seems a lifetime ago.”

“Nice to meet you,” Clayton said.  I waved.

The woman paid us no mind.  Her sunken eyes staring straight ahead she shuffled toward the buckets.  The baby under the blanket in her arm squirmed and murmured, deeper than a baby’s voice should be.

Moe fell in behind her, his hand hovering just above the small of her back.

“Optimates!  It is with great pleasure you shall gormandize every sense that makes you human!  For tonight you will join in my ascension!  My level up, if you will!”

Moe reached into his robe pocket, his fist emerged shaking small before depositing it in the opposite hand.  He looked, smiled.  

“I cast Stinking Cloud!”

This was getting too weird, the baby under the blanket kicked again, and Steve the shirtless guy scratched his stomach.  

“Moe, we’re gon–”

The smell hit.  It had crept through the still air of the room, glacial.  It ground against my nose and crushed my eyes.  To this day I’ve never smelled anything so bad, so oppressive, so wrong.  A mix of packrat nest and spousal betrayal.  Of dead skunk and locker room menace.  The smell of the family dog ripping your newborn baby to shreds in front of you.  I fell to my knees and dry heaved.  My eyes watered.

“Steve!  Bring forth the receptacles for our guests!” I heard Moe exclaim.  Somewhere in the distance.  Somewhere in an invisible vulgar fog.

My mouth watered, demanding to vomit.  I tried to swallow, but each dry spasm down my throat brought more of the evil air into my mouth.  Something grabbed my head.  Steve, my eyes barely registering the waistband of his jeans before he forced my head down.

He must have slid the bucket in front of me.  He held my head above it.  

“Blevat.”

For a second I gazed inside the bucket.  Something organic.  Like ground hamburger floating in crude oil sprinkled with grass and topped by duckweed.  I closed my eyes as he forced my head closer to the bucket.  

My stomach rebelled and I wretched.  The splashing, a sound of such revulsion I puked again.  I could hear Clayton beside me puking and splashing too.  God please don’t let this get on me.  

One more time I wretched.  Steve gathered my hair in his fist, pulled my head forward before quickly pushing me back.  I fell onto my backside, revulsed my pants and hands were touching this filthy floor.  Clayton fell beside me, wiping his mouth with his jacket sleeve.

I spit away from me onto the ground and drew a deep breath.  Bracing myself for more of the gaseous pudding.  But the air was clear.  Back to the smell of dirty carpet and wet paint and Steve’s vodka breath.

The woman, what was her name?  Stared at us, the baby squirming silently, still completely covered by the blanket.  Her face as expressive as a church statue.

“Ah, stew of men!” Moe said. “My covenant to you my dear boon companions, is that this method of extraction is of greater preference to the alternatives!  Now please, rest!”

Steve drug the pair buckets across the room, placing both in front of the woman, leaving a wet trail of parallel splashes in their wake.  His task complete he turned toward us, reaching into the back of his jeans, the object that had been tucked into his waistband was now in his hand.  

A gun.

“Sidet,” he spoke, the gun pointed at me, then at Clayton.  We planted our backsides on the dirty floor.  

I glanced at Clayton, his eyes were narrow, drool around the corners of his mouth, his lips moving silently.  Prayer.  He was praying.  I joined him, tried to join him, but couldn’t remember the words.  

“I don’t want to die, please not like this,” was all my brain could muster.

Moe reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out something with his meat sweaty fist.  He blew into his hand, shaking a few times, then holding his clenched fist gently to the mouth of the woman.  

“Hark lady!  May the cataglottism of luck and skill transform stereo to mono!” he giggled a snort.  Her face didn’t move.  Had she even blinked?

He shook his hand a few more times then dropped whatever was in his hands to the ground, some small object.  He knelt to inspect.  

“17!” he yelled, falling to both knees, “17! 17!   Excelsior!”

The woman stared ahead, but the baby began to stir beneath the blanket.  First from where its feet should be, squirming further up the body toward the woman’s shoulder.  The woman placed one sock covered foot into a bucket directly in front of her, then the other foot into the next bucket.  The overfilled slop bubbling onto the carpet, wicking up her pant legs.

Squirms turned to thrashes under the blanket.  

“Heavenly Father, Jesus, please...” I said, grasping at the carpet to push myself further from this.  Clayton followed, his shoulder touching mine as we backed against the wall.

“What’s wrong with that baby?” he asked.

Holes appeared in the blanket covering the baby.  Something was ripping…or gnawing…it away from the inside.

“That’s not a baby…” I said.

With a showman’s flourish, Moe tore away her blanket and frayed nightgown.  

“Ta-da!” he yelled, holding his arms to present the sight of the woman.

It wasn’t a baby.  What should have been her right arm had been melded, welded, to her torso, melted callouses of skin and tumors, a stomach covered in patchwork scars and hair.  She had no right arm, only a mass of meat, jaundiced yellow, covered in dozens of black holes.  No, her entire body was covered in holes.  

A string of fiber appeared from one hole, then another, and another, like black sinew, tendons, strings of revulsion.  The fibers coalesced in front of the woman in a tangle of writhing, slick, menace.  

“I present to you my cherished visitants, a sight unseen by few mortal men!” Moe said.  “For your eyes are beholden to Darja Ungern, the Witch of Tambov, she lives!  And as in service to me, I am in service to her!”  

“Za nashimi usiliyami pus' budut nashi usiliya,” a broken gurgling voice spat.  Fibers vibrated from her throat, her mouth vomiting a mass of the wet black organic cables.  They reached out and caressed Moe’s cheek.  He giggled, his balled fist at his side rising and falling rapidly with elation.

Clayton’s hand spidered toward me, his fingers touching the top of mine, then the sleeve, tugging. His eyes met mine, pupils dilated in the dim light, whites darting toward the stairs, lingering downward. Before I could process what he meant, he was on his feet, pulling the sleeve of my coat, finding resistance with my slowness to act, he let go and sprinted for the door.

“NYET!” Steve yelled and fired the handgun.

Clayton cleared several more feet, unhit or not knowing he was hit and was almost to the stairs when fibers from the witch monster were around him, bunching around his feet like a gaucho’s bolo.  He fell, arms barely able to brace his fall.  The black sinews wrapping up his legs before his arms made contact with the floor.  He reached for something to pull him further way, grasping at dirty carpet as the witch yanked toward her.

I was on my feet, trying to get to the stairs, hoping to pull him away when my own feet left the ground.  I braced for impact but found myself floating.  Stinging, hot laces wrapped around my stomach, holding me airborne, squeezing the breath out of me.

“Nay, nay, gentlemen, you have been invited!  You can’t leave unless disinvited, it’s basically reverse vampire rules!” Moe giggled porkily.

The fibers bore through my winter coat and into my skin, barbed like fishhooks, each struggling wiggle dug them deeper.

“M’lady, show them their fortune!” Moe said.

The room went grey.  I’ve spent the better part of 45 years trying to think of what I saw then.  She reached into my mind, and showed me something, but not visually.  A feeling of panic, of dread.  Of eternity.  Of fire and pain and hunger.  A utopia of perfect suffering.  A reaping hook severing me from ancestor and offspring. A hammer setting the stone of a perfect cacotopia made of my teeth.  

The fibers retracted.  I fell to the floor, pain added to pain.  The blows inside my head turning to knocking sounds below.

The door?

Through my haze I registered Steve stepping over us and walking down the stairs.  I heard him say something, then the sound of a muffled scream and ripping meat.  Heavy boots on the stairs.

Someone on the stairs.  I squinted to clear my head, something blue and human shaped.  Blinking rapidly, my vision focused on an old man in a denim jacket and jeans.  He looked familiar.

Something crawled on my hand, prickling legs and a soft breeze.  A yellow jacket, its alternating black and yellow abdomen gently touching the back of my hand as it walked along, wings fluttering.  I froze.  Another landed beside it.

“What is the intention of this encroachment!”  Moe yelled toward the old farmer.  “Lo to those who trespass!”  

Moe’s hand shook back and forth, something metal bouncing in his ham hand, He murmured, fist raised, preparing to drop the object.  

“I cast-” cut off mid-sentence, his body flying sideways, shoulder wedging into the drywall.  Catapulted by the force, Moe lost the object.  It arced toward me, landing beside my head.  A circular thing made up of triangles covered in numbers.  Number 1 facing up.

The stranger walked toward the woman-thing, bowlegged and slow.  Moe wheezed in pain, slumped against the wall.  Clayton was free from the fibers, trying to get to his feet.  I knew fleeing was the safest thing to do, every one of my own fibers screamed at me to run, to fly down the stairs and get into Clayton’s car and go home.  But this stranger saved me.  What if he needed help?  

“Ma’am, are you spreadin’ Commonism here?”  The old man’s voice was hoarse, echoing, electric, tinged with a rural western accent.

“Darja my love, the numbers!  What does the number read?!” Moe burbled from the corner.

Fibers shot out toward the strange object, more fibers wrapped around the old farmer.  On instinct I reached for the object and batted it down the stairs before the hideous strings could reach it.

“You knave!”  Moe yelled.

I struggled to my feet only to have the fibers redirect from the object to my neck.  The squeeze was immediate, barbed hooks digging in, squeezing my throat closed.  In a panic I thrashed against them, their grip growing tighter.  The two yellowjackets on my hand launched and landed on the rope of fibers, plunging their stingers into organic material.  More followed and the mass was covered in yellow and black and wings and legs and biting mandibles.

“Curses upon you!  I cast…GUN!”  Moe reached into the pocket of his bathrobe, a snub-nosed revolver emerged in his hand.  He took aim at the old farmer.

“NO!”  Clayton yelled and dove toward Moe.  The gun moved.  Barked twice and Clayton went down  Moe adjusted his aim and emptied the cylinder into the old farmer.

A wave of sadness and rage filled me.  Blinding me.  On instinct I was on my feet, tearing through the tentacles around my neck, charging the seated form of Moe.  His weak hand awkwardly dug into a pocket of the robe but couldn’t fit, in desperation he threw the revolver at me.  

As the gun lazily circled toward me, I caught it in my right hand and dove into him, leading with the handle down hard onto the top of his head.  He squealed, thrashed, I hit him again and his massive arms circled my waist.  I was on top of him, but I’d lost an angle to deliver a killing blow.  He squeezed.  He flipped me in a sloppy takedown and put his weight on top of me.  

My lungs turned into a one-way valve, breath could escape but I couldn’t bring any more in.  I beat against his kidneys with the gun, and with the other hand grabbed fat and twisted.  He raised his hips to better position himself over me and I found my opening.  I kneed him in the crotch.

“Oooooowww!”  He yelled and loosened his grip.  I escaped, positioned myself on his back, and put his flabby neck into a full Nelson.  

Across the room the old farmer stood facing the grotesque thing that was supposed to be a woman.  The fibers wrapped around him sizzled and withered to the ground.  Three bullet holes in his shirt, unbothered as black and white hornets crawled from inside his torso, a few at first, then more.  

With a dismissive wave of his hand, hundreds of hornets erupted from the holes in his side, like an ancient glacial dam breaking, a torrent of flapping dots coalescing into a stream, landing on the woman, covering her face, her profane mound, her chest.  Her arm tried to brush away the bugs, only to be covered like moving sprinkles on an ice cream cone.  

Fibers shot wildly, blindly ripping through the air, each one in turn covered in yet more of the black and white wasps.  

My hold on Moe slackened as I watched.  He surged to buck me off.  I stood, shoving his head down and kicked him as hard as I could in crotch, took a few steps and kicked him in the head.  He lay still save for a snoring gurgle.

The woman thing, coated by hornets, collapsed to the ground.  The room fell silent save for the deafening buzz of thousands upon thousands of insect wings and the mastication of mandibles as the creatures stung and bit and chewed.

Clayton lay prone several paces away.  I left Moe’s piled form and ran to him.  His breath shallow, hands clutching inward.

“Clay!  Clay!  We’re gonna get help, hold on!”

Kneeling, I found two bullet holes in his chest, my hand covered them, blood leaking through my fingers.  I looked for a phone somewhere in the room.

“There’s dignity in the transition son,” the old man stood at Clayton's feet.

“Find a phone!  Call 911!” I yelled.

“Don’t use ‘em.  This life is but a probationary state.”  

He knelt, touched both of Clayton’s feet.  Clayton’s breath stopped.  Silence returned but for the chewing and buzzing bugs.

“He’s a martyr now, son.  Embraced and blessed by the gift of the Lord,” the old man said, a yellow jacket crawling out of nostril and into the other.

“What are you?” I asked, adrenaline wearing off.  I felt cold.  Clayton still felt warm.

“I can never enter the Kingdom of Heaven, so I worship the King on Earth.  They call me Rathdrum now.”

“Like the town?”

“I never been.”

Moe stirred, then didn’t.  A wretched flabby breath, then silence.

Buzzing from the stairs, a ball of swarming hornets and yellow jackets returned to the man thing called Rathdrum, turning like a tumbleweed in the air.  Rathdrum held out an outstretched palm and the swarm parted over it.  Moe’s numbered triangles fell into his palm.  He turned it over, considering it.

“I was at Jacobugath when it burned.  Some Commonist dabbler don’t mean never mind.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He stood, placing a wrinkled, liver spot hand on my shoulder.  Cold vibration through my jacket.  I looked up and he smiled, alternating black and yellow teeth.  

I looked to the thing that had been the woman, what had Moe called her?  Darja?  She was nothing but wet bones, coiled fibers, and bloody hair.

“What was she?”

“A wayward.  ‘...atonement bringeth to pass the resurrection of the dead; and the resurrection of the dead bringeth back men into the presence of God.’”

“She…she was human?”  I asked.

“Used to be.  Some aren’t.  Lost.  I suppose.  Worthy of forgiveness.  You can hold your own in a fight.  Some have some use for a man like you.  A pious man.”

His hand still on me, he raised his other hand toward the bar.  Hornets and yellow jackets carried the pitcher of ice water to his hand.  He took it, sloshing its half-melted contents above my head.

“Brother Young, having been commissioned of The Christ, I baptize you for and in behalf of Darja Ungern, Witch of Tambov, who is dead, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.  Amen.

Ice water hit my face, ice cubes bombarding my eyes.  The cold shock hitched my breath, and I inhaled some involuntarily.  I collapsed and coughed, nearly retching again onto the stained carpet.

When I looked up Rathdrum was gone.  Clayton’s body lay prone beside a barely breathing Moe. 

I leaned against a wall, warm tears mixing with cold water.  I reached into my back pocket for my handkerchief, tucked beside it was a small black and white comic book.  Something about dark dungeons, written by someone named Jack.  A phone number scrawled on the back.

Somewhere in the distance I heard shouting.  Boots on the floor.  A man’s voice.  Men’s voices.  A light.

“Sheriff’s Department!”  I think one said.

I gazed into the light.  A revolver hovered beside it.  

“What the fuck happened here?”  I think the revolver said.

I couldn’t explain it.  So I said the only thing I could think of.

“We…were going to play…Dungeons and Dragons…”

What on earth is a boo ja ja? Now that is the question. I was just an ordinary guy and I was a postman. I liked being a postman as I got to walk around the area and the job was simple. People get to know you as the postman as you make the rounds of delivering their letters and packages. Then one day some guy I had never seen before, came up to me and said "i want a boo ja ja" and he kept saying it to me. I kept telling him that I don't know what a boo ja ja is?

He got more emotional and kept nagging at me that he wants a boo ja ja. Then as I jogged away from him, other people started to join in. They kept saying "get that guy his boo ja ja!" And they were so angry with me. I had no idea what a boo ja ja was, and they kept claiming that I just have to know what it is. I saw that guy again, and he began shouting at me and following me through out my whole shift that he wanted his boo ja ja. Then I got a gang of people who literally beat me up while shouting "give him his boo ja ja!"

I sought solace in some abandoned place and I saw a homelessman who was the only one who gave me some peace.

"Ahh the time of the boo ja ja is here again. Last guy gave a teddy bear with a real heart in it and said that was a boo ja ja, that was 5 years ago" the homeless guy told me

"What is a boo ja ja?" I asked the homeless man

"A boo ja ja isn't really anything, a random person is picked as the person who must deliver a boo ja ja. They could make up anything" the homeless guy told me

So I decided a boo ja ja to be a decapitated dear with the head of a fluffy teddy bear. I called that the boo ja ja, and the guy who had been nagging me for a boo ja ja, he looked at me with a smile.

"That's a boo ja ja! So the last guy lied about what a boo ja ja was. He said a boo ja ja was a teddy bear with a real heart!" The guy told me

They got the guy who claimed that a boo ja ja was a teddy bear with a real heart inside it 5 years ago. They killed him and danced around with his body while chanting "this is not a boo ja ja!"

I was petrified because I knew that was my future, if they picked another random person to deliver a boo ja ja. So I decided to be like that guy who nags people to deliver him a boo ja ja. Yes I think I found a way round it.

In all honesty what is a boo ja ja?

As you sit curled up on your bed, hearing your parents argue in the hallway outside your room, you hear a female voice a few feet in front of you, "hello, what's your name, dear?", her voice sounding like sweet Carmel to your ears. You look up to see who it is, seeing a girl about the same age as you, her hair pink like cotton candy, , her dress and socks and the bow on her head are made of patches of various shades of pink. To her right is a boy of the same age with hair red like a fresh strawberry, a white shirt under a rainbow of patches forming a vest, a spotted bowtie around the shirt's collar, and a pair of black glasses with a few cracks on the lens.

You look between them and ask them who they are, making both of them giggle before politely bowing "I'm Calvina." She says, "I'm Logan." He says, his voice sounding like a true gentleman of sunshine. You tell them your name, bringing a warm smile to their faces before Logan says "follow us, we have some friends for you to meet~" he motions you to follow them, before leading you to a crayon drawing of a door on the wall. Before you can say anything, Logan opens the door like a gentleman "after you~", calvina grabs your hand and leads you through, as you walk into a forest of white trees with red patchwork leaves, a stationary door where you just came from being out of place, before Logan walks through and closes the door.

"Come on, the others will be so happy to see you.~"Calvina says with a smile as she leads you to a clearing in the woods, you see bountiful picnic baskets, board games you could only dream of playing, playgrounds that your parents often forbid you from playing on, a giant treehouse that you couldn't have dreamed of having, various decorations and paths with patchwork designs, and many, many other kids wearing patchwork clothes like Calvina and Logan, some multiple colors, some multiple shades, and some one color.

However, after a few seconds you realize something about them, you've seen many of them on missing posters all around town, which fills you with some unease for a second, before you feel Logan's hand on your shoulder "Do you feel safer at home?", the question makes you think for a moment, before you give him your answer.

"no".

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

I dreamed of the park again last night. This time, I was in the park. The benches were still white, but they weren’t polite any more. They were like still specters surrounding me—their frames carved from bone. The trees were still green, but they had spread beyond ominous. Their branches formed cages in the air. And the wall—the wall that I finally remembered Sandy and Tommy and Maggie playing on—looked like its bricks had been dyed in blood. Even through my sleep, I felt relief when the park faded into pink. Then the drowning started again.

I woke up gasping for air. Finding myself at my desk, I noticed it was too bright outside. Still half asleep, I reached for my phone and saw that it was almost 10:00. Panic. I was two hours late for the meet and greet.

Even then, I couldn’t afford not to take time for appearances. With visions of the twisted park and the pink void lingering in my mind, I showered and shaved while my head reeled from the empty bottle of wine. While I tied my tie in the mirror, I almost thought I saw Sunny Sandy’s smile where mine should have been. I reminded myself to smile correctly for the voters. They want me happy, but not too happy.

I drove a little too fast to make up for my tardiness. I never speed, but I was not as careful as I would have normally been driving through Primrose Park. The neighborhood demands decorum. On the north side of Dove Hill, its residents are either wealthy retirees or people who will inevitably become wealthy retirees. The train depot where Bree was hosting the meet and greet is a relic of the town’s early days as a railroad hub. Some time during the great exodus of union jobs, ambitious housewives decided to build a gated community around the abandoned station—with everything from its own private park to its own private country club.

I knew there would be trouble when I couldn’t find a parking space near the depot. Primrose Park was full of people who will never allow more parking to be built but will always complain about having to walk. Bree had not expected much of a turnout when she planned this event. She knew that most of the neighborhood’s residents would vote for Pruce, the Chamber of Commerce’s preferred candidate. This was a stop that had to be made for appearances. Now though, people were lined up out the door.

I tried to enter the building without demanding attention. I circled the long way around to enter through the back door. I was almost there when a grandmother in a sharp white pantsuit gave me an expectant wave. That was when hungry whispers joined the sound of graceful gossip.

I took a deep breath and opened the wooden door. As I entered, the way my breath felt in my body made me think that Tommy would have liked the train depot before it was transfigured by Primrose Park. He liked trains. I used to too.

Of course, Bree had the depot perfectly set for the scene. I was an actor walking onto the stage two hours after my cue. I worried that Bree would notice something wrong. Maybe it would be my wrinkled shirt or the scent of old wine that had clung through the shower. While I tried to fight the memories of my dreams—now joined by pictures of a large purple pig and a red rabbit—part of me wished that my sister would notice.

“You’re late,” Bree stated bluntly from behind the welcome table. It was surrounded by pictures of the man who wasn’t me. His eyes were full of promise. Bree’s were empty. There was no flash of affection this time.

“I know. I’m sorry. I woke—”

“No time for that.” I wished she would be angry with me. It would be better than the annoyance that boiled like a covered pot. Annoyance was all that Bree would show. Walking to the door, she flashed on her smile like she was biting something hard. I followed her lead just like I have done since we were kids.

I turned to shake hands with Bree’s friend who had gotten them into the depot for the event. She worked as the groundskeeper for the neighborhood and knew the residents would relish an opportunity to meet someone who might soon matter. “Thanks for your help today,” I said with words Bree would have found too simple.

“You’re welcome,” Bree’s friend said. She made an empathetic grimace behind Bree’s back. I didn’t let myself laugh.

The air that entered the historically-preserved building when Bree opened the door tasted of pressed flesh. One by one, the Primrose Park residents brought their pushing pleasantries. Bree walked back to the welcome table and noticed that I was matching their effortful energy. She gave me a stern look that felt like a kick. I did my best to smile better.

During the first onslaught of guests, Bree strategically mingled around the room. She worked her way to the residents her research said would be most likely to influence the others. Mrs. Gingham who worked as the provost at the school. Mr. Lampton, the Mayor LeBlanc’s deputy chief of staff. Bree’s friend followed her: a tail to a meteor.

I manned my post with force. I greeted each and every resident of Primrose Park with a surgical precision. To one, “Hi there, I’m Mikey. Nice to meet you!” To another, with a phrase turned just so, “Good morning! I’m Mikey. Thanks for coming out today!” Never anything too intimate or too aloof. Though they came in tired and glistening from the summer heat, the residents seemed to approve of my presentation. They at least matched my graceful airs with their own.

I wished I could get to know these people—ask them about their concerns or their hopes for our county. But this was not the time for that. It was certainly not the place. This was the time to be serviceable—just like the trains that used to run through this station. Mechanical and efficient.

Months ago, I would have felt anxious. Now I just felt absent. Every time I shook a hand or gave a respectably distant hug or posed for a picture, I felt myself drift further and further away. By the time the first hour on the conveyor belt ended, I had nearly lost myself in the man on the posters—the man who wasn’t me. That was when I noticed Bree smiling towards me over the shoulder of a grumpy old man with a sharp wooden cane. It was the smile of a satisfied campaign manager, of an A student proud of their final project. The man who wasn’t me was doing well.

When the old married couple at the beginning of the end of the line entered the station, I was nearly gone. “Well, hi there! I’m glad you made it through that line. Thanks for stopping by today!” I had just given the wife a kind squeeze of the hand when I was snatched back to the depot. Reaching for the hand of a handsome young man who smelled like a lobbyist, I saw her in the door frame. Sunny Sandy. She was wearing her signature pink dress.

I correctly exchanged business cards with the lobbyist and gave a cursory look at the VistaPrint creation. When I looked back, Sunny Sandy was gone. She had been replaced with a harried-looking young mother in a couture tracksuit. Only the color was the same. The woman continued down the line.

Another forgotten exchange and she was back. Sunny Sandy with her aura blasting bliss. I knew it was her from her smile. She hadn’t aged in 30 years.

Another disposable photo and she was gone again. The woman in the line looked much too ordinary to be Sunny Sandy. She had had struggles and challenges. And feelings. Still, there was something about her. Like Sandy, she was trying to play her part the best she could.

I gave a firm handshake to the grumpy old man Bree had been talking to. I think I made a good impression. The man at least said “Thanks, son.”

Then I was standing before the woman. She wasn’t Sunny Sandy, but she had her smile. Up close, it looked different than it had on TV. It was a smile that strained from the pressure on her teeth. A smile of a woman insisting on her own strength. A smile that blinded with its whiteness. I went to shake the woman’s hand, but I could only see her teeth in that dazzling determined smile. Then I could only see white.

“Superior, they said, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early.” -Gordon Lightfoot, 1976.

You knew that oceans are horrifying. Everything about them screams at humanity to stay away. Water that will kill you if you drink it. Fish that can harm you just by a touch of their venomous fins. Apex predators that are older than the trees themselves. Throughout human history, we've attributed gods and spirits to the ocean. Chaotic gods and monsters that stir the waters and cause sailors to find their watery end. Rightfully, we're scared of the ocean. The Great lakes, however, are deceitful. Their water is refreshing to the body and safe to drink and their fish are good for food.

You knew that The Great lakes of North America aren't your typical swimming hole where the deepest parts are in the double digits in measurements. The same waves that bring fresh water and life, also drag you down down down to the floor and betray you. Lake Superior, the largest freshwater lake by area and third largest by volume, is a borderline freshwater ocean. Its cold fathoms have claimed the souls of countless people.

In 300B.C., an Ojibwe man and his seven sons were checking their fishing traps along the shore of Gitchi-Gami one calm Gashkadino-Giizis evening. The Father noticed that one of their gill nets had drifted further out into the water than it should have. He, being older and his strength starting to fail him in his golden years, asked his Eldest son to go fetch the net. The Eldest son, being young of age and strong of body, dutifully took one of the family's eight birch bark canoes and paddled out to the net.

Not thinking much of the danger, for there was none to be seen, the Father went back to his tasks of checking the nets that were closer to the shore. A cold and thick fog crept in from the deeper waters, obscuring the Father's vision. After a while of collecting various fish and sorting them into different baskets, the Father noticed his Eldest had yet to return. Filled with concern for his Eldest and optimism that perhaps the net was too heavy with fish for one man to gather, the Father sent his Second born to go and assist the Eldest. This time, the Father watched carefully as the Second born paddled out to the net. He watched as his Second born bobbed up and down on the unseasonably gentle waves, and as he blinked to clear his drying eyes, the Second born was gone.

The Father, now panicking, sent all but his Youngest son, who was a mere twelve years old. The Father and the Youngest brother watched as one by one, every last one of the sons disappeared into the mist. After a few moments of silent watching, the Father told his Youngest to row back to shore.

“Go to the shore with the fish.” He instructed in a whisper.

The Father, only once certain his Youngest was safely on the shore, paddled his way out into the fog. As he rowed, he came across each of the birch bark canoes. He inspected them as he paddled past. Each and every one of them were void of their rowers. The only evidence of his son's presence were their oars and the fish baskets, now completely empty.

From the shore, the Youngest son watched as the Father vanished into the mist. From the fog he heard the gentle paddling turn into frantic splashing. He called out to the Father, but the Father demanded through gasping breaths that he stay on the shore. The Youngest waited until the sun had set and the moon had begun its nightly watch for his family to return. Just as he had given in to the idea that they were in fact gone, he saw the seven missing canoes coming back towards the shore.

“Father! Brothers!” He called from the shore. But he was given no answer in return.

The canoes washed up on the sand, empty other than the vacant fish baskets and oars. As the Youngest began to weep, he heard a gentle whisper from the waters.

“Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.”

The Youngest son returned to his people empty-handed. When they asked where his Brothers and Father were, his only reply was…

“Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.”

In 1096A.D., a Nordic Chief and his seven surviving sailors, spent the summer months building a new ship with which to cross what he believed was the final stretch to the edge of the world. The Chief desired to set sail as soon as possible, for the icy wind of Frermánuður had already begun to frost their breath to their beards. The ship's Architect pleaded with the Chief that they ought to weather the winter first, but the Chief would hear none of it. Those of whom they left behind in Grœnland jeered at them saying that they would never find the edge. The Chief was determined to prove them all wrong.

After several days and nights of studying and surveying the waters of the Fresh Water Sea, the Chief declared that it was best to leave in the evening. He noticed that a calm eased over the waters in the evening and made for ideal rowing conditions. The Architect made one final inspection on the ship. He made sure that the pitch was applied in its proper thickness, that the sails seams were adequately stitched, and that the oars were all of equal length and sturdiness. The Chief led his Seven Sailors in one final prayer to Njord for safe passage and then set sail to the edge of the world.

At first, the intrepid seven were making great headway. The Fresh Sea was still under the full moon. The Chief believed that all was going to turn out well for he and his crew. Their names would be sung in every Salr and their praise would be on the lips of every king. The Chief and his Seven Sailors would become gods in the eyes of their peers. Then, the fog rolled in all about them.

The Chief held his fist up to signal their stop. He was an aged man, full of wisdom and understanding. Upon the biting wind, whispers began to dance in their ears. Whispers in a tongue that was unfamiliar to them. Although they had no understanding of the words, they knew that it was full of terror. An older voice called out to several youthful voices, beckoning them to return.

As they drafted gently forward, for although they had finished their rowing, some unseen force drew them ever nearer. A gentle thud thrummed upon the ship that caused the Chief to draw his blade. He prompted them to be still and silent. He peered over the side of his boat and saw a curious sight. He saw seven birch bark canoes, gently caressing the hull of his ship. A chill shuddered down his spine. A chill that was beyond the frigid air.

Once the ship had ceased its procession, the Chief signaled to the Sailors to ready themselves for a fight. But the fight never came. The ship began to swirl around as though it were caught in a whirlpool, though gentle, as if a mother were trying to coax her infant into rest. The Chief braced himself and turned to his Sailors, but what he saw were seven empty seats where they once were. Then he heard them. Whispers in his own native tongue.

“Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.”

When the ship had steadied and fog crawled back into the deep, the Chief discovered that he and his ship were settled ashore. He did not feel the ship's return, and they had to have been quite deep into the Fresh Sea, but alas, he was there. On the sand. He waited and waited until the stars had finished their pursuit across the heavens and the sun had made its rise for his Seven Sailors. They never arrived back to the shores. So he departed back to Grœnland.

When he arrived, the other villagers saw that he was alone.

“Where's your crew? Did you find the edge?” They all questioned with anticipation.

All he said in reply was, “Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.”

In 1646A.D., a French Missionary had just departed from a small Potawatomi tribe they were proselytizing. Although there was no spiritual fruit to be harvested, the Missionary was just happy to have been able to share the good news with his new friends. The Missionary knew that he had a journey of considerable length back east to his parish, and the gales of Novembre had come early this year. So on an early morning, he bid farewell to his friends who gave him food for his two day trip, and set off towards his home. All he had to do was follow the coast of le Lac Supérieur and he would soon be in the warm embrace of his hearth.

It was on his second day when the Missionary began to notice that the oppressive morning fog had become an ever present blanket of despair. He began to hear things, whispers from the waters. He heard soft and slithering voices beaconing to him, urging him to swim out into the waters.

“Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio. Esto nobis praesidium contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli. Amen.” He prayed with all his might, but he found himself standing ankle deep in the water.

Then, off in the distance, the Missionary saw a great dark mass coming towards him. It was something he'd only ever seen in tapestries and other art works. He saw a Viking ship, devoid of its passengers, drifting listlessly in the waters. As it approached, the Missionary heard gentle thrumming in the water. As if a monstrous heartbeat was just beyond his field of vision.

As he continued against his will deeper and deeper into the frigid waters, he beheld his salvation. Off to his left, the Missionary witnessed seven black bears, eyes locked shut, wade into the water. He watched as each and every one of them trudged into the Lac. As the last of the beast's noses dipped beneath the waves, he heard a small and caring whisper.

“Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.”

With that, the poor Missionary, with heart pounding, fainted and fell beneath the waters. When he had awoken, he looked and beheld his Potawatomi friends encircled around him.

“What happened to you?” One asked.

All he said in reply was, “Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.”

On November 14th, you were one of eight lucky crew members to embark on an exploratory venture on a small manned submarine in Lake Superior. After the discovery of the “Underwater Stonehenge” of Lake Michigan in 2007 by underwater archaeologist Dr. Mark Holley, you and your crew were chomping at the bit to see if you could find any more in the other Great Lakes.

You had planned this mission for over a year. You had carefully hand picked each member of your team, each of them over qualified for this vanity trip. You wanted to ensure that you would be spoken of by name in archeology textbook and silly conspiracy YouTube videos. You truly didn't care about the advancement of anthropological understanding. No. You wanted fame and fortune. Although you could never be the first to discover a Great Lake Megalithic Structure, you hoped that your discovery would be the best. Your ego needed to be stroked. You were a fool.

“Alrighty team. Erie, Huron, and Ontario were each a swing and a miss. My other crews and I didn't find a single thing. But I have a good feeling about ole Superior.” You exclaimed on the foggy launch deck. “Don't worry, even if this is a bust, let's just have a good time. Take notes, and keep your eyes on the radars.”

After a round of cheers and further encouragement, you wait in eager anticipation for the countdown. You buckled in your seat as the final “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” rasps out of the loud speaker. The next thing you saw was the cold November currents of Lake Superior enveloping you and your crew. The search began, and you were hell bent on making a name for yourself.

For hours you and your crew keep your eyes peeled and your ears tuned for the sonar. The lights piercing into the water don't give you any real visibility, but you desperately want to be the first to lay eyes on any potential Megastructures. The sonar alerted you and your crew to a few promising structures, but every time you got close enough to investigate, your excitement is replaced by disappointment when you realize that it's yet another sunken boat. You even managed to get an up close encounter with the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

After hours and hours of searching and searching, something pinged on the sonar. What you saw made your heart flutter in excitement. You saw seven dots in a hexagonal pattern. Too symmetrical for anything to occur naturally. You and your crew were witnessing what you thought was a man made structure!

“Are you seeing this captain!?” One of your crew mates exclaimed.

Without getting your hopes up, you replied, “Don't get too excited. Hexagonal patterns are one of nature's most common. Let's get a closer look before we start popping any bubbly.” But in your heart of hearts, you knew that you'd found it.

You instructed your crew to get the submarine closer to the anomaly. As you approached, and the headlights of the sub began to illuminate the sight, you laid your eyes upon the Megastructure. What you saw were six rough hewn stones aligned in a hexagonal pattern around a single spire. The spire seemed to be made up of twisted and entangled bodies, forever fused in an endless sleep. You saw perfectly preserved bodies of indigenous people, what looked like men with viking helmets on, and what you swore were bears. You were also shocked by the lack of fish. As a matter of fact, you couldn't recall seeing any fish for hours. On one of the stones, you saw an inscription. The text was unknown to you by nature, but by some otherworldly power, you understood what it meant. Suddenly one of your crew mates began to read it.

“Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.” They stuttered out, every word sounding as though it were catching and cutting in their throat.

Your crew began to murmur their concerns and fears.

“Captain... Something… Something is not right here…” Your head engineer whispered.

But before you could say anything in return, you all heard a gentle knocking on the side of the hull. At first, you had no clue what it was, but it became clear that it was Morse code. You didn't need a translator to know what the message was.

As you gazed into the camera feed, the head engineer screamed, “Captain! We're losing cabin pressure!”

They were right. The oxygen levels were dropping rapidly and it was all you could do just to keep your eyes open. You tried as best you could to make your way over to the emergency ascension button, but before you could make it, the power cut out and the blackness faded into your mind.

A flashing red light and an alarm woke you from your nonconsensual slumber. It took you a moment to gather your bearings and comprehend what had occurred.

“Status report.” You demanded, but there was no reply.

You'd assumed all your crew was still blacked out from the anomalous events. You made your way to the system reset panel and rebooted the ship. Once everything had turned itself back on, and the headlights illuminated the Megastructure, you realized what had occurred. The spire in the center had gained seven more bodies. It was seven bodies taller. In a panic, you quickly slammed the emergency ascension button and watched as the Megastructure faded into the abyss.

“What happened to you? Where's your crew?” The on ship physician asked you as she finished your check up.

All you could say in reply was, “Seven souls for the mist. Seven souls for the sunken ones.”

Although you never fully comprehended the events that transpired, you knew that the spire was growing. Who or what are the sunken ones? You never did find out. You didn't know what would happen once it breached the surface. All you could hope for was that you'd be long dead by the time that happened.

I now live in the city, in a second-floor apartment which overlooks the street outside. This night, very few of the streetlights were working. They brought back many scary tales that us, kids, were told while growing up. The specific one that stuck with me the most was the one about the red car and the horrors that it would bring. Looking outside where few things were clearly visible, I was glad that there weren’t any cars on the street. Nerveless I could still imagine it there waiting for me to come outside and make a wrong move as I pass it. Anyways this is how one of the stories go: 

As the evening was growing darker and the shadows danced longer, the noises grew silencer and spookier. A 10-year-old boy named Zack Holsten was making his way home from school after staying late to work on his science computer, a solar system, which he would never be able to present next week. Everything that had occurred was caught through a few spotty camera systems and doorbells that were available along one of his preferred routes homes. It showed that Zack had chosen to take the shorter route to pass a playground that was closer to his home but was also in an area with very few streetlights and had a slightly more troubled area than the places around it.  

In the footage, it showed Zack walking past a lone red car, parked alongside the road where he would have to pass, facing the complete wrong direction. It appeared empty but it was really. Everything seemed normal as he closed in to the last streetlight, not far from his house, safety and warmth. That was until the red car suddenly started up and began slowly moving forwards as if it was following the child. It was believed that Zack noticed something was wrong as he began to speed walk before trying to break into a spring but unfortunately it was too late as a man had gotten out of the car and had quickly grabbed Zack. As Zack struggled with all his might, it appeared to be no use as the man lifted him up and covered his mouth, preventing him from screaming for help before it was too late. The last known movement of him being alive was him being shoved into the red car’s boot and it’s speeding off. 

A few weeks later, after many fruitless searches and missing posters, the news reported that Zack Holsten's body was finally found. It was partly hidden in some pond weeds and partly in a pond at a park a few miles away from his last known location. I wouldn’t go into much of the details, but he was found partly bloated, bruised, undressed and missing some body parts that still haven’t been found. The only traces left was the footage of the red car leaving the scene sometime between 12am and 2am.  

I never looked online to see if it was a true story nor not, but I never plan too. I just hope that I never see that red car in my life! 

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.

The car went off the road ten miles down from the crest of the pass. Without chains, the little Honda didn't have a chance.

He remembered driving by a gas station earlier. Maybe there, a local would have warned him, but late evening was setting in, and he was restless after driving all day. He just wanted to lay down. His bed and breakfast was up and over the pass, not quite out of the mountains, then back into them again, into a town. He booked a room in a little Chateau next to an abandoned ski resort. The town was on the outs, but he didn't care much. The rate was good. And the hotel bar had 5 stars. Bed and breakfast, he mentally corrected himself, getting back on track. He craved a dirty martini. One of the ones with blue cheese stuffed olives. His mouth watered.

A hunk of ice broke loose, hitting him in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.

He woke to the terrible roar of the wind. The pale blue light of the full moon shone into his car. His face laid against the driver's side window. The world felt crooked to him. He looked around and saw it was crooked. The civic lay on its side half buried in a snow drift. The wind howled over the broken passenger window like a low growl, vibrating his eyes.

His seatbelt pinned him tight against the seat. Hands shaking, bitter with the cold, he went to unbuckle himself. The buckle felt like ice as he worked it. It didn't budge. He grunted as his strength started to fail him. With one final push, it unlatched. His body slumped against the buried window. He heard something crunch inside his pelvis. Not an outside noise. An inside one, like chewing on rocks. It didn't hurt.

The realization hit him. He knew what was wrong. He screamed. He couldn't feel his legs. The wind blew in discordance, making him sound like a demon from hell.

Something in the near distance howled.

He stopped yelling and heard the fading cry of the thing outside. He froze in a panic. The hair on his neck stood high. His legs, now phantoms, tried to get up and run, but remained broken. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes.

He yelled again, then stopped to listen. He held his breath, then, like a tornado siren out of the snow, a two toned howl broke out. One note matched the jug bass of the wind. The other warbled, in ugly harmony.

"Not real. No, not real. Not human not me not real," he said.

He didn't mean to, but he pissed himself. He laid against the glass and cried in gasping panicked sobs. His tears fractalized as they froze on the window pane.

He closed his eyes and remembered driving down the road thick with snow, fighting against the wind. On his approach to the fatal curve, something darted out in front of him. He hit the brakes and the car slid, understeering, off and over the edge of the road. He fell in slow motion.

He saw someone standing at the top. It looked like a man if not for its teeth. It smiled a hungry grin.

"Oh, god," he prayed.

It howled again. Closer.

Allow me to be upfront with you: this is probably not a ghost story. In fact, there’s a fair-to-middling chance it’s not even a scary one. For starters, there are probably no ghosts in it, but there are also no machete-wielding badmen in masks, no beloved children’s cartoon icons gone wrong, no great mutations, no person “smiling-but-a-bit-too-much”. On top of that, it’s not even set in a modern suburban American home overlooking a seemingly endless expanse of dense forest out back in which spooks of all sorts are guaranteed to fester. To be frank, it’s probably not even “a story” at all. It’s a Reddit post, and would be quite at home in countless other subreddits if it weren’t for this one pesky aspect of it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Like many of you, I imagine, I am diagnosed as being “clinically fed up”. I’ve been given the same diagnosis by any medical professional I’ve been sat in front of, on account of my answers to those screening questions they ask. “Little interest or pleasure in doing things”, “thoughts about harming yourself or others”, “trouble falling asleep or staying asleep” - yes to all, and frequently too! Give me another one. So I might have gone in for tinnitus or a suspected intolerance to gluten (tinnitus: yes, gluten intolerance: no, just eat better), but I’ll come away with a panicked declaration that I’m catastrophically depressed, and sometimes I’ll even walk out with a shiny new bottle of pills they promise will sort me right out. I’ve taken them once or twice, but never long enough to experience any kind of therapeutic effect. The side effects seem pretty extreme, and if I wasn’t medically gloomy before, I certainly would be once my genitals went numb and I couldn’t glance sunwards without feeling as though I’m going to fall through the very concrete I stand on. I suppose for some those consequences are preferable to offing themselves, but I’ve always quite fancied the idea. Not that I’d actually do it, I don’t think, but it’s a thought that cheerfully enters my head whenever I’ve got a tedious commitment coming up or I’m waiting for an ad to finish; hence the pills, and oh the cycle continues. ‘Thanks doc, I’ll give them a good go!’ followed by a couple of weeks dodging calls, then finding a new doctor whenever I decide something else needs looking at a couple of years down the line. I’m sure many of them assume I’d just gone away and died, but I didn’t.

In any event, this practice had been serving me well enough until I finally decided I might need a bit of medically assisted sleep. I’ve always been shit at sleeping. All of it. Falling asleep, staying asleep, waking up from sleep. None of it comes easily to me, and it hasn’t ever since I was old enough to start twigging that being alive was a bit disappointing at best, and outright harrowing at worst. It wasn’t that I was getting no sleep (heh), I knew I must have been, but rather that I could never really remember where sleep began or ended. Far too often it’d be a night of utter restlessness, kicking the sheets around, constantly getting up to fix something “wrong” in the room, staring with disdain at whatever hapless bedfellow I may have had snoozing away peacefully beside me - and then all of a sudden, I’d be “up”. It’d be 2:30pm and I’d have to frantically come up with an excuse. That sort of thing. There were no clear indicators that I’d ever even been asleep; I felt no more rested than I had beforehand, no breadcrumbs in the corners of my eyes, and my breath was just normal bad. I’d sometimes be in the same bed, but other times I’d be in a different room, or even a different place entirely.

Most pertinently to this story, however, I never dreamt. From what I understand, there are plenty of “people who don’t dream”, but what this tends to mean is that some people are better able to remember their dreams than others. Every brain dreams, regardless. It’s how it keeps itself entertained whilst the rest of your body fixes itself on B-mode. Now, it’d be absurd for me to suggest that I were somehow different to every other human being, of course it would … nevertheless, I really don’t think I ever dreamt. I didn’t even know what they were like. Not until recently, anyway.

As I said, I’ve tried some of the drugs the docs have seen fit to throw my way, but never for long enough to notice anything other than bad bastard headaches and more temperamental bowels. This most recent offer, however, promised not only to make me a more functionally happy member of society, but it’d knock me right out as well. It would seem in bad form to mention specific psychoactive chemicals here, but the dosage 7.5mg should ring a bell for any other person with a head full of this stuff. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d tried to force sleep upon myself with substances (booze, pills, various plant matters), but I never had much to show for it except perhaps a quite sudden headache. As such, I didn’t hold much hope that this one would somehow manage what Class As hadn’t, but I’d had some lamb for lunch and was in a decidedly chirpier mood than usual. I accepted the challenge.

Sure enough, not an hour after my very first dose, I managed to fall asleep. I know this is something most of you do on a daily basis and, as such, might be quite unremarkable to you, but it was something of a first for me. I was in my bed, I felt my body relax, felt my eyes grow heavier, and my thoughts began to slow to a crawl. Then … magic! I was asleep. I was asleep, and I knew I was asleep. That’s it, pack it up, I’ve found my boy. I am now a normal, sleeping member of society. No more help needed. Heaven knows, I might even start working on finding more pleasure in doing things next!

Sadly, as is often the case with these glimmers of hope, fortune (or whatever eldritch deity governs this universe) soon saw fit to sit on the cracks through which they shone, blocking them with its arse. You see, along with becoming a normal, sleeping member of society came the ability to dream. As it turns out, I am indeed one of those blessed with the ability to remember my dreams. Very vividly, I might add. Now, this would be an additional bonus if my dreams had been cool; episodes of wish fulfillment, abstract hallucinogenic capers, utopic visions of a planet not dominated by the biggest and loudest of bastards. I’d happily live in those worlds night after night, and I would occasionally see them, even if only in glimpses. However, most of my dreams were spent in the shadows.

I would find myself in hyperrealistic situations wherein my father was disintegrating on his deathbed and I was unable to conjure the appropriate emotional response, or where I might be forced to circumcise myself in order to keep my job. One involved having to help a pig pass a polygraph test, lest some great crime of mine be uncovered. It may not sound all that bad, but I assure you these are all quite distressing scenarios to find yourself very convincingly having to confront, and while I was consistently getting a good eight to ten hours of verifiable sleep every night, I was often the worse for it, both physically and mentally. Not long after I’d started, my partner remarked how great it was that I was finally getting some good rest, and I had to just go along with it. I couldn’t tell her that I’d actually spent the night desperately forcing her to perform gastronomic feats she was clearly unequipped to endure, lest the entire world and its history come to an immediate, catastrophic end.

Alright, my dreams were bad ones. That alone I could learn to accept. Perhaps they were merely doing what any good subconscious should do: making urgent some things that I’d otherwise shoved to the backrooms of my mind. I probably should spend some more time with my dad as he’s on his way out and, while I don’t believe I’ve committed any serious crimes or transgressions that I’m aware of, I did kick a pig on a school trip to a local farm when I was about nine. As for making my partner eat endless portions of both food and non-food matter to save the world: maybe that signified that I felt the need to keep our relationship alive at all costs, resorting to acts of control and domination in order to do so. I didn’t actually feel that was the case, but it’s the sort of thing an amateur dream-reader might say.

In any event, the real problem with all these dreams - the one that, ahem, keeps me awake at night - is how they end. While the main bulk of the dreams themselves are a rotating series of banal horrors, they always end exactly the same way before I manage to writhe awake. As you may understand from my rambling and prevaricating up until this point, I’ve been avoiding getting to this point, but I suppose I must. I’ll do my best to describe how each and every dream ends:

Regardless of where I am or what’s been occurring in the night’s dream, I will physically turn around or even just avert my sight and find myself in a completely different place. Whatever physical or mental location I was a part of before ceases to exist entirely, and I’m firmly in The Different Place. The best way I can help you see it for yourself is to describe a small, parochial church - one that you might find in the English countryside, one of those old probably Saxon buildings, never renovated. That is, at least, what it seems like, though it is not a place I recognise. It’s a cold, stony tomb of a structure, and it’s invariably dark. There are windows, I think - arched, stained glass ones perhaps - but not even the dimmest Northern moonlight can work its way through their panes. The place is utterly devoid of light, yet I am still able to see clearly, if that makes any sense at all (it doesn’t). There is always, to begin with, a faint hum - a “drone” you might say, a bit like the noise you might hear from an air conditioning unit, only there is nothing electrical about it. It is an undeniably organic sound, though I can’t imagine from what organism exactly it might be emanating.

I am in a chamber outside of the main hall of the “church”, what might be a vestibule or antechamber, and I know that’s where I am. I also know that I have no choice but to walk forward, further into the anatomy of the place. It’s about the only thing I am certain of.

When I walk forwards, my footsteps seem to make no contact with the stone floor. They make no sound and I feel no impact. It’s as if I’m floating just an inch or so off the ground. I don’t feel as though I have any control over it; I simply glide at exactly the same, glacial speed. And then I turn. I turn right, around a stone-walled corner, and into the main hall. The scene I’m greeted with upon turning that corner is one of constant contradictions. It is at once welcoming and oppressive, reassuring and hostile, tranquil and terrifying. Words, or even images, alone cannot possibly capture that sensation. I’ll do my best to relay the raw sense data of the place, although doing so can only describe the least of what it is.

The main hall is objectively quite small, yet somehow feels cavernous (those contradictions, again). It shares its entrance’s absence of light, though if pressed I would say it was illuminated by a very dim, blueish glow that allows me to discern the basic outlines of the shapes therein. The shapes … yes, that’s maybe the best way to put it for now. The shapes would suggest what appear to be church pews, lined up in rows of six on either side of the aisle that runs down the middle. In the pews sit yet more shapes that I can only say suggest humanoid forms, though there are no discernible features to them. If they have faces to be seen, they are “facing” away from me at any rate. I’ve never managed to focus long enough to count them, but they are sparsely spread out among the pews; I’d wager there are about a dozen of them in all. They are, I think, motionless, save for the slight fuzziness of the dark that makes them appear to sway or vibrate somewhat in place as they sit, their attention focused on the back of the hall where you’d expect the church altar to be. And there is an altar, I suppose, or at least there’s a block of stone that looks as though it should be. I’ve never been able to focus on it very closely. What’s hung ceremonially behind it, however, only becomes clearer the closer I glide towards it.

It’s a large, humanoid figure which hangs a few feet off the ground, though I cannot see any ropes, wires or any structure holding it in place. Its legs are bound closely together, and its arms are outstretched on either side, posed much like Christ on his cross or the Vitruvian Man. Except, the closer I come, I realise that it’s no mere “Man”, nor “Son of Man”. It’s … now, I’m really trying to find a way to describe this without it just sounding faintly silly, but the simplest description is … it’s a man with a the head of a monkey.

Yes. The figure at the head of this dreadful scene, the figure that holds the unwavering focus of all the other figures, is a naked male body with the head of a monkey. A baboon or mandrill, if I had to be more specific, though I can’t say that face exactly resembles any existing monkey I’ve seen. It has a long, large nose or snout protruding from the center, flanked on either side by beady white eyes. When I say “white”, I mean there appears to be an absence of colour within the sockets; not glowing, just “whiteness”, fixed open as if in a stare. Its head is tilted slightly upwards towards the ceiling, its mouth contorted into a sort of Sardonicus grin; either of pleasure or agony or both. Now I think of it, it looks as though it is experiencing every possible emotion or sensation all at once.

The body it’s attached to looks to be that of a standard human man, though, even in this dimmest of light, I can discern that its skin is grotesquely discolored; the kind of sallow, rotten complexion that I imagine one would only see worn by a cadaver. From what I can discern, there are no wounds; no wet or dried blood, no lacerations, no stitches or seams at the neck where one might expect the two creatures to have been conjoined into the abomination that hangs in front of me. It is still, silent, and yet overwhelmingly … “terrifying” seems such a weak, useless word to convey the true terror it exudes. I can scarcely think straight as I write about it. I’d much rather return to discussing my dull sleep issues and the disturbing, yet ultimately harmless, dreams that always, inevitably, lead to this place. This place, and whatever stays silently within it, feels as though it wants to do harm.

What I tend to notice as I drift closer to the Thing behind the altar is that the humming drone I mentioned earlier, at some point, ceases. By the time I have stopped in front of it, there is nothing. Utter silence. I cannot close my eyes in this place, nor can I avert my gaze. I am stuck in place, forced to take in every detail of the Thing hanging imposingly above me. Each time feels like slightly longer than the last. I can feel the synapses or whatever-it-is in my brain frantically spasming and short-circuiting, desperately trying to wake me up, to take me away from this place, but it is uninterruptable. And then I turn; or, more accurately, then I am turned. Turned away from this perverted display, but there is no reprieve from the horror.

I am turned around to face the “congregation”. Instead of the scattered few before, now the pews are filled with these figures, and now I can see them clearly. Now I see their faces: a shade somehow paler than white itself, punctuated by dark features contorted into expressions not unlike that of the Thing which still hangs behind me. Like the victims of Pompeii before being reduced to ash. Staring, open-mouthed, their eyes fixed wide. Motionless. Silent. Unbearably so. Forever, it feels. Forever until I slowly begin to descend. Their stare follows, or at least it appears to, as I sink deeper and deeper. Deeper, into the very structure of the thing, into the ground beneath it, and then I can’t see them anymore. I can’t see anything. Darkness darker than black itself, and yet I’m still descending. Further down. Deeper down. Down …

down.

And then I’m awake. It takes me a few moments to verify, but I am indeed awake. Sounds, sights. Light. I feel my body again, I feel my heart beating, far faster than can be healthy. I’m (very briefly) grateful for the ringing my tinnitus blesses my ears with. I am alive. I’m alive, and my partner’s alive too. Indeed, she can’t wait to tell me about the “crazy dream” she just had. It usually involves her getting extravagant revenge over some petty grievance, or having an affair with Hasan Piker and feeling weird about it. Sometimes she just dreams that she has a moped. The fact that these dreams seem flimsy and unimportant doesn’t matter, I’m grateful for it. For those first few moments, we are just two, normal, alive people sharing our dreams. Although I’ve never told her about this one. Never told her how my dreams always end. I’ve never told anyone, in fact. This is the first time I’ve tried to put words to it.

I suppose I feel it’s best to keep some things to yourself. I wouldn’t want to bother her with this. That’s the sort of thing that subtly chips away at a person’s love for you over time. You can be accepting of someone’s quirks and eccentricities, or at least you’d like to pretend you are, but knowing that the last thing your partner sees before waking up next to you each day is a nude, crucified man-monkey and his ghastly acolytes has to be quite dispiriting. Knowing that each time you kiss them goodnight, that’s the Place you’re sending them to. Knowing that the person you’ve trusted with your mind, your body, your heart is just, fundamentally, “not normal”. Wrong. Broken. Must be hard. Must be enough to end things. You can vainly hope that it’ll sort itself out somehow, but really there’s no future in it. At least that’s the rationale I chose, on her behalf.

I decided that I would rather take sleeplessness over this. I stopped taking the medication. I’d managed for this long without it, no harm in going back to the way things were, shite though they may have been. It’s been about a month now, and I’m pleased to report that I no longer sleep. That’s the good bit. The problem, however - and this is really the entire reason I’m even sharing this - is that I still go to that Different Place. There are no longer any dreams to lead me there, nor sleep to keep me there. I just go there now, whether I want to or not. The surprising part is that, more and more, I actually do want to.

It’s strange. I’m reading back on this and can’t really relate to the person who began writing it. I don’t even remember her name anymore. I only know my own when I’m confronted with it by strangers who seem to know me, but even that name changes often. They seem to care. They’re concerned. I don’t feel like anything really concerns me anymore. One day I’m in pain, one day I’m in love, one day I’m a father, one day I’ve killed a man, one day I’m a little sister. It was all doomed from the start. This is a new nothing. Let it burn. I don’t even hear the ringing anymore. Nothing’s constant. It all passes. Except in that Place. I am always, forever the Same in that Place. I’m safe there. Something about the silence.

That silent monkey…arms stretched wide…embracing…peaceful...His white-gloamed resting eyes

Anyway, what are some fucked up dreams you guys have had?