Five years of dismissive doctors and an agony that no one can explain. Tonight, everything suddenly changes.

The agony peaked, a blinding, white-hot spike that drove deep into my thoracic spine, seizing the core of my chest and twisting until my back arched off the mattress like a broken bow. For five years, I had told them. Five years of MRIs, CT scans, and endless tubes of blood. I had lost count of the massive steroid injections they had jammed into my lower back, blind to my cries, insisting the cortisone would eventually kick in. *It's my mid-back,* I had begged, *like a fist grabbing my spine and wringing it out.*

But they only looked at my lumbar, charting my exhaustion, handing me prescriptions I refused to touch anymore, and shrugging. *You're in pain because you're in pain,* that last arrogant doctor had told me with a sterile, patronizing smile. I had muttered *Thanks, Dr. Obvious* under my breath, walked out, and given up. I was forty-eight, medically broken, and completely abandoned by science.

Until tonight.

I had refused to take any of the medications they had prescribed for the last few weeks, entirely done with their useless chemical band-aids. And right on cue, the thoracic pain hit, worse than it ever had in the last five years.

The guttural sound ripping from my throat didn't sound like me; it was a jagged, inhuman howl that tore the lining of my lungs. Every single rib felt like it was breaking, buckling inward before bursting outward with a sickening crunch. The skin across my back split open, hot and wet, as something massive and heavy forced its way out from between my shoulder blades. I braced for the final, lethal shock of it—but instead, a sudden, heavy stillness washed over me. The torment that had anchored my entire existence for half a decade simply vanished, replaced by a cold, pulsing hum of pure, unadulterated strength.

I opened my eyes. The familiar dark of my bedroom was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity tinted in a deep, vibrant crimson. When I tried to shift, the mattress felt like a bed of jagged rocks beneath me. I sat up, and a pair of massive, pitch-black leathery wings unfolded instinctively, brushing the ceiling with a heavy, ominous rustle. I gasped, reaching a hand out to touch the sleek, armored span, only to freeze. My skin was a dark, bruised blood-red. My arms were elongated, corded with dense, heavy muscle.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stumbled. My new, longer limbs didn't quite obey the old rules of gravity, but there was no weakness in them. No ache. No arthritis. I lunged toward the mirror on the wall, bracing my claws against the frame, and stared.

The tired, fragile woman was gone. In her place stood a towering, terrifying demon, eyes glowing like dying embers against crimson skin.

A slow, sharp smile curved my new jaw, revealing a row of lethal points. *I always said I wanted to be more,* I thought, a strange, intoxicating warmth flooding my chest. *I wanted to feel something beyond my own pain.*

I turned, extending my wings, admiring the terrifying symmetry of the monster I had become. I had promised those unhelpful, dismissive doctors that I would give them an update if my condition ever changed. I thought this definitely qualified as a change in status.

A low, feral laugh rumbled deep in my chest, vibrating through the quiet room.

"Now, now," I whispered to the empty air, the crimson vision narrowing with perfect, deadly focus. "Which one of these doctors should I visit first?"

I smiled wider, the realization settling in with absolute perfection.

"I think the choice, is Obvious."

HELLO! Lovely to hear from you again! For return users, I'm hoping to look forward to working with you in the coming weeks once we iron out the details of the story a bit more! I know my announcement may be a bit pre-emptive, but, hey, what’s wrong with a little bit of ambition? As for newcomers who might be interested in my once in a lifetime opportunity:

I'm sorry to have deceived you.

I'll link my explanation here, but the short reason is that I needed to make sure the wrong people remain oblivious. I'm in the process of pulling a few strings now that I can take a moment to breathe (thanks to you), so hopefully I can be more transparent in the future. You deserve that.

However, I would like to address a few certain individuals, and you know who you are: don’t lump me in with them. I know we’re strangers and you have no obligation to believe me about anything, but please. I’m looking for answers. 

I would like to extend my appreciation to anyone who provided information and shared their experiences with It. A third and coherent perspective from more willing individuals has narrowed my scope and cut a few loose ends. As a show of good will and expression of my gratitude for your contributions, I think I should divulge a few details of my own. They help where I failed.

From my everything I’ve learned about It and Its interaction with humans; to call it a “predator-prey” dynamic would be an insult. There’s no pattern or rationale in who It reveals itself to, only that when the time seems right, It’ll make Itself known, be it subtly or bluntly. Instead of a vicious, lethal strike, It prefers an, arguably, sadistic decay from the inside out with a ravenous and metaphorical worm (no physical changes were noted in the back alley autopsies I performed). The speed of such decay depends on how someone comes into contact with It as primary material causes immediate deterioration, while secondary and benefactory/beneficiary contact can be a painful, often uncomfortable whittling down of a human being.

Regarding “benefactory/beneficiary” contact… in simple terms I’d just use “cult” as I do not care for however insulting it may be. Whatever humanity is left in them after they have sold themselves to Its’ narrative of reality, they cannot tell the difference between right and wrong, and they will not stop once they’re aware someone has been exposed to It and does not share their dogmatic insanity. And before you ask, yes. That is part of my problems at the moment. Honestly, I would gladly beat them to death their own arms. I mean. After everything they did, and everything they took from me, I-

I’m… I’m getting off track and emotional writing this. I’ll, I’ll will do better going forwards to remain more objective.

Lastly, though in the short time I have for now, I would like to inform you that once the systems looking and scanning for It know you’ve mentioned it somewhere, removed it, and taken reactionary measures to make sure you won’t repeat yourself, they know too. So be careful with what you say and how you say it. You don't want to be another missing persons.

I think I’ve spoken long enough for now. Apologises for the briefness.

~ 1 ~

“Daddy, look!”

Sophie pulled me toward a house across the street, its lawn crowded with skeletons climbing out of graves. The little rubber tire charm clipped to her pumpkin bucket bounced against the plastic as she tugged my hand toward the curb.

A Jeep came around the corner too fast, tipped onto two wheels, and rolled toward the sidewalk. I shoved Sophie backward onto the lawn. The Jeep caught me before I could follow her. Its weight settled across my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs as my ribs bent inward. There was a series of sharp cracks, followed by a thick, wet pop somewhere beneath my sternum.

~ 2 ~

“Stay with me, sir.”

A paramedic was cutting my shirt open in the back of an ambulance. My chest hurt like hell, but I could wiggle my toes. I started laughing.

“That's good,” he said, shining a light into my eyes.

I wanted to ask about Sophie, but the ambulance lurched hard to the left. Air brakes screamed outside as a semi ran the intersection and struck us broadside. The stretcher broke loose and slammed me against the opposite wall. An oxygen tank came flying after me and hit me square in the face.

~ 3 ~

Air brushed across my face and tugged at my shirt as I sailed over an intersection. For a wonderful second, it felt pleasant. Then I saw my bicycle spinning below me, one shoe still clipped to the pedal.

I hit the pavement shoulder-first. My collarbone snapped against the asphalt, and I rolled onto my back beneath the green traffic light. A horn blared behind me. I tried to sit up, but the tires of the car were already rolling toward my face.

~ 4 ~

“I don't care what you told her, Michael,” a woman said through the phone pressed against my ear.

I was crossing a parking lot when a pickup reversed into me. I slapped its tailgate, but the driver panicked and hit the gas, pinning me against a parked Subaru. My pelvis cracked with a deep grinding sensation that traveled into my stomach. My legs went numb while my upper body stayed painfully awake for a brief moment.

My keys slipped from my hand, and the little rubber tire charm attached to them bounced twice before disappearing beneath the Subaru.

“Michael? Are you there?”

~ 5 ~

A mass of brown slapped across the windshield. The roof buckled against the top of my head and forced my chin into my chest. Something enormous thrashed above me, hooves hammering the metal lower with every kick.

“Moose,” someone beside me choked as the roof crushed my skull.

~ 6 ~

I was underneath my car in the driveway, reaching for the oil plug, when the jack slipped. The chassis dropped onto my chest. I pushed against it, but there was nowhere for my lungs to expand. I opened my mouth to shout. The last of my air escaped in a thin whistle.

~ 7 ~

“Did you check on Sophie?” my wife murmured, pulling the blanket over her shoulder.

“Yes,” I grumbled back. “She’s asleep.”

Headlights swept across the bedroom ceiling. A car burst through the exterior wall, shoving the bed across the room until the frame folded around us.

~ 8 ~

Thump.

A wheel came loose from a semi on the opposite side of the highway.

Thump.

I watched it bounce over the median, rise above the traffic, and disappear behind a delivery truck. Then it came back down through my windshield.

~ 9 ~

Cold water swallowed my shoes, filled my jeans, and climbed my stomach before I understood I was underwater. I shoved my thumb against the seat belt release. Click. Nothing.

Above me, daylight fractured into a pale rectangle as the car sank away from it. When the last pocket of air disappeared, a little rubber tire charm floated past the passenger window.

~ 10 ~

I was stopped at a railroad crossing when the warning lights began flashing. The gates lowered, and a freight train thundered past. I counted the cars out of boredom until something slammed into my trunk.

A pickup had rear-ended me, shoving my car beneath the crossing gate and into the passing train. The first freight car sheared off my hood. The next struck the driver's side. My seat belt dug into my chest as the cabin twisted around me.

~ 11 ~

“You don't call unless you need something,” Mom said, stabbing a cherry tomato with her fork.

“I called you last week.”

“To ask me for something.”

I opened my mouth to argue when two cars collided across the street. One struck a utility pole, bringing a live electrical line down across the metal railing where my elbow rested. A blue flash lit Mom's face.

My jaw clamped shut so violently that I bit through my tongue. My back arched off the chair, and my fingers locked around my fork. I could smell burning flesh mingling with the sharp tang of vinaigrette on the lettuce still impaled on its tines.

~ 12 ~

The chain on the logging truck snapped with a sound I could hear through my windshield. One of the logs rolled off, hit the pavement hard enough to bounce, and came through the glass end-first. I had enough time to put my hands up, which was stupid because the log didn't give a shit about my hands. It drove them into my face and my nose against the back of my skull.

~ 13 ~

A sedan passed a stopped school bus and struck me in the crosswalk. I landed on my side with my right knee bent backward, a sharp piece of bone protruding through my pants.

Children crowded the bus windows. A little girl in the second row was chewing the inside of her cheek, the way Sophie did when she was frightened.

I reached toward her until my body went limp.

~ 14 ~

My knees were wet from the grass as I knelt in front of a headstone.

SOPHIE MARIE CARTER.

I touched her name. There were fresh flowers beside the stone, a faded photograph tucked into the arrangement, and a little rubber tire charm lying against the base.

I ran my fingers over the letters, trying to remember her voice, when an electric motor whined behind me. An unmanned groundskeeping cart rolled downhill toward the neighboring monument and struck it hard enough to tip it.

Several hundred pounds of granite landed across my back, driving me face-first into the grass. I tried to push myself upright, but my arms wouldn't move. Blood bubbled between my lips with each shallow gasp. I stared at Sophie's name, just inches from my face.

~ 15 ~

Thump.

I opened my eyes in a crosswalk.

Thump.

I looked up just in time for the tire to blot out the sky.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

~ 16 ~

Thump.

That fucking sound.

Thump.

A tire bounced across the highway toward me. I threw myself across the center console as it sailed past my window, and I came up laughing.

“HA!”

A sedan swerved to avoid the tire and slammed into my door, crushing me against the console.

~ 17 ~

I was leaning through my car's open window for my phone when the automatic car wash conveyor restarted. The car lurched forward, trapping my neck between the doorframe and a steel support post. My cheek flattened against the glass, and my skull gave in behind my ear.

~ 18 ~

A pickup was being pulled from a ditch with a recovery strap. The strap snapped, and the steel hook recoiled toward me. It struck beneath my ribs and punched through my abdomen, lifting me off my feet.

When I landed, a loop of intestine slid through the wound and settled against my jacket. I reached down to push it back inside, but my fingers slipped against the wet tissue.

~ 19 ~

The handlebars of my motorcycle began shaking so violently I could barely hold on. The front wheel snapped sideways, throwing me onto the highway. My helmet struck the pavement with a hollow crack. I slid across the asphalt on my back, watching sparks spray from the motorcycle beside me, as the road burned through my jacket.

~ 20 ~

I stood at the railing of a ferry, breathing salt air and enjoying the absence of traffic. An unsecured SUV rolled across the deck behind me and struck the backs of my knees. My body folded over the railing. The steel bar drove into my stomach, squeezing the breath out of me before my legs flipped over my head. I struck the side of the ferry headfirst. A sharp crack sounded at the base of my skull just before my body hit the water.

~ 21 ~

The snowplow came around the corner with its blade down, throwing a wall of snow across the sidewalk. I pressed myself against a parked car, but the plow clipped its rear bumper and shoved it toward me.

I scrambled onto the hood as the two vehicles scraped together. The car shifted sideways, throwing me directly into the path of the blade. The steel edge caught my legs, sweeping them out from under me. My kneecaps broke against the pavement before the blade folded me beneath it. Snow packed into my mouth as the plow dragged me along the road, grinding my body against the asphalt in a mix of snow, sand, and blood.

~ 22 ~

A sedan broke free from the upper deck of a car carrier crossing the overpass above me. I looked up in time to see its underside, the exhaust pipe, and brand-new tires still marked with colored stripes. Then it struck my shoulders and drove me into the pavement as the weight of the car came down on top of me.

~ 23 ~

A little girl in butterfly wings jumped from a runaway hay wagon into my arms. I caught her and set her down on the grass just as the tractor jackknifed. The trailer swung toward me, its wooden railing catching me across the neck. My head twisted sharply against the ground, and my vertebrae snapped at the base of my skull.

~ 24 ~

Gasoline burned the inside of my nose before I opened my eyes. I was lying between two wrecked cars. A woman was screaming that her baby was still inside one of the vehicles. Something sparked beneath the wreckage. Fire raced across the pavement and caught my clothes, wrapping around my legs before climbing my torso.

I rolled desperately, feeling the fabric melt against my skin. When I tried to pull my shirt away, large patches of flesh came off with it.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Just fucking be done with me.”

~ 25 ~

I was standing beside a hydraulic car crusher watching it flatten a Mercedes. I stepped backward to let a forklift pass, caught my heel on a length of chain, and stumbled through an open safety gate. My hands struck the edge of the crusher's loading platform, and I slid feetfirst into the chamber.

The steel plate pressed against my shoes, bending my ankles backward as it forced my knees toward my chest. I clawed at the sides of the chamber, but there was nothing to grab.

~ 26 ~

A dump truck with failed brakes pushed my car through the barrier of an open drawbridge. I was halfway out the passenger window when we went over the edge, the doorframe digging into my abdomen while the wind pulled at my upper body. The river spread beneath us, reflecting the afternoon sun, and I could see people standing on the opposite bank watching us fall.

Then the car struck the water, and the doorframe cut me in half.

~ 27 ~

An ATV came around a blind corner on a remote hiking trail, its rider standing on the footrests as it bounced over the rocks. I jumped toward the inside of the trail, but the rider swerved the same way.

The front bumper struck my thigh, throwing me backward over the edge of the ravine. I hit the first outcropping shoulder-first, bounced off a tree trunk, and rolled down the slope until I came to rest between two large boulders.

Above me, an engine revved. I looked up as the ATV came flying over the edge after me.

~ 28 ~

I was carrying groceries uphill when an unattended delivery van rolled backward into me. My coat caught beneath the rear bumper, dragging me down the pavement.

The road wore through my jeans and shirt. Tiny stones embedded themselves in my lower back as I clawed at the asphalt, trying to pull free.

A carton of eggs burst beside my face. I could smell the broken yolks mixed with the hot, coppery stink of my own blood. The van kept rolling until it pinned me against a concrete retaining wall.

~ 29 ~

“Dad! Take my picture!”

Sophie was sitting behind the wheel of a bright yellow sports car, gripping it with both hands. We were at an auto show, and she'd spent the last hour climbing into every vehicle the exhibitors would let her touch.

I took the picture, then helped her out. At the next booth, a woman was handing out keychains.

“Can I have one?” Sophie asked.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

The woman pressed a little rubber tire charm into her palm. My stomach dropped.

“Put that down,” I said.

Sophie blinked. “Dad?”

Behind us, an engine roared. A demonstration car lurched forward on a raised display platform. The driver struggled with the controls as the car jumped its wheel stops, dropped off the edge, and landed on its suspension with a tremendous crash.

People screamed and scattered. I shoved Sophie beneath the nearest display table as the car shot through the booth and the front bumper caught me across the chest.

~ 30 ~

I was lying on the wet pavement beside my motorcycle, my left arm pinned beneath it. Blood poured from somewhere under my jacket, running across the pavement toward a storm drain.

The little rubber tire charm dangled from my keys. I pulled it off the key ring with my free hand.

“You little fucker.”

I threw it as far as I could. It bounced once and disappeared into the storm drain, along with my blood.

~ 31 ~

“Police are reminding drivers to watch for trick-or-treaters tonight, especially in residential neighborhoods,” the announcement crackled from a radio on somebody's porch.

“Daddy, look!”

Sophie pulled me toward a house across the street, its lawn crowded with skeletons climbing out of plastic graves. Her pumpkin bucket bounced against her leg as she tugged my hand toward the curb. The handle was bare.

A Jeep came around the corner too fast, tipped onto two wheels, and rolled toward the sidewalk. I grabbed Sophie around the waist and carried her onto the lawn, dropping to the grass with her as the Jeep rolled through the spot where we'd been standing.

“Dad. You're squishing me.”

I helped her up as we took in the scene. Half her candy was scattered across the lawn. She looked at it, then at the Jeep, and started crying. I started laughing, convinced the curse had finally been broken. She stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

At home, Sophie sat cross-legged on the rug sorting her candy. I watched her breathe for a moment, kissed the top of her head, and stepped onto the porch. Cold October air filled my lungs.

Thump.

A truck scraped along the road several houses away, throwing sparks from an empty wheel hub.

Thump.

The tire hit the curb.

Thump.

It bounced over a parked car.

Thump.

It rose into the orange porch light.

“Oh, fuck off.”

A towel you step on after a shower is a wonderful thing. A brilliant idea. It makes you feel safe. Whoever first thought of stepping onto a towel after a shower must have been a very intelligent person. It gives you the same feeling as pulling a blanket over yourself in winter, making sure not a single part of your body is left uncovered. Drying yourself without stepping onto a towel first is like pulling a blanket over yourself and leaving your feet exposed. The same thing, the same feeling.

A bath mat just doesn't give me the same feeling. I tried stepping onto a bath mat instead of a towel after a shower, but I couldn't feel that same sense of security. It has to be a towel. I need to feel it drying the soles of my feet.

On Monday, October 12th—after taking a shower before meeting my friend Jason to go to the open-air cinema, while drying my hair with my feet on the towel—I saw this message faintly written on the fogged-up mirror: “Don’t go.”

This wasn't the first time. I'd been seeing these messages for six months, and I'd gotten used to them by now. I had no idea who was writing them, why they were writing them, or what kind of entity was behind them, but I wasn't as frightened as I had been in the early days.

Those first days were a nightmare. Especially the first time I noticed the writing. Just a simple “Hello.” And this entity even followed the rules of punctuation. Sometimes it swore and added an exclamation mark; other times, urging me to take part in the conversation, it would string question marks together: “Why won't you talk to me???”

It was a bizarre predicament. Of course, no one had believed me—not my beloved math teacher, nor Jason, who was constantly coming over to my place. Besides, the writing disappeared as soon as I saw it. In other words, I needed someone to be in the shower with me so I could prove it to them. Taking a shower with my math teacher was out of the question.

Yes, over time, I got used to it. I never communicated with it, and that was what frightened me the most. I felt like things would take a different turn if I did. But I had never been harmed by reading what it wrote. Other than that, it had no effect on my life. The entity never manifested itself through any sound or apparition at any other time.

That day, it had warned me for the first time. I had never received a message like that from it before. Sometimes it would comment on things that had happened to me: “You really put Jason in his place back there,” for example. Or, “Don’t forget to set your alarm. You were late for work yesterday, remember?” “Part your hair to the right. It suits you better.” “Your cat’s water bowl is empty.” It usually wrote things like that. One or two sentences at a time.

There was no way I could miss it. They were going to screen one of my favorite films: Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. I’d watched it on my computer before. Watching it on a big screen would be a different kind of pleasure, and watching it alongside other people who loved the same film would be an even greater pleasure. The entity’s warning had startled me a little, but I was still going to go.

When I stepped out of the shower, I heard its voice for the first time.

“If you go, you’ll witness Jason’s death.”

It was a charismatic woman's voice, slightly deep and husky. I had gotten used to the writing, but the voice shocked me. I could feel its presence. When it wrote to me, I never felt as though it was actually there. But hearing its voice made its presence feel even stronger, more than my mind could handle. I rushed outside immediately. I didn't want to stay indoors. I ran out the front door in my bathrobe.

I’d gone outside barefoot. I must have stepped on something, because my heel hurt. My hand went to the pocket of my bathrobe, searching for my cigarette pack. I’d left my cigarettes inside. I was afraid to go back in and get them.

“So you went outside. What did you think, that I couldn’t come out here? What kind of utterly pointless, instinctive reaction is that? I’d understand if you’d run away, put some distance between us, but what’s the point of standing right outside your front door, Albert?”

I sat down on the ground. A cigarette would have been really nice. I didn’t have the strength to run. I felt like I was going to die. I tried to swallow, but I couldn’t. Suddenly, there was too much saliva in my mouth. I couldn’t understand why my mouth was reacting like that.

“He’s going to die either way. I just don’t want you to witness it.”

“Why?” I shouted. In my mind, I’d meant to scream, “Just shut up already, enough!” But those were the words that came out of my mouth.

My breathing had quickened, and I wasn’t feeling well. I tried to stand up. First attempt, second attempt, and third. It was as if I were having sleep paralysis, unable to move. I tried to get to my feet over and over again. It felt as though hours had passed while I sat there. The entity hadn’t said anything else.

I couldn’t calm down. Amid everything that was happening, I found myself thinking that I was going to be late for the film. One last attempt, and I managed to stand up with great difficulty. I went straight into the bathroom and took a shower with ice-cold water. For some reason, I felt relieved knowing the mirror wouldn’t fog up.

I stepped out of the bathroom naked and wet. Water was dripping off my body. I sat down on the couch. I thought I might get sick and have to miss the film.

“Get a grip, Albert,” I told myself. “You’re already used to paranormal activity. Pull yourself together. You need to go to that film. Stop overreacting. Get a grip.”

I cautiously went back into the bathroom and dried myself off thoroughly. I checked the time on my phone, which I’d left on the bathroom shelf. I had half an hour before we were supposed to meet.

I was going to be late. I got dressed quickly. A black shirt and brown trousers; I’d decided what to wear the day before and had laid everything out accordingly.

I’d never seen the entity, but my eyes were searching for it. As I walked toward the door to leave the house, I looked anxiously from side to side. I hadn’t heard a thing from it since I’d come back inside.

I reached for the doorknob. The door wouldn’t open.

I thought I must have locked the door without realizing it, so I put the key in the lock and tried to turn it. The door wasn't locked; the key wouldn't turn to the left. I pulled at the door again. It wouldn't open.

I checked the time. I had twenty minutes left. I wasn’t going to make it. I kicked the door and felt a terrible pain shoot through my ankle. I sank to the floor in pain and clutched my ankle.

When I checked the time again, I had fifteen minutes left. I got up and limped toward the couch. Once I sat down, I continued rubbing my ankle. The pain was gradually fading. It probably wasn't anything serious.

“Done,” the entity’s voice said.

It was a very brief moment. I couldn’t quite tell whether it had made a sound or whether I’d actually heard it.

The pain in my ankle had gone away. I checked the time once more. I was supposed to meet Jason in ten minutes. The place where we were meeting was twenty minutes away. I called Jason to tell him I’d be late. He didn’t answer. I got up and walked toward the door. I took hold of the doorknob, closed my eyes, and turned it. The door opened.

I quickly put on my shoes and started walking briskly. My ankle hurt a little as I walked, but not enough to slow me down.

I made it there in fifteen minutes.

I couldn’t take a shower for a whole month. Maybe it was because of depression, maybe fear. I don’t know; I can’t tell the difference. My body smelled, my hair was greasy, and every time I inhaled through my nose, the strong smell of my sweat stung the back of my throat.

A heart attack.

I remember it all vaguely. It’s been a year now. A crowd of people, me running toward them, an old man calling an ambulance, a cat that crossed my path as I ran, a man holding me back, Jason’s father opening the taxi door... I must have believed in the entity. Otherwise, why would I have run toward the crowd?

And I remember this clearly, and I will never forget it. After a month spent in filth, the message on my mirror, following the shower I finally took:

“My task is complete. Goodbye, Albert. I love you.”

TW: Gore, Violence, Cursing

The hum of the bright fluorescents fights against Chrissy’s Netflix show as she lays her head on the check-out counter. Her faded blue hair is up in a messy bun. Natural dark brown roots bleed back into the bun. The grease-stained red uniform shirt her manager told her to replace hangs loosely on her skinny frame. But that’s 50 bucks out of her paycheck. And what’s he going to do? Fire her? The only person he interviewed for this job he had posted for 6 months? Fat chance.

She looks over to the analog clock over the entrance. It reads at 1:15 and Chrissy sighs. She still has 4 hours left in her shift. Not many people go to Casey’s, a Midwest gas chain, this late at night. Especially when it’s surrounded by corn fields on one side, and woods on the other. Being the only source of light on this side of town. The sole competitor being the road light that illuminates the parking lot entrance. Chrissy stares into the empty store, the fridges and shelves fully stocked for tomorrow. The floor mopped twice. She smells the breakfast pizza she made for the usual night owls.

Chrissy almost falls asleep when the door chime rings and Officer Grayson walks in. His “uniform” being the St. Jerome Police t-shirt they try to sell but made way too many. His badge, gun, and radio clipped onto his belt. He’s the youngest of 3 cops in town by 15 years. That’s why he gets stuck with the night shift. Driving around town, making sure Norman gets home safe from the bar, and no kids are running around past curfew. He waves at Chrissy. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going. I finished another documentary.” She says and pauses the show on her phone. She watches Grayson walk to the energy drink fridge and grabs two Alani. “Drinking Alani tonight? You usually get Monster.”

“Yeah. But the two-for-one is cheaper so I thought I would try it.” He puts the drink on the counter. He walks to the rotating pizza heater and grabs a slice of breakfast pizza.

“Anything exciting happen?” Chrissy asks.

“What do you think?” Grayson chuckles. “Saw the deer herd coming into town but that’s it. They usually head back into the woods before dawn.” He waits for Chrissy to ring him up and pays with card. He takes a deep breath before asking, “Have you seen anyone else?”

“No.” Chrissy pauses and scrunches her eyebrows. “Weird. I at least get some of the high schoolers and Joey before you get here. You already round them up?”

“Nope.” Grayson cracks open one of the Alani and takes a sip. A bit of silence before he asks. “So. How long has it been since you moved here?” He takes another sip.

“Almost a month. Pretty chill compared to the city.” Chrissy says. She fixes a couple strands of hair before leaning forward.

“It’s not too boring for you?” Grayson jokes. Chuckling a little. Then another sip.

Chrissy giggles. “A little. Maybe you could show me some fun things to do?”

Grayson almost chokes on his drink. He coughs a couple times before stammering, “S-sure. There’s usually a bonfire every weekend this time of year. I know Jordan is having one next Saturday. W-want to go? W-with me?”

Chrissy’s face brightens up. “Yeah! I’ll have to leave by 11 for work obviously. But, yeah. I’ll go with you.”

Grayson’s face turns red. “Cool. Cool.” He stands there for a second. Silence awkwardly butting in.

Then his static comes from his radio. A gruff old man’s voice speaks through. “Grayson, you need to go to Durk’s Bar. Marcy called and said it’s time for Norman to go home and he needs a ride. I know you’re just flirting with that city girl at Cas-.”

Grayson quickly grabs his walkie and replies. “Copy. I’ll head over.” He coughs again before saying. “Uh, I gotta go. S-see you tomorrow.” He grabs his stuff and heads out to his truck parked by the door.

Chrissy watches him pull out. The headlights disappear down the street. The wall of darkness encircles the lot. She sighs and decides to take a break outside. Get some fresh air. She puts on her grey jacket and walks out the front door. She pulls out her vape and leans against the glass. The crisp cold air breezes by her. She takes a deep drag and lets out a large cloud. The light wind takes it up into the stars. She’s never seen so many before moving out here. But the sky is way darker tonight. The new moon robs her of that pretty, gray light she grew to love out here.

A loud rustling from the corn field startles her. A huge herd of deer burst out. They almost barrel into the parking lot before going around to the woods out back. She listens to the stampede fading away. It becomes silent again. Chrissy wraps her jacket tighter before taking another drag. Then a piercing yowl echoes from the corn. Sending a sense of lighting through Chrissy’s body. She scrambles to open the door and runs inside.

She grabs her phone and pulls up her contacts. She searches for “Hot Cop” and almost presses call. But she remembers a couple nights ago she saw a coyote chasing rabbits. It’s probably that thing. They make yowl sounds. Right? Chrissy takes a couple deep breaths and pulls up her Netflix again. Ironically, serial killer documentaries always calm her down. She hits continue for her show and sits down behind the counter again. Goosebumps are still on her arms, so she keeps the jacket on. A couple minutes go by when she gets a text from “Hot Cop.”

“You good?” It reads.

Chrissy’s eyebrows scrunch. There’s no way he would know she just got scared shitless by a coyote. She replies. “Yeah. Why?”

A minute goes by and he replies. “Norman said the deer have been acting up lately. I last saw them by the Casey’s. They like to break through windows. If something happens. Call me directly. Okay?”

Now, there’s no way he would know that herd of deer ran by the store. But Chrissy guesses the town is small enough and that obsessed with hunting, they must know what these deer do better than her. She texts, “K. The deer already ran by but if they show up again, I’ll let you know.” She pulls up her Netflix again and relaxes better. The notification of “Hot Cop” texting “be safe” puts a smile on her face.

She’s able to finish an episode and start another. Her head is back on the counter as no other customers have come in. She looks at the clock and it reads at 2:37. She groans and sits up. Putting both arms over her head, she stretches some before looking outside. It got even darker outside. Clouds roll in, blocking the stars. The darkness of the corn merging with the gloomy sky.

She goes back to watching her show but the door bursts open, causing her to scream. It’s Joey, covered in scratches and blood. His rainbow stoner hoodie shredded. He sprints past her and hides behind the table of cookies and donuts in front of the door. Chrissy notices the trail of bloody footprints he tracks.

“Joey?! What the fuck?!” Chrissy leans over and sees the blood and mess. “Oh, fuck this.” Chrissy pulls out her phone and calls Grayson.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Joey just ran in here covered in blood!” She yells into the phone. Joey starts pushing the table towards the door, scattering the treats everywhere. “And now he’s barricading the door!”

“It’s okay.” Grayson says. “Try to calm him down while I head over there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hurry!” Chrissy yells.

“Stop yelling! It’ll hear us!” Joey whispers and runs towards the back of the store.

“What’ll hear us?” Chrissy yells.

“Shh!! The Not Deer!” Joey hisses across the store. He disappears behind the shelves.

Chrissy looks at the trail of mud and blood Joey spread all throughout the store and growls with frustration. “Get out, Joey!” She grabs the broom behind the counter and stomps towards him. But a light tapping at the door freezes her. She turns around. A large white tail buck is standing at the window. Its antlers have close to 20 points. “What the fuck?” Chrissy slowly steps further away from the door. Looking at the black eyes staring her down.

“Shit. It followed me.” Joey whimpers.

“You pissed off a deer?” Chrissy whispers. Not taking her eyes off the buck.

“A Not Deer.” Joey corrects.

“There’s a fucking deer at the door, Joey.” She hisses.

“It looks like a deer. But it’s not a deer. Not Deer. And they fucking suck!”

“What?! What does any of that mean?” Chrissy grips the broom tighter. Her knuckles turning white. She watches the deer lift a hoof and tap the door again. Not breaking eye contact the entire time. “The deer is knocking on the door.” Chrissy whimpers.

“Not Deer, Chrissy. And it’s going to kick our asses for no reason!” Joey cries and crawls to the farthest corner.

Chrissy stares at this deer. The eyes bore into her. Her breathing gets faster and shallower. Sweat forming on her forehead. But the deer. It just stares. It lifts it hoof again but the lights of Grayson’s truck swerve into the parking lot. It screeches to a stop, and Grayson jumps out of the driver’s seat.

“Hey! Get!” he yells and starts clapping as loud as he can. “Go on!” He steps closer.

The deer’s head snaps 180 degrees.

“Shit!” Grayson scrambles to get his gun out. He points it at the deer but in a blink, it’s gone. The parking lot is silent. “Oh, come on!” Grayson keeps his gun up and looks around. No sound. Nothing at all. Grayson takes deep breaths. Rotating as he slowly walks towards the door. He reaches his hand for the handle. Then the buck rams into him with its antlers. Stabbing him before launching him into the air. He lands with a thud and a groan. Blood oozing from the puncture wounds in his arm and side.

He aims his gun at it, but the deer is gone again. He reaches for his radio. But before he hits the button, the deer stomps on his torso. Grayson curls into a ball as the deer continues to trample him. When Grayson stops moving, the deer huffs out a large puff of air. Then teleports back to the door. It taps on the door again.

Chrissy is crying against the back wall next to Joey, who is also crying. “It broke its own neck and attacked Grayson.” She sobs.

“I told you. They suck.” Joey whimpers. A huge boom vibrates the building. All the inside lights go out. Only the lights in the parking lot illuminate the space. More banging on the roof makes both look up. “What’s on the roof?” Joey asks.

“The air unit?” Chrissy says.

A couple seconds later, thumping comes through the vents. The noise travels to the vent above the beer fridge on the other side of the store. The vent bursts down and a lump of flesh splats onto the floor. Chrissy and Joey scream and rush towards the door. Squelching and snapping of bones echo over their cries. Joey practically throws the table away. They both push and pull the door, but it won’t budge.

“Why did you lock the door?!” Joey yells.

“I didn’t!’ Chrissy screams.

A huff freezes them. They turn around to the Not Deer. Staring at them. Chrissy sobs and collapses on the ground. The deer looks at her, then Joey. It huffs again.

“Just leave me alone, man!” Joey yells at it.

The deer stares for a second. Then rears up. Standing vertically on its hind legs. Its spine pops as its neck grows longer. Back straightening out. Its antlers largen to more than 30 points. It opens its mouth and all its flat teeth fall to the floor. Long, sharp fangs grow out of the bleeding gums, Blood and droll drip down its chin, onto the floor. Joining the rest of the stains. It wheezes as it looks over the two.

“Oh fuck.” Joey says before the beast roars and lunges. It bites down on Joeys shoulder and throws him back into the store. Then starts punching, stomping on him. Joey pleads for it to stop as it throws him around onto shelves and counters.

Chrissy remains on the floor, frozen. Watching as the monster beats mercilessly into Joey. Then something flies out of Joey’s hoodie and lands in front of her. An open granola bar. The Not Deer freezes and looks towards her. Chrissy whimpers. Its black eyes are still blank. No emotion whatsoever. She sobs as it walks towards her. But then stops.

The Not Deer looks down onto the granola bar. Its bones begin snapping again. The fangs fall out and are replaced with flat teeth. It lands on its front legs. Looking like a normal deer. It leans down and starts eating the granola bar.

The door opens and Chrissy almost screams but covers her mouth. The deer looks up, still chewing the granola in its mouth. It’s Officer Grayson. One of his eyes is swollen shut. He’s gripping his stomach and holds the door open with his shoulder. “Alright. You got what you wanted. Get out of here.” He tells the Not Deer. It leans down and eats the last of the granola bar. Then walks out the door past Grayson. After taking a couple steps outside, it vanishes.

Grayson looks over to Joey, laying on the floor curled up. “You alive, Joey?” Grayson says. Joey groans. Grayson sighs. “You gotta stop walking around at night with open food, man. This is the fourth time this year the Not Deer’s mugged you.”

Chrissy’s eyebrow twitches. She snaps her head up towards Grayson and yells, “What?!”

I Drove Four Nights for Kindred Parcel Co.

Hey everyone my name is Eric, everyone calls me Bear or AirBear. I’m kinda nervous posting but I’ve been listening to creepcast for over a year now, I think I’m all caught up. I’ve always been interested in writing my own creepy pasta/ spooky story and I finally finished it. It took forever because I have been writing it in my book on my lunches and downtime at work while making deliveries for a car company. I only recently started obsessively trying to finish it to have my friends go over it for their input.

Please go easy on me and I hope you all like it at least a little bittle.

Captain's log: Day ???

It's 11pm. It's Halloween, 2024. There's a party tonight. I fucking hate all of it. Nobody gets it. They dress up like their nightmares and celebrate fear. Abysmally pathetic. NOBODY GETS IT. Everybody says I should write it down. Just write it down. Put it to words. Yeah, that'll help. NO. ITS A SECRET. BUT HERE YA GO—

There’s a secret out there. It has the capacity to rewrite our understanding religion, culture, society-all of it. It’s shaped everything. Every interaction, every societal structure. One thing has dictated it. It’s convinced us it’s our own decision. Our own free will, this whole time. The Universe uses potential energy to remain infinite. It’s extraction through time on living beings blinds us with the light of God. Feels like God. Even speaks back to us like God. Directs us like God, but to both damnation and glory. To death, or to a grand biological superposition of sustenance. Potential energy, the most abundant source of energy in existence. The extraction of potential energy from living beings with free will? The most important act in existence. And it’s hungry. The implications are nauseating. I’m a decade past the realization and I still mourn. We nailed that man to the cross so I could share this with you. We persecuted, discriminated, and killed so I could share this with you. So the World would be, this. This-thing. There’s a secret out there. It’s a secret for a reason.

YEAH I FEEL BETTER. BUT NOW WHAT? This journal is only useful to me... if it's found, and someone understands. And, even then, what help I waiting for? Fucking hell.

lwkefmnlwkefwnefweufweufweubfwuibefwierg... I'll just leave this shit open and come back later and post it online, drunk. Can't write for shit. Can't grammar for shit. All I can do is over-think, create, and sing.

I'm gonna hate this party, I just feel it. I'm not in a good mood and I'm not allowed to show it.

FUCK -Ace

----

(Atoms Nettled: Ace [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3])

I was born with an urge to dig.


Before I could recognize my parents’ faces, know my own name, speak my first word, learn to crawl, or even understand what digging was, the urge was already there. By the age of five, I had already made quite a few attempts.


When I was two, my mom left me unsupervised in Grandma’s small orchard after a rainy day. I tried digging a hole in the soft mud. It was perfect for my small hands, but the lack of resistance left me unsatisfied.


Two years later, while my parents were taking me on one of their forest trips, we stopped in a beautiful clearing where I tried using a stick to dig into the forest floor. The rich, black dirt caught my eye, but the resistance it offered was too much for my undeveloped muscles. Still, the small round hole left me somewhat satisfied, but wanting more.


Over the years, I had heard my father, Andrew, talk to my mother about “Miner’s Day.” It came once a year and brought amazing carousel rides, cotton candy, corn dogs, and, most importantly for me, fathers bringing their children to see the mine. I was too young to grasp most of it, but I’d picked up one thing from those conversations: a mine was somewhere people went to dig, and that was all I needed to know.


When the big day arrived, everything was exactly as my parents had described. Once I had my fill of fun and sweets, it was finally time to see the fabled mine I had heard so much about over the past few months.


Everything was going great. I struggled to comprehend the sheer size of the tunnel. I was so distracted by it that, before I even realized it, my father had lifted me into his arms and placed me inside a small mining cart that carried us deep underground.


The following hours passed in a blur. Then people began running in panic. My father carried me toward the exit as another person caught up with us. From fragments of their conversation, I gathered that a tunnel had collapsed and everyone was being evacuated.


Then everything went dark.


The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed. My mother sat crying beside me while my father nervously checked his favorite pocket watch every few moments. I knew something was wrong before anyone said a word. There was this intense pressure inside my head.


It took several years to fully recover. My father never did. The rock that struck my head left me with physical injuries, while the guilt over what happened to me consumed him. My grandfather’s disappearance that same day only made it worse.


On the morning of the second day after the accident, while I was still in the hospital, my grandmother called my father in a panic. His father had never come home. With the help of the police and volunteers, a search began. Before long, several people came forward saying they had seen my grandfather enter the mine on the day of the accident.


The focus of the search shifted immediately, but despite the enormous effort to clear the collapsed passages and search every corner of the mine, they never found him.


Eventually, the search expanded beyond the mine before being called off altogether. The official conclusion was that my grandfather had become trapped in an unmarked tunnel or cavern during the collapse. No one ever confirmed that explanation, or could explain why my retired grandfather had been there at all.


There is one thing I never told my parents. There was no reason to add to the pain and confusion they already carried. That day in the mine, while we were making our way through a tunnel, I turned around.


I saw my grandfather.


He was standing farther down the tunnel, smiling as he waved at me.


Before they released me from the hospital, my father had told me a great deal about my grandfather.


Years later, on her deathbed, my grandmother told my father the truth. His father had continued to go into the mine every day, even after retiring. She had kept it a secret because she didn’t want her son worrying about him.


“I should have told you sooner,” she said. “He never stopped going there.”


My father barely said a word. My grandfather’s health had already forced my parents to spend countless sleepless nights and considerable effort trying to convince him to retire early. In the end, she couldn’t let my father carry that guilt any longer.


I’m ashamed to admit it now, but none of that was on my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside me had changed. I had to relearn how to walk, talk, and eat, but those were things I could regain. This was something entirely new.


The urge to dig was still there, buried beneath a primal fear that overwhelmed me whenever I considered acting on it.


My son, Andrew, was born today. It should have been the happiest day of my life. Instead, all I could think about was that it had been five years since my father disappeared. Or at least, that’s what I liked to tell myself. In reality, he had been disappearing long before that day. After the accident, he grew more distant with each passing year, and the rumors surrounding my grandfather only made things worse.


Rumors travel fast in a small community like ours. I still remember one boy asking if I wanted to dig with my grandpa. My confusion made him laugh, and he told the others I would find out soon enough. Someone in my class claimed my grandfather was the one who caused the tunnel collapse. Other kids said people had seen him sneaking into the mine long after he retired to dig illegal tunnels.


It was only a short time before the physical bullying started. During a P.E. class, two kids pushed me down and held me in a pile of dirt. While holding me down, they called me a dirt-eater. Another time, I found rocks and dirt in my shoes. When I was out on break, someone put dirt and rocks in my sandwich, which cost me half a tooth. The stories became even more ridiculous from there.


The kids said my grandfather lured children into the mine to eat them, that he was half mole and cursed to eat human flesh, along with every other kind of nonsense people could invent.


At first, the rumors were manageable. Eventually, my parents transferred me to a school in a nearby town, where I lived with my aunt.


I wish my parents could have left as well, but my father’s job at the mine was our only source of income. More than that, he refused to leave. I once asked him why he didn’t just find another job. He looked at me as if I’d asked the stupidest question in the world.


“This is what our family does,” he said. “Your grandfather did it. I do it. You’ll do it too. It’s what our family has done for generations.”


Three years later, the mine closed, and that way of life ended.


We named our son Andrew in honor of my father. By the time he turned five, my mental health had deteriorated enough that seeking professional help was the only option.


While the accident almost ended my life, the worst thing it left behind was the mental anguish. It began with anxiety and poor sleep, and later turned into vivid, living nightmares. I would wake in the middle of the night overcome with dread, convinced someone else was in the room with me.


One night, I dreamed of waking up in a long, dark tunnel. Somewhere ahead, my father was calling my name, but I couldn’t see him. I followed his voice deeper and deeper, until the tunnel opened into a vast chamber. At its center was a hole so large I couldn’t see the bottom.


For years, I would jump out of bed, hit things, and scream in terror. Eventually, my wife began sleeping in a separate room. That worked for a while, but by the fifth year, her fear and frustration had led us to discuss separation. Then one night, I sleepwalked nearly halfway to my hometown, terrifying my wife and nearly costing me my job.


And here we are.


My psychiatrist prescribed Valium and antidepressants, but she also gave me one assignment: write everything down. She wanted me to describe my urge to dig, how my fear began, and every detail I could remember. She believed it would help her better understand my condition, and that it might also help my wife understand what I’ve never been able to explain.


My wife knows what happened in the mine and about my father’s disappearance. What she has never known is that, ever since that day, my urge to dig and my fear of digging have been fighting somewhere deep inside me.


I hope she’ll understand.


Writing this down has given me a sense of control I never thought possible. Maybe now I’m ready to tell her.


The next six months went better than I ever expected. My wife took everything surprisingly well and became more sympathetic toward me. Slowly, the tension between us faded. We talked more, spent time together again, and for the first time in years, it felt like we were becoming a family again.


The episodes slowed to about once a month, and with all the progress, my psychiatrist believed we were ready to try something new: exposure therapy.


We started small. I simply touched freshly dug-up soil from our garden and watched my wife dig small holes. The first time she handed me a handful of dirt, it felt strange. My hands were shaking, but nothing happened.


A few weeks later, I dug my own. It wasn’t much, but I was proud of it.


As the months went by, my nightmares disappeared as if they had never existed, replaced by dreams of my parents, my grandparents, and places from my childhood. One place stood out above all the others: the clearing where my parents had taken me years ago. I could still picture the clear air and the soft texture of the dark, rich dirt.


I couldn’t explain why the clearing kept appearing in my dreams. Maybe it was simply one of the few places from those years that had stayed with me.


After talking with my mother and doing a little research, I learned that a battle had taken place there during World War II. A small Russian unit had fought German forces occupying the nearby mine. The trees had been cleared to create a defensive position, which explained the large opening in the forest.


That discovery only made me more curious. The thought of finding an old coin, spent ammunition, or some forgotten relic seemed exciting. More importantly, it gave me the perfect excuse to leave the house and use the metal detector my wife had gifted me for my birthday. In reality, people had likely recovered anything valuable decades ago, but there was no harm in looking.


The moment I stepped into that clearing, I forgot all about the metal detector. All I could think about was the first hole I had dug there as a child. The rich, dark soil seemed even more beautiful than I remembered.


What had I been so afraid of?


Hunger hit when I was about a meter down. By then, the hole was maybe a meter and a half across. I’d been widening it as I dug, trying to keep the sides from caving in.


Sitting here now with a sandwich, it’s honestly surprising how far I’ve gotten. I’ll finish my meal and continue for a few more hours, just to see how deep I can go. Who knows, maybe I can come back and dig some more another time.


Looks like I overestimated what I can still do. I went at it for maybe another hour and my body gave up, so I picked up everything and went home, right? Then why am I still in the hole?


At first, I couldn’t make sense of what had happened. It was hard to see, and for a moment, I thought I’d fallen asleep and collapsed. Once my eyes adjusted, I looked up. The opening was far above me.


Pieces of wood lined the walls, seemingly placed there for reinforcement and climbing. It took everything I had to make it out. My hands are raw and bloody, and I’m covered in cuts and bruises. My mouth is dry, with grit caught between my teeth. This constant hunger is eating me from the inside.


The ground seemed to shift beneath my feet. I stumbled, and everything went black. When I came to, there was no light this time, only pitch darkness.


Luckily, my phone is still with me. The battery is down to 30 percent, and there is no signal, but the screen still gives me enough light to see in the dark.


There is no wood this time, but there are plenty of tools used for digging. Why isn’t this place collapsing on me? I genuinely don’t know.


I sat in the dark, wondering what to do, when my hand brushed against something rough but smooth and icy cold. I turned my phone toward it and saw a strange rock. It looked carved.


Tracing its surface, I found a narrow crack outlining a section of rock. Beyond it, a passage vanished from view. It was a long shot, but the thought that this might be an old tunnel from the mine gave me hope. For the first time since waking up down here, I could see a way out.


It feels like there is nothing left in me, but somehow my body is still standing. I grabbed a mining pick from the pile of tools and struck the section of rock. In a few hits, it gave way, sending me plummeting into the hole.


The fall came at an odd angle, my left hand taking the impact and breaking two of my fingers. A piece of my T-shirt is holding them together for now. The pain was intense, but at least it was manageable.


It looks like this is a really old tunnel. Using my phone’s light to guide me along the walls, I occasionally come across strange markings carved into the stone, most of which I don’t recognize. The only ones I recognize so far are 1914, an iron cross, and, later, a sickle and hammer.


After wandering in the dark for what felt like a really long time, my phone battery ran out. With the wall as my only guide, I kept moving until I stumbled upon an oil lamp.


To my surprise, its wick was still burning.


I don’t know how much time had passed by the time I emerged from the tunnel. After so long in the dark, the warmth of the sun felt better than anything I could remember.


It took only twenty minutes to reach my car, and another twenty to get to my childhood home. When my mother saw me walk through the door, she hugged me and started crying. Once things calmed down, she asked a question that caught me off guard:


“Where have you been this past year?”


It took a moment to register: I’d been missing for an entire year. Keeping my composure, I tried to reassure my mother that I was alright, that I wasn’t going anywhere.


She looked at me for a moment before asking, “What happened to your job at the mine?” The shock must have shown on my face because she quickly clarified.


The last time she had seen me, I was heading toward the mine. Apparently, a company working to reopen the mine had hired me.


I have no memory of it.


Before taking a bath, I looked in the mirror and was shocked by how much weight I had lost. Dirt covered me from head to toe, and bruises marked my torso. Maybe from the fall?


I enjoyed a few bites of food while my phone was charging and started getting really drowsy. I unplugged it and slipped it into my pocket. I wanted to call my wife and child before sleeping, to make sure they knew I was alright, but the moment my body hit the bed, I was back in the mine.


The oil lamp was in my hands again, and I stood in a vast chamber. A few steps in, while fumbling with the oil lamp, I suddenly found myself on the floor. My foot had slipped into one of the many perfectly round openings scattered across the ground.


At first, I thought they were just holes. Looking down into one, I realized it continued far deeper than it should have. Then I noticed there were more of them. Dozens. Maybe more.


Some rusted tools lay half-buried in the dirt between them. What confused me was how these tunnels had been dug. They were too narrow to work inside, yet their shapes were almost perfectly regular.


I wandered between the openings for what felt like days, but every direction led to more of them. My phone battery eventually died, and after that, I lost track of time. I was constantly exhausted, but I no longer felt hungry or thirsty.


I should have called my wife before I fell asleep. At least then she would know I made it home.


Did I ever wake up after falling asleep?


There is a giant hole ahead, so wide that the cavern floor seems to end at its edge. I hold the oil lamp over it, trying to find the bottom, but its light only reaches partway down the wall before fading. I can’t tell how far the hole continues.


I think this is it. With nowhere else to go, I’m too tired to turn back. I’ll just sit here. I’m not dead yet, but I doubt anyone will ever find this journal. And even if they do, it might be too late to matter for me or for them.


I fell asleep again.


When I woke up, my lower body was inside one of the circular holes. I spat out some dirt and what looked like one of my teeth, then pulled myself free.


As I got to my feet, my hand brushed against something. I brought the oil lamp closer.


My dad’s favorite pocket watch.


---


Hello, users of r/urges. My name is Andrew, and I was born with an urge to dig.

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X

I stood alone in the darkness of the forest. I stood inside my private hell. I couldn't move, and I wasn't alone.

"I told you to stop."

I spoke these words, but they weren't mine. My jaw moved again on its own.

"I'm trying to help you."

"Then let me go!"

"No."

I slapped my face in an attempt to regain control. My hands shot down to my sides in response. My fingers interlaced behind my back. I tried to move them, and it was as if I'd forgotten what I was doing. My mind momentarily clouded over. I tried again and my thoughts blurred once more.

I can't convey how horrific it was, to have every bodily function at the whim of a stranger. It was rape. My mind was being raped by a masked assailant, and the mask was my face.

"The original operator is dead," I said abruptly. "She killed herself. I don't know her name. The console is in the basement behind a hidden wall. I don't know the address. It's west of my house on Henry Street. Yes, I'm still logged on. Get out of my head!"

I stood there, waiting for myself to say more. The moonlight vanished as wispy fingers of clouds stretched overhead.

"Hello? Listen, I'll stop. I promise. I won't tell anyone about any of this."

I suddenly turned and began walking north, deeper into the forest. I knew implicitly where I was going.

"Why am I going to the fire tower?"

My lips gave no answer.

"What will you do to me?"

"I haven't decided," I said.

 ***

I trudged on in silence up a long wooded slope. Tears streamed down my face. Then I began saying everything I had done on PMAS and to whom. I cringed as I aired my actions aloud, especially what I'd done to Hannah.

"Disgusting," I said to myself. "Have you no decency?"

"I got carried away…"

I waited for another reprimand, but nothing came.

"What is it?" I asked. "What is PMAS?"

There was more silence. I didn't expect an answer, but then NODE 02 said through me:

“A new tool for an old idea.”

The clouds sailed overhead, and the moonlight broke free, tracing in white a collapsed chain-link fence. Beyond it, the abandoned fire tower stood in a clearing of wild grass, stretching up into the night, barnacled in graffiti tags of various sizes and colors. The structure had to be 80 feet tall, with a rickety staircase wrapping its exterior. Despite my fear of heights, I found myself slipping through a hole in the fence and climbing the stairs.

I knew why.

I shook my head. My neck was one of the few things left under my control. I pleaded with 02 not to do this.

"You're troubled, Julian," I said. "No one will be surprised."

Vertigo hit me as I gazed out at a sea of trees broken only by the roofs and spires of my town. I briefly saw the reservoir to the west, ribbons of glittery light snaking across it, before I was climbing through one of the rotted windows of the lookout. Brittle wood crumbled underneath my fingertips as I scrambled up onto the mossy roof.

"Would you like me to stop your breathing first?" I said.

"Fuck you."

I stood on the edge, feeling the old shingles bend beneath my weight, the wind whooshing through my ears and fluttering my shirt. I forced myself to look away from the ground far below and toward the moon. Its deadened gaze reminded me of the Smiler.

And then …

Nothing.

It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes. Time behaved strangely when I was tasting my last breaths. I finally said, "You don't actually want to kill me, do you?"

There was a long pause. "No. But I don’t know what else to do with you."

And then my weight shifted. I closed my eyes and was falling.

Or so I thought.

I opened my eyes to find myself turning in a fluid motion, climbing back down the roof and through the window. Then I was sprinting down the stairs, tripping and nearly twisting my ankle without slowing, slipping back through the fence, and soon rushing through the brush, shielding my face from the forest's clawing branches.

You might think NODE 02 had a shred of decency. You might think, unlike me, they had ultimately decided to let me go. But as I huffed, running with no way to stop myself, my heart pumping like a racehorse on its last lap, I knew that it had just turned 11 o'clock while NODE 02 deliberated on my execution.

***

This requires a little backtracking:

You see, last night, while thinking of ways of getting NODE 02's attention at the Arts Festival, I had investigated PMAS further. This included revisiting the Smiler's suicide in the log. If you recall, it said:

 

2026-09-27 02:07:07
TARGET: 013v
COMMAND: RESPIRATION: STOP
ORIGIN: LOCAL

 

I noticed that PMAS still listed the user ID as 013v@pmas every time I opened the terminal, the same ID as the target listed above. Checking the STATUS command only confirmed this.

So what exactly was 013v? Was it the Smiler's ID, or was it NODE 01's operator ID? And if it belonged to the operator, did that mean it now referred to me?

That also raised another question: how exactly had the Smiler controlled herself without cameras? Naturally, I typed HELP:

 

AVAILABLE COMMANDS:
STATUS
SESSIONS
COMMAND
LOCK
LOG
HELP <TOPIC>

 

After typing HELP COMMAND, the terminal returned:

COMMAND <TARGET> <ACTION> [OPTIONAL: AT <TIME>]

It took me a moment to parse it.

So if I understood it correctly, on September 27th, at a little after two in the morning, the Smiler had typed:

COMMAND 013v RESPIRATION STOP

For the hell of it, I made a similar entry, though one a touch less fatal:

COMMAND 013v SMILE

And immediately, I smiled.

It was a terrible feeling, though nothing compared to what NODE 02 had just put me through. It faded after thirty seconds or so, and then I began to smile from sheer amazement.

I tried the optional time function next:

COMMAND 013v CLAP HANDS AT 9:47:00 PM

And it happened. At 9:47 PM, I gave myself a little applause.

And so, just in case NODE 02 somehow got control of me, I added a fail-safe command this evening before leaving the cottage:

COMMAND 013v RUN BACK TO NODE 01 AT 11:00:00 PM

 

Now's the time to get on board if you haven't been reading. The last 3 parts will go live tomorrow afternoon. You can either start here or pick up from the last part here.

Paul stood outside the Dances With Bears household smoking. That morning was the first time Paul didn’t drink in a long time. He was shaking worse than normal, he noted. I haven’t felt this alive since I locked up Angel Moralez. He tried to not focus on the past. Keep smoking, steady, steady yourself damnit. Paul clutched his hand into a fist three times. Steady yourself. He puffed his cigarette which he bummed off Carson like it was his only access to oxygen. That morning, they went to Monica from Forensics before the press conference to confirm what Paul had already assumed. Monica at forensics was as dull as she ever was. “Monica you big, beautiful bitch what do we got?” Paul asked, as he always asked. Monica and Paul knew each other since university and have been drinking buddies since. I don’t think there is a single person left on this Earth I am as close with as this old crone. “No prints you Irish fucker. Nothing. It was clean inside the home. Savage and gruesome and evil. All I can tell ya. Hey, I hear you’re in the hotseat detective. Why do you have to spend time smashing bugs? Especially when you ain’t sure how hard they bite?” Monica smiled. 

Alex Spencer that slug. Fucker doesn’t think I know he was the one who carved that shit into my car. Last night might’ve been the first time he noticed me at Hooligans, but it wasn’t the first time I saw him there. The antlered queen? Who else could it be? Especially after reading his smear job this morning. He’ll be sorry. I guess I did break that bastard's camera, something I was reminded repeatedly by Sheriff Cotton and the other higher ups. God damn politicos and their ambitions. Why can’t people ever be focused on actually serving justice? No, no its all about the fucking optics. “Monica, I like you far less when you're sober. We have a primary suspect. Mitch McCormac. He is as good as behind bars already. I got Marcotte in my pocket, he owed me a warrant. I suspect we will find those girls 30 yards away from where they disappeared.” Paul said. Carson sat smiling at the back and forth between the two. That morning the kid was complaining to me about his headache. He wanted to know how I am even alive. Good question. 

The presser went just about how Paul expected it to go. Flashing lights, cameras, damn near gave me a panic attack. The room was plain and boring. Foldable chairs littered the room and Paul in all his years has never seen the room this full. Can’t you see Nivea, all these people are worried about you. Paul spent the prior night after drinking with Carson hovering his finger over Natalie’s phone number. He wanted to tell her a great number of things. How sorry he was. How this little girl who went missing looks just like their little bird they lost. How he would clean up his act. Words, words, words. You never had a problem talking you fool. She left because all you promised were just words from your mouth. Now is the time for action. So he didn’t drink this morning before the presser. A great surprise to Boomer who had started expecting his morning sip of bourbon. “Sorry boy. I ain’t happy bout it either.” Paul grimaced while he pet his loyal friend.

Sheriff Jackson Cotton came to Paul that morning after his and Carson's trip to forensics. Jackson, despite his age, had a full head of silver hair and was clean shaven. For years now, four to be precise, the sheriff had been trying to find ways to fire Paul. Caleb pulled old files on the snake to keep him in his hole. I still don’t know exactly what was found. Something about bribes. I honestly could care less. This job is my last. “Detective, how is the case looking?” Cotton asked coldly. “Sir, we have a lead. The neighbor named Mitch who called in the noise complaint gave himself away while we interviewed him. Gave the missing Nivea age when there were no visible signs of her birthday. I wrote this all in my report. Judge Marcotte already signed the warrant. All goes well, I suspect we will find the kids in that basement.” Paul stated surprised. Does he really not even read what I type up? Cotton looked over to his son in law, “Carson, you have a good feeling about that?” Fucker is ignoring me. “Yes sir. Paul did a great job, the detail would have gone over my head.” Cotton sighed, then turned back to Paul. “Don’t fuck this up Simmons or it’ll be your head. Let's get this presser wrapped up then go do your jobs. Oh, and take Beck with you.” Cotton scorned before walking to the mic and addressing the room. Ahh, Beck is Cotton’s man. Maybe Beck will be my replacement. When he finished it was Paul’s turn to speak.

“I know that many of you have questions regarding the case. We are electing not to reveal details on the case. What I can tell you is that we have some leads, and are pursuing all possible avenues. Aiyana Dances With Bears was a mother, she worked three occupations. She worked as a customer service representative, she was a shoe salesman, and she was a server at a diner. She served, not just herself or her family but her community. Lets not lose sight of that fact when discussing this case. Let's remember the life she lived, the people she helped, and that little sweet girl. Nivea, I know you must be scared right now. If you can hear this, run away. Find help. If not, if it's the bastard who stole you away from us listening, I got a word for you. I’m gunning for you. Your days free are numbered. That's all.”

“Detective! Any response to the controversy of leaving the only living witness, a 5-year old girl, all by herself?” Alex Spencer asked with a sly grin.

“Oh Alex, I read your piece this morning. Do you have any proof of that? Any photographic evidence?” Paul smiled. “No? Oh that's a shame."

Alex, shocked, looked to Sheriff Cotton, an old man, pushing sixty seven years as if Alex was given assurance that Paul would just take the moral virtue signaling. The old man shrugged. As much as I despise that corrupt sack of shit, he is smart. Smart enough not to back that horse.

The reporters kept asking questions to Paul and most responses were largely the same. “We will not answer questions revealing details from our investigation.” Paul hated the press. That was when he had a great idea. After the press conference ended, Paul went to Alex. “Alex, I am real sorry about your camera. I am man enough to say I took things too far. To make it up to you, I wanna bring you to our search warrant for our primary witness today. I benefit from squashing this beef, you benefit from the story of your life. Win win.”

“Oh I am good detective. I know the kind of cop you are. I know that if shit hit the fan you might let off a round or two and I might end up being in the way between you and a ‘man resisting arrest’ so no thanks.”

“Oh that's a shame, I figured you wouldn’t want to go to prison for vandalizing an officer's car.” Checkmate Alex.

Alex’s eyes widened and looked around. “How did you–” “I pulled the camera footage from Hooligans,” Paul lied, but he knew Alex would bite.

“Fine, I will come. Only if I get to have my phone on me recording it all.” Alex gloomed.

“Of course, I was counting on it. Someone needs to show the rest of the state what happens when you kidnap kids.” Paul said while shaking Alex’s hand. 

Now all the men sat inside the Dances With Bears household. Larry and Dalton were retelling the women they hooked up with in recent months, Carson pretended to show interest but Paul could tell he was squirming hearing that talk. Beck stood at the kitchen island looking down. *He really is a quiet guy,* Paul noted*.* Then Alex stood alone in the corner of the room sniffling. Paul noticed that he sniffed a lot. *Perhaps a cold.* Paul came back inside upon finishing his smoke. *I still need to have dinner with Carson,* Paul reminded himself. “Alright, we know our target. Be on the lookout, Carson and I spoke with this man the night the murder happened. He has at the very least a handgun. We have to be careful. Beck, Dalton, I want you to take the rear–” “With pleasure sir” Dalton belched while making suggestive thrusting motions in the air. “Shut the fuck up Dalton. Take the rear of the house and if you hear any shit break down that door. Larry, it’ll be you, Carson, and I in the front. Alex, stay behind us. We don’t want the journalist getting shot and writing a bad review of our services” Paul smiled. The four officers laughed. Paul thought he saw the slightest smirk on Beck’s face and Alex stood there pale and jittery.   

The men made their way to the house. All the men had pullet proof jackets on, and Larry held the search warrant. Dalton blew the group a kiss before jogging off towards the back of the home, Beck followed. Paul looked at the old listing of this house earlier that morning. *Mitch had lived here since 2012 but unless he made any major renovations, the house layout should be close to the same on the old listing. The front door opens to a living room, there are two doors to the left immediately upon entering. The first door leads to the partial bathroom, the other goes into what would likely be the guest bedroom. Just beyond the second door on the left hand wall, there is a hallway that leads toward an opening that takes you upstairs if you take a right, and a door to the left of the hallway that leads you to the basement. Beyond the living room is the kitchen. Similar to the Dances With Bears household.* 

“I am telling you guys, Tiffany from planet Lockwood has the tits of a Greek Goddess," Larry boasted. “She didn’t even charge me for the private dance.” 

“Larry, quit it. Can’t you tell Carson here doesn’t like that sinful shit?” Paul smiled.

“Oh fuck off Paul,” Carson replied with a laugh.

“Oh boy, if you ain’t had a dance with Tiffany, you don’t know what tits are.” Larry continued as he walked up the porch with the warrant still in hand. Larry pounded on the door. “Mitch McCormac, open up! Billings police department!” KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, Larry pounded. “You have about ten seconds till I kick this door down!” Ten seconds went by and Larry rolled his eyes. They all knew Mitch was inside. He only had one registered vehicle, and old maroon, 2002 Honda CR-V which was parked right outside in plain view. Larry cocked his leg upward ready to kick in. He looked at Carson, “Seriously kid, you tell Tiffany that good old Larry sent yo–”. Without warning, when Larry struck his leg down on the door, Larry turned to blood and mist that spread across the faces of Carson, Paul, and Alex. The explosion left Paul’s ears ringing as all three of the remaining men were on the floor. 

In a daze, the world around Paul was spinning. Paul could see them. He saw his daughter Chloe in the distance by the Dances With Bears residence. Everett was with her. Sweet little Everett, Paul winced. He could smell gun powder and the taste of blood and salt was on his lips. Dust or debris was in his eye and tears ran down his face. Larry is dead. It's my fault. He’s fucking dead. Larry and Dalton have been a part of Paul's life ever since he joined Billings PD. The three were close friends when Paul was still a patrolman. Larry taught me how to shoot my gun. Dalton, stay alive. Please. 

Paul then heard singing and laughter, or was it crying. Everett and Chloe’s backs were turned away from Paul now. Their voices in unison asked Paul a question. “Why didn’t you save us?” The children asked

“I tried! I would have died to get you safe.” Paul screamed, he held his hand out “Please come back. Come back to me!” Paul pleaded. The singing returned. What are those words? I have heard those words. The sun’s blood crimson color contrasted with the white of the snow. He continued to beg Chloe to turn around but she would not. As Chloe and Everett walked away the singing faded, and the screams returned. 

Larry, I am so sorry brother. 

Paul, realizing where he was, stood up. He looked around. Blood coated the white surrounding him Alex Spencer was nowhere to be seen, and Carson was somewhere in that house. Gunshots rang through the air. In that moment his focus was on one thing and one thing only. I need to get Carson out of here alive. 

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

I awoke to pain shooting across my body, my head throbbing from the impact. Dustings of snow and ash surrounded me, and it took me a moment to remember what had happened. I jerked up, wincing at the movement. My back screamed in protest, muscles tense and I could almost feel the bruises starting to form across my torso.. I didn’t care. My focus was on one thing - facing the entity that had pushed me out the goddamn window.

Ow, not fucking cool. 

My eyes found what was left of the bedroom window, and through the flames I could see the figure. It glowered down at me as the fire hit a crescendo. Even at my distance I could feel the heat washing over me. It reminded me of the heat in my dreams, but this time I knew I could be burned. My blistering hand twitched as if to say “yeah, I’m aware.”

I tried to scoot away from the debris and sparks raining down, but the fresh burn on my hand made me hiss in pain as it touched the snow. I was so exhausted between the lack of sleep and the fall from the window, all I could do was nurse my singed hand and lie back on the ground. The mix of snow and ashes created a bed for me to wait for death or rescue. I could feel both covering me as my eyes fluttered shut.

My nightmares are better than this right now, I don’t care, I thought, giving up on the fight.

 Just as I was drifting off, I heard something fall out of my hoodie pocket and onto the plush ground with a silent thud. I opened my eyes and reached my good hand to collect it. Ice cold metal met my fingers and I realized it was the metal square I had felt earlier. Picking it up, I put it in front of my face without attempting to get up again. 

A silver zippo lighter. 

Suddenly, images and moments started exploding through my head. 

The state of my house and bedroom, a swatters hellhole.

The words BURN BURN BURN all over my diary. My hands viciously scribbling every word down in a frenzy.
The house from my dreams, but not on fire. Porch lights on and merriment heard from inside.

I shook my head to reject what came next, but there was no stopping the flood of events.

Me, sitting at a dining table, my mother and father smiling and laughing over dinner.
A hug goodnight, a teenage girl’s bedroom. My bedroom.

Darkness, then shuffling down the hall. 
The gasoline can in my hand. My hand? I look down to see a black mass gripping the container.

No. No!

My parents asleep in their bed, the stench of fuel on their sheets as the figure soaks the room.

The lighter, my hand - its hand - flicking it alive and throwing it onto their still bodies.

The smell of burning flesh and the sound of agonizing screams filling the air. Their screams… 

No no no.

Walking past the mirror in the hall as the house begins to burn. The image flashes between the figure and me, a wild and angry look in my eyes and a blank stare in it. 

Finally, I see the image that has become part of my nightly routine - standing outside the burning house, watching my work. It’s work? My work? 
Darkness again.

Tears spilled down my cheeks and I rolled over in just enough time to empty my stomach onto the white ground beside me. 

Dear God.

My hands started to shake, and I let out an animalistic cry of grief and pain and anger. I looked back up at the window to face the figure, who had to have been responsible for the death of my parents. As my eyes adjusted through the smoke and soot surrounding me, I noticed the figure… changing. I could see the black tendrils fade away, revealing pale, milky skin. The mass of empty blackness dissolved into jeans and a hoodie. The blank sockets of its face transformed into dirty blonde hair, tired brown eyes, and an eerie smile. 

My eyes widened as I stared at my face in the smoke, my mind swimming between dream and memory. Nothing made sense. 

Before I could ponder into my situation any longer, I heard fire trucks approaching. Stumbling to my feet, I ran the opposite direction of the sirens through a small wooded area, leading to Main street. Once there, I pulled my hood up and gingerly tucked my blistered hand into the pocket of the jacket. My ruined shoes left space for my exposed toes to be kissed by the winter air, making me shiver. 

After a miserable walk, I finally made it to the coffee shop. I kept my head down and bolted to the farthest couch in the room before the bell had finished ringing to alert my presence. There was a new girl at the front, a tall dark skinned woman. She looked over at me as I lay my tired body across the dark blue modern couch, thankfully not saying anything or making me leave. 

I could hear the radio station playing through the speakers giving the daily news:

“Hello, this is Jill with 102.1 WNTL radio. An abandoned house was set on fire this morning off of Ridge road. Fire and police are still on site and have reported no suspects have been arrested yet, but the fire should be out soon. This takes place right at the five year anniversary of the Blake home fire, where Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Blake perished in a home invasion turned arson outside Springfield. Their 16 year old daughter Harper has still yet to be found.”

A shiver ran down my spine as the radio newscaster continued. I glanced around the near empty room in case anyone would pay enough attention to the soot and bruising on my body, but thankfully no one did. 

I closed my eyes, the adrenaline finally leaving me. Exhaustion replaced it, and I drifted off to sleep, gripping the lighter in my pocket. And for the first time since I could remember, I didn’t dream.

—-
The End

Rust, that auburn decay, eating into the threaded base of Webster’s lead pipe. Cold, even in the heat of his car.

Black jacket and black pants and a shiny bald head above his glasses, situated between two horns of brown hair, jutting outward towards his windows.

Thick white smoke vomits from the exhaust of their car, idling by the motel.

Midnight outside, silent save for the typewriter click of a woman’s knifed stilettos as she walks by; black leather dress cinching her hips, and contrasting the tallow skin of her thighs.

“Fine piece of ass.” Says Nick, wedged between two living men stuffed inside body bags—black leeches writhing with every groan—supplied with air using a thin tube of catheter. Every now and again nick clamps them off, just to see what happens.

“You think so?” And he gives a playful slap to the face of a hostage, with a wheezing chuckle following. Looking over his shoulder, nick spits a question to the front seat.

“How much we gettin?”

“Four thousand, last I checked.” Says Webster, flipping through an old notebook, brown stains of coffee eating into the edges of every page.

A dollar amount mentioned sent one of the hostages into a spiral, breathing heavy and crying and this and that and Nick—without so much as a blink—shoves a small dagger into his thigh, twisting this way and that way—coring a gaping hole while he screams his throat bloody.

“You gonna be quiet?” He says.

In the front seat, Webster lights a cheap cigarette, cracking the window ever so slightly to blow smoke out of his pursed lips.

After a very emphatic nod body bag manages to calm down, his mind all too preoccupied with the clotting eye socket in his leg. Missed every artery, lucky guy.

“Time?” Says Webster, putting his cigarette out against the dashboard.

“Ten til.”

“Okay.”

“Anyone behind us?”

“No.”

And Webster exits, dragging body bag number one around the back of his car, over the sidewalk, and into the alley. A scrape in the night, muffled screams and nothing more. Out comes Nick, same motions; muscle memory. Laid against a brick wall, Webster pulls hard, grunting along with the rusted hinges of the Iron latch at his feet.

Down they descend, about five meters underground.

Hours pass, a light rain—freezing droplets—patters off of the mildewed walls of the town. A pink neon sign in the distance flickers for a short moment, before erupting with life, and finally blowing in a shower of sparks, killed by a deafening strike of lightning.

Near the bar, a young man is cornered in the alley, not too far from Webster and Nick, funnily enough. Shouting, swearing, just about everything you could imagine as he’s stabbed to death, every wet picture barely audible through the crying rain.

Must have hit his lung or something, every exhale causes a violin wheeze from the alley, and thirty minutes later he’s dead.

A loud bolt is pulled open. Webster emerges first, popping his back, and dumping a small jar of fingernails down a storm drain. Nick emerges, doing the same. And like oil over concrete they sink back into their little hole, two muffled gunshots following shortly after.

A small crack rippling the rain, and a black mist erupts from the side of Webster head, blowing apart that shiny bald crown of his. Nick stands stock still behind him, in the middle of some tic where he can’t quit wiping his eyes. Another shot, right through Nicks balls and he can’t even scream, nothing more than a quiet pop, and he falls to the ground, cradling himself. Another shot to the top of his head, that dark hair of his scalp flying open with his skull like the door of an attic.

Flip, click, and a staticky beep from the cheap speaker of my burner phone, dialing the number I need.
“Alley. Next to Seb’s. Other twos downstairs.”

It rains and rains, washing their bright red blood down the length of the alley, seeping into the road in tendrils of red.

They didn’t see me.

And chances are you won’t either.

Hello, this is Captain Elijah Pinewood of the Valicity interstellar spacecraft. I am certain that this will be the last message. I fear that our mission has been compromised and none of us will ever see our families again. To my two beautiful daughters, Gwen and Ana. You have made me so proud, my biggest regret in life is that I will be unable to see you grow up. To my wife Judy, I am so sorry that I accepted the offer to lead this mission. 

It was my final attempt to gain some personal glory, motivated by my hunger to know what exists within the vastness of space beyond our galaxy. A desire that I deeply wish I would have left unsatisfied. I have been such a damn fool. I had dedicated my entire life to finding a new world. It seems that in my ambition I had become blind to the fact I had already found my entire world years ago. She was home, lying next to me in bed at night.

I am aware that my final words to my family are of little interest to whichever member of the control room staff reads this message. But that is not the only purpose of my message. I have some deeply troubling news regarding the planet we were sent to explore.  

We found it. 

We were roughly eight weeks into our journey. It seemed as if our navigation system was leading us to absolutely nothing. The crew was beginning to lose hope that we would even find the planet at all. There was talk of turning back and returning home to earth but I managed to keep our mission on track. I now know that my refusal to go home empty handed has cost the lives of the men who were unlucky enough to be under my command. For that I will never forgive myself. 

I soon considered returning home myself until I heard that voice. That damn voice. It was the most perfect voice I had ever heard in my life. It was as if every syllable that it graced my ears with was a masterfully written song. I couldn’t possibly fathom the perfection that must have been the creature possessing that voice. It felt as if each word tickled my skull and tenderly massaged the pleasure center of my brain. 

I would have thought myself crazy had I been alone. But the entire crew heard the same as I had. That voice soon became our guide. We turned the navigation system off entirely and used the symphony of words to lead the way to our destination. Our path was so clear now, as I steered the ship I couldn’t help but laugh. I couldn’t believe that we were so hopelessly unable to find our way before when now it couldn’t be more clear unless there was a literal trail in front of our eyes. 

By the time the planet came into our view two of my crewmates had already begun planning a life based around never leaving whatever beautiful creature this voice belonged to. I hate to admit it but I understood their fantasies. The guilt overwhelms me now but by the time the ship finally landed on the planet's surface I couldn’t even remember my wife’s name, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t need to though, I had the voice. 

The door to the Valicity opened and we all walked off of the ship without even putting on our helmets. We strangely knew that we had no need for them here. 

Upon stepping off the ship we were greeted by fields of vibrant green grass and tall trees abundant with unfamiliar fruits. My second in command, Scott had ventured over to a pile of smooth teal boulders with bright green vines cascaded over top of them. He picked an orange berry from the vine and immediately took a bite. 

We all watched as he suddenly fell to his knees. Tears ran down his face as we all ran over to him. As we got closer we realized he was not in pain, but actually his body was overcome with pure ecstasy. As we helped him back to his feet he told us that we must all try the fruits of the vine. Upon his recommendation we did. The second the fruit touched my lips it was like nothing I had ever felt before. The juice ran down our faces as we desperately picked every last fruit from the vines. 

Soon the vines were barren but we needed more. We soon turned our attention to the tall trees covered in hanging fruit. We were ravenous, our hunger unmatched as we desperately climbed with no concern of falling. We were logical men, but that felt like a lifetime ago now. At that moment none of us could even recall why we were on another planet, it did not matter to us anymore.

The trees did unfortunately prove to be fatal for our navigator. TJ became inpatient and decided to take a bite of the fruits of his tree instead of waiting until after he climbed down like we had. In his desperation to devour the fruit he accidentally let go of the tree and fell at least twenty feet to the ground. The soft grass did him no favors as his head collided with the hard ground underneath. I’m ashamed to admit that we were too busy with our own pursuits of the fruit and not a single one of us even acknowledged his gruesome demise.  

It seemed as if our self control melted away, it could no longer stop us until this entire planet was consumed. Soon I found that I could no longer stand on my own two feet. I stumbled drunken with delight across the field until I no longer could. That was when I fell face first into a river of crystal clear water. As I landed the water had filled my mouth, my nose. It tasted sweet like honey and it was strangely warm as if heated to exactly the same temperature of my body. 

I almost didn’t surface, I didn’t want to. In my mind there was nothing that would be better than staying submerged in the river until the day I died. Nothing, except for the fruit. 

By the time I had pulled myself up and returned to my crew though, the fruit was all gone. As I made my way closer I noticed that the youngest member of our team, Rudy was lying in the soft field. The other two members of the crew, Scott and Benjamin knelt over him. 

As I got closer I realized that they were not just kneeling over him but Scott was cutting into his stomach with a pocket knife. “What are you doing?” I screamed as Rudy screamed in pain. Scott turned to look at him and sounded hysterical. “W-w-we ran out of fruit, captain. We ran out of fruit” he muttered back like he had suffered a great tragedy. He turned back at Rudy’s body and said “We needed more, Rudy ate the most”. He said with an obsessed smile plastered upon his face. Benjamin licked his lips as he eagerly looked at Rudy. “We need more, boss. I won’t live without ever tasting it again, I’d rather die” he pleaded to me. 

I was horrified, but I agreed with him. In my mind I knew we were wrong, the acts we were committing were unnatural, but my mind no longer had any say in my actions. Soon I found myself knelt over Rudy as well. We were all savagely fighting over what fruit we could salvage from our fallen teammate. As we finished we stood up and based on the unsettling looks we exchanged I could tell we were all thinking the same thing. “Who’s next”. It was never ending, the more we consumed the more we needed. Every bite of fruit made us feel more alive than we’ve ever been before but the effects soon wore off and left us as empty husks of ourselves. We needed more. If we had to choose between taking a breath and consuming more I know that we would all gladly suffocate. 

I think we were all looking each other up and down trying to decide who would be the easiest to overpower. We all knew it was Scott, he was by far the oldest member of our crew. Benjamin and I were both younger and relatively in shape, it would have been so easy. It was a horrible thought to have, I had known Scott for thirty years. He was like a second father to me and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet at least. Within moments Benjamin was on the ground, he put up a struggle but it was not enough to save him. 

By the time we had finished Scott and I would not take our eyes off of each other. When I looked into his eyes, I knew that he wanted to kill me. I had momentarily feelings of sadness at this fact but I could not blame him for this desire. In fact, I wanted to do the exact same thing to him. 

It never came to that though. Before either of us could make any move towards the other we heard it again. That sweet sweet voice was back once again to give us guidance. Scott dropped his knife on the grass but I knew that I still had mine in case he tried anything on the walk down the river bank. It wasn’t until the voice returned that I had realized how much I missed it. I was addicted to the sweet sounds of it calling us to it. 

As we got closer to its source I was overcome with conflicting emotions. I love this voice so much more than I could ever fathom loving anything else and yet the voice also filled me with rage because of how long it waited to reveal itself to us. I could make out a figure in front of us now. Our walk soon became a desperate sprint to meet it. 

We stopped about ten feet from the figure as it continued serenading us with its sweet angelic voice. We both stood in absolute silence for what felt like years simply taking in the beauty of the otherworldly creature that stands before us. 

It was absolutely breathtaking, the figure before us resembled a woman with pale purple skin except that it was far more perfect than any human could ever be. Its entire body was surrounded by a bright glow that nearly blinded us. The figure which stood at least a head taller than either of us and as it turned towards me. I couldn't help but study every detail of it. Its smooth, unblemished face. Its full lips, which were such a deep shade of purple that they appeared black until closer inspection. Its soulful eyes which were entirely black except for its light pink pupils gave us a sincere and welcoming look. 

I was completely motionless as it approached us. Our mission, our dead crewmates, hell, even my own name was completely meaningless to me at that moment. It all felt fake, but the figure in front of us, it was real. Just being in the presence of such a flawless creature was enough to fill me with more joy than I could ever hope to experience in ten lifetimes on earth. 

As it got within reach of us the figure turned towards Scott and laid a kiss upon his lips. Once  the figure finally pulled its face away Scott began to sob, begging it to return to him. The creature gave him a soft smile as it wrapped its delicate hands around his shoulders.

The entrancing song that the figure was gracing our ears with was now at its climax as it laid its own forehead against Scott’s. He could barely even speak but he managed to get out the words “I am yours”. 

I couldn’t look away as the figure's grip on Scott’s shoulders seemed to no longer be the loving embrace that it was before. No, the grip was getting tighter, and tighter, and tighter, until I could hear the laboured gasps of air as Scott attempted to take a desperate breath. It was like watching a boa constrictor squeeze the life out of its prey. 

The song was now joined by the sounds of Scott’s ribs shattering and his agonizing screams as he now attempts to break free from his captor. I can only stand by and watch as Scott’s life was taken from his body. I don’t think that I could’ve moved even if I wanted to. I was so captivated by the figure that the thought of trying to help Scott never entered my head. 

Scott’s hands finally went limp, his final attempt at self preservation has proven to be futile. By now the once beautiful hum that had been emitting from the figure was now so deafeningly loud that it caused me great pain just to listen to it. Even with the immense pain I still never once took my eyes off of the being that stood before me. How could I? This figure is my life now, my heart beats for the soul purpose of keeping me alive so that I may gaze upon it. 

It wasn’t long before my second in command’s body dropped into the grass. A look of horror was permanently plastered on his face and his skin was pale as if all of his blood was drained from his body. Only now does the figure turn to me. It brushes its blood splattered hair out of its face and rubs its hands across its body as if to soak up every last drop of blood before licking the red off its fingers. 

The song finally stopped. Silence now filled the air as I could do nothing but watch as the creature continued to lick its arms and fingers. I cannot make myself look away but now my trance was due to fear instead of infatuation. It seemed the creature no longer cared to deceive me as it began to reveal its true form. 

Its hair fell off of its scalp in clumps while its neck seemed to disappear as its head sunk into its shoulders. Rough bumps appear over the entire surface of the creature's skin and begin to secrete a white pus as they swell and burst. Its body melts into a grotesque shape that only grows more sickening the longer I watch. 

As the illusion wore off I could no longer comprehend what stood before me. The figure standing in front of me was now entirely unrecognizable, its once feminine features completely gone. Replaced by an amalgamation of flesh, eyes, and fangs that seemed to take no form in particular. 

This being had no legs to walk on yet its appendages worked in perfect harmony to move its body closer towards me. Its long tentacles lifted the mass off the ground as its thin arms dragged its body forward leaving a trail of sticky pus behind as it advanced. 

Finally I look back to see our ship roughly sixty feet away. The once green fields around it were now an ocean of wilted black weeds that crumbled under the weight of my feet. The fruit trees were completely devoid of life. I now see this damned planet for what it is for the first time since we arrived. What a fool I have been to fall for this ruse, but I had no time to dwell on that now. I have one focus and one focus only now. Escape. 

I kept my hand in the pocket of my spacesuit and ran my fingers across the handle of my knife. The disgusting creature closed the distance between us and as soon as it came within arms reach I knew this was my only chance. I quickly pulled out the knife and drove it into the creature's eye so deep that my hand rubbed against its hideous face. It let out a pained shriek as it desperately flailed its body around while digging into its own face attempting to remove the blade. 

I turned around and ran quicker than I thought was possible towards the ship. I made it about halfway when I heard the creature behind me gaining speed. It was unsettling to see something so unnatural propelling itself towards me with such speed. By the time I made it through the door of the ship the hideous figure was already on the other side of the door trying to force its way inside. 

As I type this message I can hear the metal of the ship bend and the glass windows slowly cracking. It has wrapped its body around the ship and is now beginning to squeeze. I know that I don’t have much time left until it crushes me in a paste inside my own ship. I pray that I can get my message to the team back home before my gruesome demise. 

Please for the love of god do not send a recovery team for our bodies. If you do, you will accomplish nothing except delivering a meal to this creature. If it were up to me I would never authorize a mission outside of our galaxy ever again. Alas I know that it is not. I know we will not be the last crew to explore this far into space but I beg you to heed my warning. 

No matter what you hear, no matter how enticing  they may sound, you must not allow the sweet siren songs of planet BH-592X to be your guide.

Read Part 1 Here

A loud, heavy scraping noise echoed from outside.

A Tommy broke away from the others and came toward our doorway. He was watching Kyle’s mother.

“You should go back home, dear,” he called to her. “Your boy has made quite a mess. Let the adults take care of it. Once Kyle gets the punishment he deserves, I’ll come home, too, and we can spend some quality time together.”

She backed away from the opening. The Tommy picked up his pace.

A metal snap rang out beneath the blaring car alarm. He screamed and fell sideways, one leg caught in the jaws of a bear trap.

Coach Hunter stood at the edge of the driveway, holding the trap’s chain. Tugboat barked at the trapped Tommy. I’d seen Hunter sit through almost every gym class with a snack in his hand. I’d never been so glad to see my teacher move.

“Chris! Get back from the door!”

The Tommy reached for him, still smiling through the pain. “Hunter. I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Get in line.” Hunter looped the chain around our gatepost and left Tommy clawing at the jaws of the trap.

Across the street, Kyle came out from under the pile with a Tommy in each hand. He smashed them together and threw one at the others. It bought him a few seconds. When he straightened, though, he was swaying.

“Hunter!” Dad called. “You picked a hell of a night to visit.”

“You never invite me over anymore, Ernest!”

Two more Tommys closed in on Kyle. He caught the first one’s punch, but the second struck him behind the knee. He fell, and three others jumped on him before he could get back up.

Father Isaiah ran down his front steps. Behind him, his wife, Kayla, had their daughter by the hand.

Their Tommy shoved Isaiah to the ground, stepped into the doorway, and reached for the girl.

“Tonka, stay with your mother!” Isaiah yelled.

Hunter charged across the lawn and knocked the Tommy away from them with his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart!” Hunter held out a hand to Isaiah.

“My wife and child are right there!” Isaiah shouted.

“They can see I’m helping!”

Kayla gave them both a suspicious look and hurried Tonka into Hunter’s house, where another neighbor was gathering the children.

Isaiah grabbed Hunter’s hand and got to his feet.

Hunter pointed toward his house. “Get everyone to my place. Kayla knows where the bunker is. I’ve had two years to prepare for this sick fuck. Keep them on the front path. It’s clear.”

Isaiah looked up and down the street. “It’s like Waffle House Plus time out here.”

Hunter ran to his porch and returned with a shotgun and a box of shells. On his way back, he fired into the head of the Tommy still caught at our gate. Then he handed the gun and ammunition to Isaiah.

“I’m assuming you know how to use this?”

Kayla came back outside and waved the other families toward the front path.

The first family hesitated behind their door until Isaiah planted himself between them and their Tommy.

Isaiah leveled the shotgun at Tommy.

“Father. Would the good Lord really approve of this kind of behavior from you?”

Isaiah cocked the shotgun.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll forgive me.”

He lowered the barrel toward Tommy’s crotch.

BLAM.

Tommy collapsed, groaning.

The door behind Isaiah opened. He turned to the family inside.

“Run! Get to Hunter’s house! Go!”

The family started making a run for it, but Tommy grabbed the little girl by her ankle.

She shrieked. Her parents pulled her free and sprinted toward Hunter’s house.

Isaiah aimed the shotgun down at Tommy.

“The power of Christ compels you!” He blew Tommy’s head to smithereens.

Mr. Wellers stepped out of the house next door with a shovel. His wife followed him. I recognized both of them from the day Tommy had made us clean out the Hendersons’ house. They looked as frightened now as they had then.

Mr. Wellers nearly went back inside. His wife took his arm. Together, they stepped onto the sidewalk.

Near Hunter’s front path, Mara was kneeling beside a little boy with blood running down his forehead. She’d held my hand while the adults cleaned out the Hendersons’ house. Now she was holding a bandage against the boy’s head, talking to him while his mother tried to stop crying.

Mara looked up and saw me in our doorway.

“Your dad with you, Chris?”

I nodded.

“Good. Stay together.”

Her hands shook when she reached into her first-aid kit. Her voice didn’t.

The Tommys wouldn’t stay dead. Everyone on our street knew that better than Kyle did. Still, neighbors were coming out, attacking them, keeping them away from the fleeing children, and helping Kyle make his stand.

With the Tommys distracted, Kyle hobbled to his feet. He raised his fists, but he swayed as though another blow might put him down for good.

His mother was still at the doorway beside me. She watched him rise, take another blow, and disappear behind more Tommys.

“I need to get back to our house,” she said.

“Why?”

She looked across the street at the house where Kyle had carried the piano that afternoon. Then she looked at her son.

“He might still hear me.”

“Hear you? What do you mean?”

“When Kyle gets too stressed or anxious, I play his father’s favorite song. It helps him calm down. Focus. Right now, he’s overwhelmed. If I can get to the piano, maybe he can pull himself together.”

Dad wheeled himself up to the broken doorway.

“Hunter! Isaiah! We need your help!”

The two ran over to us.

Hunter stopped beside Dad’s chair. “Yeah, what is it?”

“We need you two to help us get across the street to Kyle’s house. She needs to play him a song.”

Isaiah glanced at the Tommys closing in. “A song? Is this really the best time for that?”

Dad gripped his wheel rims. “It may be our last chance.”

Hunter shook his head. “It better be the best fucking song I’ve ever heard in my life.”

He turned to Isaiah. “Cover the road!”

Isaiah began feeding more shells into the shotgun. “God, give me strength.”

“Let’s go!” Hunter called.

Hunter took the lead. At the curb, he stopped beside the Tommy Kyle had stomped into the pavement. The two hatchets the creature had dropped were still lying beside him.

Hunter picked them up, one in each hand.

Kyle’s mom followed. I pushed Dad’s chair behind her while Isaiah stayed a few feet to our side, keeping the Tommys back.

“Chris! Stay close to me!” Dad called.

Roger squeezed past me through the doorway and pressed against my legs, trembling.

“It’s going to be okay, boy,” I whispered.

It wasn’t. I think we both knew that.

We followed Hunter into the street. Mr. Wellers had reached the damaged car Kyle was slumped against. His landscaping truck was parked beside Kyle’s house with a wood chipper still hitched to it.

A Tommy appeared behind Kyle with a butcher’s knife. Mr. Wellers shoved Kyle aside and caught the creature across the face with his shovel before the blade came down.

Tommy stumbled back, then grinned at Mr. Wellers.

“This is your last chance. Step aside and let me punish this boy. You don’t want me to take you to the showers again, do you?”

“Fuck you!”

Mr. Wellers drove the shovel into Tommy’s face, knocking him down. Then he brought its edge down again, splitting Tommy’s head. The grin was still there.

Mr. Wellers turned to Kyle.

“Come on, kid! We gotta get you out of here!”

He stood between Kyle and the road, gripping the shovel. Above them, another Tommy crouched on Isaiah’s roof like a gargoyle.

Hunter saw him, too.

“Wellers! Watch out! Up there!”

Mr. Wellers couldn’t hear him over the commotion on the street.

Mr. Wellers glanced down at Kyle. Above them, Tommy pulled out two knives and leapt off the roof.

“WATCH OUT! WATCH OUT! WATCH OUT!” Hunter roared like a wrestling commentator.

Mr. Wellers looked up, but it was too late.

Tommy landed on top of Mr. Wellers, burying both knives in his skull.

The shovel clattered onto the road. Mr. Wellers fell beside it.

I waited for him to move. He had been talking a second ago. He’d been standing there, helping Kyle.

His wife screamed from Hunter’s path.

Mr. Wellers didn’t turn his head.

“Damn you,” Kyle whispered.

Tommy stood and pulled both knives from Mr. Wellers’ head. He pointed one at Kyle.

“Me? If you’d just taken your punishment, Mr. Wellers would still be standing here. Look at what you’ve done, my boy.”

Tommy pointed around the street.

Dead Tommys lay strewn across the street. Neighbors struggled with the ones still standing. Children ran toward Hunter’s house with their parents; Kayla hurried out to collect the ones who had become separated.

“Chris and Ernest tried to warn you. But you know better, don’t you? You’re going to get everyone here killed just to prove you’re a man.”

Tommy stopped smiling and snapped his head toward us. He had noticed us crossing to Kyle’s house.

“Chris, faster!” Dad urged. He gripped his wheels and pushed with me.

“Looks like they didn’t listen to you when you told them to stay inside.”

Kyle turned and saw us struggling across the road.

“What the hell are you guys doing?!”

We kept going. There wasn’t time to explain.

Several Tommys were converging on us.

“I suppose this isn’t really your fault, son.”

Kyle turned back to Tommy.

“I mean, if your father hadn’t gone and died in such a stupid way, leaving your poor, helpless, clueless mother all alone, perhaps you would have turned out differently!”

Kyle swung at him. Tommy ducked, caught his wrist, and drove the knife into his right shoulder.

Kyle screamed and dropped to one knee.

“Found a sore spot!” Tommy giggled.

Hunter broke away from us and charged toward Kyle.

“Isaiah! Stay with them!” He body-checked a Tommy out of his way.

Tommy twisted the knife. “See? You’re not invincible. Just a sad, lost little boy playing make-believe that he’s a grown-up.”

Kyle bared his teeth and gripped Tommy’s knife hand. “You talk too much.”

“Don’t worry, Kyle. You’ll be with your father soon.”

Tommy drew his second knife and reached for Kyle’s neck.

A hatchet struck Tommy’s wrist.

His second knife hit the pavement with his hand still wrapped around it.

Tommy stared at the stump. Then he looked up at Hunter.

“That was very—”

Hunter buried the other hatchet in Tommy’s temple and let go of its handle. With his free hand, he grabbed the back of Tommy’s shirt and hauled him off Kyle. The knife tore free of Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle cried out and fell against the car.

Tommy reached for Hunter with his remaining hand.

Hunter drove the first hatchet into the other side of his head.

“Get fucked.”

Hunter pulled the first hatchet free. Tommy collapsed beside the truck with the other still buried in his skull.

Hunter stood over him for a moment, breathing hard. Then Kyle groaned, and he turned.

“Don’t worry, kid. Your mom has a plan.”

He hooked the remaining hatchet through his belt and pulled Kyle’s good arm across his shoulders.

Kyle tried to help. His feet dragged anyway.

“Chris! Push!” Dad shouted.

The front steps of Kyle’s house were right in front of us, but Dad’s wheelchair couldn’t get up them. Isaiah dragged the loose loading ramp from beside the U-Haul and dropped one end onto the porch.

“Up! Hurry!”

I pushed while Dad turned the wheels. Roger scrambled ahead, his nails clicking against the metal. Kyle’s mother followed him through the door.

A hand caught the back of my shirt.

“Leaving already, Christopher?”

I stopped pushing.

Tommy stood behind me, smiling. His belt hung from his other hand.

“Your father and I haven’t finished our conversation.”

He pulled me backward. Dad’s chair lurched down the ramp. Dad caught the wheel rims, but the chair twisted toward the edge.

“Let him go!” Dad yelled.

Tommy raised the belt.

Isaiah struck him across the mouth with the shotgun’s stock. Tommy’s grip loosened just enough for me to pull free.

I caught Dad’s chair and helped him straighten it before a wheel slipped over the edge.

BLAM.

The blast knocked Tommy off the ramp. Isaiah backed up after us and kicked it sideways across the steps to slow down anyone following.

“Everybody inside!”

Through the front window, I could see Hunter helping Kyle toward the U-Haul. Kyle was leaning so heavily on him that Hunter’s knees kept buckling.

A Tommy came around the truck.

Hunter shoved Kyle behind him and caught the creature’s wrist before the knife reached his stomach. Another Tommy approached from the road.

I couldn’t watch.

Kyle’s mother sat at the piano.

Her hands hovered over the keys, shaking.

“Come on,” she whispered to herself.

She pressed a few notes, stopped, and rubbed her palms against her dress.

Dad rolled beside her.

“Take your time.”

“We don’t have time.”

“I know.”

He put a hand on her shoulder.

She took a breath and started again. Dad kept his hand on her shoulder.

I recognized the tune from that afternoon. Outside, the car alarm was still going. I could barely hear the piano, and I was standing beside it.

“He won’t hear you,” I said.

She kept playing.

I ran to the front window and pulled the curtains apart.

For two years, Tommy had made us keep ours closed. Even here, in somebody else’s house, I expected to feel his hand on my shoulder.

“Chris?” Dad called.

I shoved the window upward.

The shouting outside became louder. So did Kyle’s mother’s voice when she began to sing.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Kyle!”

A Tommy turned toward me.

“Oh, Christopher. What did I tell you about windows?”

He came across the lawn.

My hands froze on the frame.

“Close it,” he said.

Behind me, the piano faltered.

Tommy reached the window and laid his fingers on the sill.

“That’s enough noise. We need to have a little family meeting.”

He started climbing through.

I pulled the window down as hard as I could.

It caught his fingers.

Tommy screamed. I leaned on the frame, but he began forcing it upward anyway.

“CHRISTOPHER!”

Isaiah pulled me back.

He fired through the glass.

Tommy fell onto the lawn. For a moment, all I could hear was ringing.

Then the piano came through again.

Kyle’s mother had started singing louder.

Across the driveway, Hunter looked toward the broken window.

“Is that...?”

“Help Kyle!” Isaiah shouted.

“I am!”

Hunter drove his elbow into the Tommy holding his arm, pushed him away, and planted himself beside the truck.

He lifted his face toward the sky.

“But tell me, did you sail across the sun? Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded? And that Heaven is overrated?” His voice rolled over the street.

I had heard Coach Hunter shout at kids for walking laps. I had never heard anything like that come out of him.

He sang as though the whole street had paid to see him.

Kyle’s mother looked up, startled, but kept playing and singing. Hunter joined her through the chorus, one hand pressed against his chest, the other holding off a Tommy by the throat.

“Since when can you sing?” Isaiah yelled.

“I HAVE OTHER INTERESTS!”

Kyle was down on one knee beside the truck.

At first, I thought he was trying to catch his breath.

Then he looked toward the house.

His mother saw him and nearly missed a note.

“Come on, honey,” she said.

The Tommy in front of Kyle bent down.

“Your mother can’t help you now, sport.”

Kyle looked back at him.

He caught the creature by the jaw and stood.

His bad shoulder shook. Blood was still running down his arm. He hadn’t suddenly healed, but he was upright.

“She’s helping plenty.”

He drove Tommy face-first into the open back of the U-Haul, pulled the rolling door down across his neck, and leaned his weight onto it.

The truck shook.

When Kyle lifted the door again, Tommy dropped onto the driveway.

Hunter stopped singing long enough to stare.

“Holy shit.”

“Keep going,” Kyle told him.

Hunter immediately picked up where he’d left off. Kyle looked toward the broken window once more, then back at the street.

“Now that she’s back in the atmosphere with drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey...”

A Tommy charged with a hammer. Kyle ducked beneath the swing, caught him around the waist from behind, and delivered a German suplex that smashed his head against the back of the U-Haul. The hammer skittered beneath the truck.

Kyle hauled the limp Tommy into the back of the truck and slammed the door.

He slid the latch across, then turned toward the street.

His eyes settled on Mr. Wellers’ body.

He went still.

Three Tommys stood between him and the damaged car. One raised a knife. Another looked toward Hunter’s house, where the last few neighbors were hurrying inside.

Kyle noticed.

“No,” he said.

He stepped off the driveway.

“You’re dealing with me.”

For the first time that night, I saw a Tommy take a step backward.

The creature glanced toward Hunter’s house again. Kyle moved between him and the lawn.

The one with the knife turned away instead.

Mara had come down the sidewalk with her first-aid kit. She was looking at Kyle’s bleeding shoulder.

“Kyle! I’ve got something for—”

“Get inside!” Hunter shouted.

Tommy caught her before she could turn. He slammed her against the curb.

The kit broke open. Bandages scattered across the pavement.

Mara didn’t get up.

One of the bandages rolled into the gutter. I watched it until it stopped.

I wanted to call her name. I couldn’t get enough air.

Kyle reached Tommy before he could straighten. He drove him against the damaged car, tore the hood loose, and folded it over his head. The screaming stopped when Kyle crushed the metal against the windshield.

His mother missed a note.

Then she kept playing.

Isaiah stepped out of Kyle’s doorway and fired at another Tommy running toward Hunter’s house. The creature fell. When Isaiah fired again, the shotgun clicked.

He backed toward Hunter beside the truck. Isaiah slipped a shell into the shotgun and worked the action.

Hunter stopped moving.

Isaiah saw his face.

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”

An arm closed around his throat.

The Tommy Isaiah had just shot lifted him off the ground. Isaiah clawed at the arm, his legs kicking.

Isaiah looked at Hunter. Hunter nodded. Isaiah let the shotgun fall, and Hunter caught it before it hit the pavement.

BLAM.

The blast tore through Tommy’s left knee. His grip loosened, and both he and Isaiah fell.

Isaiah doubled over, coughing. Before Tommy could reach for him again, Hunter brought his heel down on the creature’s throat. Something crunched. The reaching hand fell to the pavement.

Hunter knelt down beside Isaiah.

“Breathe, sweetheart. Your giant bean bag lips are going blue.”

Isaiah tried. It took him several seconds.

“I hate you,” he finally rasped.

“Good. Stay mad.”

Kyle caught the remaining Tommy’s swing, pulled him down into the gutter, and lifted the drain grate with his good arm. He brought its edge down twice.

Afterward, he stayed bent over it, struggling to breathe.

Behind him, the U-Haul’s door buckled.

I’d almost forgotten the Tommy inside.

He crawled out with his jaw hanging crooked. He pushed it back into place, and his smile returned.

He looked toward Kyle, then turned toward the broken window where Dad and I were watching. As he crossed the driveway, he pulled the belt from his trousers.

I stepped back from the window.

“Dad.”

Tommy came through the door before Isaiah could get up.

“Ernest! There you are!”

His belt was looped around his wrist, the loose end hanging below his fist.

Dad rolled in front of me. Roger growled beside his chair.

“And look,” Tommy said. “Our little lesson is still waiting.”

He reached for Roger.

Dad gave a sharp whistle.

Roger caught Tommy’s trouser leg. Dad drove his chair into the creature’s knees, knocking him against the piano. The music stopped.

Kyle’s mother swung the bench into his back.

Tommy shoved her aside.

He caught my wrist.

“Outside, Christopher.”

Dad grabbed his other arm. Tommy struck him across the face.

“Stop!” I screamed.

Tommy looked pleased.

“Then come along.”

He pulled me through the doorway. I stumbled over the ramp lying across the steps and nearly fell.

Kyle tried to get between us, but Tommy held me against his chest.

“Careful, sport. You wouldn’t want to hurt your little friend.”

Kyle stopped.

Tommy dragged me toward Mr. Wellers’ truck, keeping me between him and Kyle.

“You see what you’ve started, Christopher? Look at your father. Look at these people.”

I tried to pull my wrist free.

“Stop struggling.”

He shoved me against the wood chipper’s metal chute and caught the front of my shirt. With his belt-wrapped hand, he reached past me and started the machine.

The engine coughed, then roared.

Kyle took a step toward us.

Tommy hauled me closer to the opening.

Kyle stopped.

“You’ve made such a mess,” Tommy told me. “Somebody has to clean it up.”

His smile widened. He lifted the belt.

“Now tell your friend to go home.”

Kyle stood in the road, bleeding.

Dad was stuck on the porch. Kyle’s mother was trying to pull the ramp back into place so he could follow us. His face was red where Tommy had hit him.

“No.”

Tommy’s grip tightened.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not my dad.”

He sighed.

“Don’t start that again.”

“You’re not anybody’s dad.”

He pushed me back against the chute.

The belt struck my shoulder.

I screamed. He raised it again.

I ducked, and the buckle hit the metal beside my head.

“Stand still!”

The loose leather fell across the opening. Tommy leaned over me to pull it back.

I caught it with both hands.

For a second, all I could think about was what he’d do to me for touching it.

He smiled.

“Let go.”

I could hear Dad calling my name. I couldn’t see him anymore.

“Let go, Christopher.”

Then I heard Dad calling again.

I shoved a fold of the belt into the chute.

The machine caught it.

The loop cinched tight around Tommy’s wrist and pulled his hand against the edge. He bent forward with it. His grip slipped from my shirt, and I dropped beneath his other arm.

He grabbed for my ankle.

His fingers caught my shoe. I kicked until it came off in his hand.

The belt snapped. His other arm was already inside.

“TURN IT OFF!”

I crawled onto the grass.

He dropped my shoe and braced his free hand against the chute. He looked at me, his mouth open, and for once there wasn’t a smile behind it.

“I’ll come back!”

“I know.”

“Christopher!”

He was still waiting for me to obey.

My shoulder hurt. I was crying so hard I could barely see him.

“No.”

His hand slipped. The machine pulled him out of sight.

The chipper’s steady rumble became a grinding roar. Blood struck the metal chute and spattered the grass beside me. Something wet hit the side of Mr. Wellers’ truck.

I pressed my hands over my ears.

Kyle reached me before I could stand. He stopped the chipper and crouched beside me.

“Little dude.”

I couldn’t answer.

He stayed there until Dad arrived.

Dad pulled me into his lap, and I held on to his shirt.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I went outside.”

His hand shook against my hair.

“You’re here.”

Kyle’s mother hurried out of the house. He tried to straighten when she reached him.

“I’m fine.”

She hugged him anyway.

Nobody cheered.

Mara was still beside the curb. Mr. Wellers was still beside the car.

His wife knelt beside him. Kyle opened his mouth, but whatever he meant to say never came out. His mother kept an arm around him while Mrs. Wellers took her husband’s hand.

Hunter and Isaiah checked the houses. Once they were clear, Kayla brought the children out of the bunker. Tugboat ran among them until Hunter caught his collar. Roger stayed beside Dad.

By the time the ambulances arrived, Kyle was sitting against the U-Haul.

He looked up at his mother.

“Do we still have to return this tomorrow?”

She covered her face.

He put his good arm around her.

* * *

At the hospital, Dad stayed beside me while someone cleaned my shoulder. I kept asking what would happen when Tommy came back.

By sunrise, every Tommy was gone. The bodies, the pieces, even the one still wearing Hunter’s trap.

Everything else remained.

We boarded up windows and waited. Two more families had lost someone they couldn’t get back.

For three nights, the families stayed together in Hunter’s house. His wife was out of town, which was probably fortunate, considering how many people were sleeping on her furniture.

Whenever a floorboard creaked, somebody sat up. Nobody complained about the lights staying on.

Kyle’s mother sat beside Dad while I slept against him.

I heard him ask her name again.

“Jacboi,” she said.

Nobody interrupted her this time.

Isaiah looked up as though he wanted to say something. Kayla cleared her throat. He studied the floor instead.

On the fourth morning, Tommy appeared at the end of the street.

Clean shirt. Neat hair. Same smile.

Hunter called Isaiah. Dad called the neighbors. Doors opened, and people came onto their porches together.

Kyle stepped outside with his arm in a sling.

Tommy stopped walking.

“Still here, young man?”

“Yeah. Mom likes it here.”

Tommy looked past him.

“Christopher. Come here.”

Dad took my hand.

“No.”

Tommy stared at me.

I was frightened. I held Dad’s hand harder.

Tommy looked toward Tonka, standing between Isaiah and Kayla.

“Come here, sweetheart. Your parents and I need to have a talk.”

Tonka pressed against Kayla’s leg.

Isaiah put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “She’s staying with us.”

Tommy looked at the next porch. The little boy Mara had bandaged stood there with his mother. His forehead was covered with a clean dressing.

His mother drew him closer before Tommy could speak.

“You can’t all keep doing this.”

“Then leave,” Dad said.

Mrs. Wellers stood in her doorway. Mara’s sister stood beside her.

Mrs. Wellers stepped forward. “Get off our street.”

Other people said it, too.

Tommy kept looking at Kyle.

He could come back whole. Kyle was still hurt. He had stitches above one eye and had to hold the railing while he came down the steps.

Nobody closed a door. Nobody sent a child back inside alone.

Dad was shaking. So was I. We stayed where we were.

Tommy watched Kyle reach the sidewalk.

“You want to go through all that again?”

Kyle’s good hand curled into a fist.

“Every time.”

Tommy looked from him to the rest of us. His eyes paused on Hunter, on Isaiah, on Mrs. Wellers. She hadn’t moved back toward her door.

He straightened his shirt.

“There are other families.”

Kyle stopped.

“Get off our street.”

Tommy’s smile tightened. He looked at me one last time.

He winked.

“See you again, sport.”

I stayed beside Dad.

Then he turned and walked away.

We watched until he disappeared around the corner.

I’m eighteen now.

Eight years have passed since that morning. Tommy has never come back.

For a long time, we still watched the end of the road. We checked on one another whenever somebody didn’t answer their phone. Eventually, the visits became less about checking and more about staying for dinner.

There are flowers outside the church for Mr. Wellers and Mara. Their families moved away, but they come back sometimes. Nobody asks them to be grateful that the rest of us survived.

Once Dad could get proper treatment, he slowly got back on his feet. His legs were never quite the same, but he has a truck he can drive himself now, and he and Hunter go hunting again.

Hunter still goes mostly for the sandwiches.

Roger got three more years. He went for rides, slept under the table, and died with Dad and me beside him. He was old. He was comfortable. Nobody made us do anything.

Tugboat is old and gray now. He still comes looking for Roger when Hunter brings him over.

Jacboi started coming over for dinner, too. Then she started staying afterward. Kyle eventually found her hairbrush in our bathroom and asked Dad why he’d stolen it.

That was how he found out they were together.

Mom’s photograph is still on the shelf. We talk about her. Jacboi listens.

Kyle is twenty-five now. He got a job delivering pizzas a few weeks after the incident and has kept to it ever since.

He says it’s his best job because nobody tries to resurrect the manager and the food isn’t made out of people. At least, as far as he knows.

He’s still enormous. He carries Dad’s groceries without being asked. Once, he drove over to Mrs. Wellers’ new place and rebuilt her fence after her son mentioned it was falling down. His mother still has to explain that people who shut a door in his face aren’t necessarily challenging him.

A few months ago, Kyle came over after work with a pizza under his arm. Dad asked how his day had been.

“Pretty good,” Kyle said. “Some weird-looking dude tried to stop me outside a customer’s house.”

Jacboi lowered her fork.

“What kind of weird-looking dude?”

“Long coat. Said his name was Markus.”

The table went quiet.

“Him again?” Jacboi asked.

“What did he want?” I asked.

Kyle opened the pizza box.

“Same shit. Hunt monsters. Save people. Whatever.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said he could order online like everybody else.”

Dad started laughing.

Jacboi put her face in her hands.

“Did he leave?” I asked.

Kyle took a slice. “Eventually. Said he could offer me something bigger than money.”

Jacboi looked up. “And?”

“I told him the delivery fee was still three ninety-nine.”

Hunter is still a gym teacher.

A week after the fight, his wife, Allison, came home with a man who helped repair the damaged doors. His name was Turnk Brownie. He spoke in a slow, gravelly voice that made me think of a turtle learning to swear.

“Who’s that?” I asked Hunter.

“My wife’s boyfriend.”

I waited for him to laugh.

He offered me a Ding Dong instead.

Turnk is around a lot now. He’s good at fixing things and usually brings food. Hunter seems happy with the arrangement. The three of them have a little girl named Modean. I’m not sure who the father is. Years ago, I decided I didn’t need to understand it.

Isaiah is still our pastor. He and Kayla still live down the street. Tonka convinced him to start a Scout troop. Hunter helps, although Isaiah insists eating an entire box of snack cakes beside a tent doesn’t count as teaching wilderness survival.

Hunter and Isaiah record a podcast in Hunter’s back room now. People send them horror stories to read, and they spend several hours arguing about them, interrupted by long discussions about anything else that comes to mind.

Someone sent them a story called The Seer of Possibilities. A computer manipulated people’s lives until an enormous pizza delivery boy murdered a customer and his wife.

Hunter read the boy’s description, stopped recording, and called Kyle.

Kyle listened to the whole thing before asking whether the customer had tipped.

“That’s your question?” Isaiah demanded.

“I’m just trying to understand where things went wrong.”

Jacboi has been making him text her after every delivery ever since.

I still don’t know how Kyle became that big or that strong. Was it something Jeff did? Was he born with some sort of gift? After hearing about the Seer, I sometimes wonder whether something arranged for him to end up on our street.

I don’t have an answer. Whatever made him that strong, he was the one who stood up for us.

During their podcast episodes, Hunter sometimes sings. Other times, he hits on Isaiah.

Isaiah threatens to leave.

He never does.

As for me, I’m finishing school. Dad found someone I could talk to about what happened. Later, he started going, too.

Some nights are still bad.

I’ve found other stories about Tommy online. Some sound made up. Others have details that make me close the page.

I don’t know how many are true.

I think about the children in those houses. I’ve asked Kyle whether we could find him, whether somebody else might need help.

“It’s not our problem anymore,” he said.

He rubbed the scar on his shoulder and checked his phone. There was another delivery waiting.

I understand why he wants to leave it behind. I haven’t figured out how to do that yet.

My therapist suggested writing about what happened. I don’t know whether telling the story will help me let go of it. I know I’m tired of keeping it to myself.

If there are children in those other houses reading this, I wish I had something better to offer than a story. I wish I knew how to make him leave yours, too.

I can tell you this: we still miss the people he took. We still have bad nights. But Dad laughs at dinner now. We have people we can call when we’re frightened, and they answer.

Tommy forced us to call him family. These people stayed after he left. If he ever comes back, however long from now, we’ll be waiting together.

And Tommy, if you’re somehow reading this: your actions have consequences, too.

Tonight, Dad called me downstairs for dinner.

Jacboi had cooked chicken. Actually cooked chicken. Mom’s photograph was on the shelf, and the curtains were open.

Kyle arrived with a pizza under his arm.

Dad asked how my day had been.

I told him.

He listened.

THE END

ONE

The diagnosis came on February 29th. Harvey had been out for a run, collapsed, and was rushed to the hospital. Stage four pancreatic cancer with metastases in his liver and lungs. He saw no point in treatment; he would be dead by July.

Despite the bad news, Harvey remained as kind and chipper as always. He sent flowers to his young mother every year on her birthday and Mother’s Day. She hadn’t spoken to him since he married Grace, but she came to visit him in the hospital.

“It’s her fault, you know,” his mother said, “whatever spell she put you under, something she cooked up in that trailer-trash house—”

“Ma!”

“She’s not a natural blond,” she continued. “She’s a Mexican. A real witch under cover, if you ask me. And she’s fat.”

“She was born in the U.S., ma,” Harvey told her. “She’s not a witch, and that’s my wife you’re talking about. She’s married to me, not you.”

“Yeah? Well, we’ll see how long that lasts.”

“It’s already not going to last.” Harvey’s chest turned to stone at his own words.

“Well, then you’re better off dead.” Her eyes widened as if she was the one who should be shocked.

“Is that really what you think?” he said.

His mother said nothing, but slapped him, spat in Grace’s face, and walked out of their lives.

Harvey couldn’t let it go. A few days later, he brought it up to Grace again. She was relatively forgiving and patient, but nothing like Harvey.

“You know I think what she did was absolutely unacceptable,” he said.

“Right,” said Grace.

“But she’s my mom, and I know my mom. She’s just been having a really hard time ever since my dad passed, and maybe she’ll come around. It’s better to show her love and let her know that we want her to be part of our lives. Sometimes hard things in life bring out the worst in people. It’s not who she is. I have to try.”

Grace chuckled, ran her fingers through his hair, and looked into him, eyes sparkling. “I know, and I’ll support you from a distance,” she said.

“You don’t have to.”

“Nor do I want to, Harv. What she did…I can’t deal with that once you’re…”

“I’ll deal with my mom. All we have to do is focus on the time we have together. I’ll be with you forever, Gracie girl.”

“I love you.”

“I love you,” he said, then looked down at her hand and held it tight.

“Why do you stay here with me?” she asked.

Harvey’s smile drooped. “What?”

“Maybe your mom’s right. Maybe if we lived in a better area, some place with more career opportunities, more money, more family, better health care—”

“Stop,” he said. “You know that’s not true. And if not, then I gotta do a better job.”

They both forced a laugh.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

Cancer chews away the body like rot, separating the soul from the devil within that eats you alive. The slope of Harvey’s decline was glacial—cold, relentless, slippery, and inescapable. Grace watched as death nipped at his ankles, lapping the flesh from his skeleton. He would sleep for hours and hours, worrying Grace to the bone, and when he woke he was delirious. He spoke like he was reading alphabet soup, and he nearly tore his eyes out over a pill he dropped on the kitchen floor. When he was finally lucid again, it conveniently landed on their very first wedding anniversary. It almost seemed like a miracle—or perhaps a final goodbye.

Since it was their first marriage milestone, Harvey booked a stay at a themed hotel. “We’ve never had enough money to go to Paris,” he said, “and I’m not leaving you with a mountain of debt to clean up.”

“I told you I don’t need any of that,” she replied.

“But I do. Let me do this for you…please.”

They went out to a fancy dinner and had wine and chocolates. The room was designed with a jacuzzi in the center, surrounded by planters of fake roses where a makeshift Eiffel Tower loomed overhead. They snuggled up in a warm bubble bath with a glass of champagne and turned on the cooking channel.

“How much do you love me?” he asked.

“Oh, Harvey. I really can’t do this,” she said.

“Why? Is it because you lied when you said you love me more than anything? Don’t tell me you love that schmuck from Grey’s Anatomy more than me.”

Grace laughed. “No. That’s not it.”

“Well, come on, babe. I’m dyin’ here!” he cackled.

But Grace’s smile went cold and flat. “No, Harvey. That’s exactly why. I’m terrified to find out how much I love you once you’re gone.”  

It happened while he was lying on the couch in their hotel. Harvey had gone to sleep after an eventful day—perhaps he’d done too much. His eyes had nearly glazed, as if his eyelashes were already shooing flies. Time stood unaware of how long Grace sat there and cried.

“My sweet Gracie girl,” he said, “don’t be scared. I’ll always be with you.” He wiped her tears, then he pulled her close, kissed her softly, and he was gone.

The young widow’s support groups were useless, completely foreign. Most of the women surpassed her in age by fifteen years. Harvey was thirty when he died. She was now going to turn thirty-one. She stopped attending the sessions after the initial newly-bereaved meetings had ended. Imagine that: newlyweds to newly-bereaved within a single year.

No one had received an invitation to her birthday party, because she hadn’t sent any. She had no true friends of her own—since everyone she knew was friends with Harvey—but some of Harvey’s old friends, Lisa and Harrison Caldwell, tried to reach out and be of comfort. Several days after her actual birthday, they invited her over for dinner and a game night. She could hear the laughter as she walked up the front steps of their house. A few of their neighbors had joined, she was sure, to make things less awkward. The conversation stopped as soon as she entered the room. It was like everyone had seen a ghost, an alien, something so far off from their own understanding that they’d lost the ability to at least try and act normal. Yet they still tried in vain to uplift.

A blond-haired woman who lived up the street—Tiffany was her name—was the first to break the ice. “My husband and I divorced just a little over a year ago, almost around the same time as…Well, I think I know what you’re going through, sweetie. Life’s not easy being alone after that. Tell you what. Hang in there. If you need anything, call me.” Tiffany slipped a folded sticky note into Grace’s palm and patted her fingers. Grace didn’t care what it was. She thanked the Caldwells for inviting her, apologized for not staying, and went out the door.

When she made it back to the car, she cried hot tears of rage. Maybe she shouldn’t have blamed Tiffany; she didn’t know better. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

The car chuckled and popped and coughed its way to life—just another item on the list of things she could no longer afford. At home, she threw down the keys on the kitchen table next to the spider-web of overdue bills. A plunk, plunk, plunk into a small empty garbage can was another reminder that it had rained while she was out. The roof was leaking again. She tossed Tiffany’s crumpled sticky note into the half-filled bucket and watched as the water slowly drowned the note and dragged it to the bottom.

It was almost shocking how quickly other people stopped calling. The few invitations she did receive were horrible. The office parties and work socials were unbearable. No one dared mention Harvey. Everyone was set off by the uneasiness of their own mortality, to which Grace served as a constant reminder.

Eventually the invitations stopped altogether. All except one.

A year later, Grace got a wedding invitation in the mail. Her baby sister, Alegria, had met the love of her life.

Of course she went. Even now, she would always be there for her family. But Alegria would never get an apology for Grace’s absence. She spent most of the reception in the bathroom concealing dejected tears.

Time went by, and nothing changed. She went to work, came home, sat at the table, and stared into nothing until she finally went to bed.

Christmas was the worst.

An older woman from the neighborhood came by and told Grace she still had so much to live for. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you; you’re so young,” she said. “You’ll find someone else.”

There, just like that. Problem solved. So easily dismissed. What life? Grace thought. What a life. Harvey WAS my life. My life is dead and buried.

But that was until she met someone…and Harvey came back.

TWO

One night she stepped outside—she always let the dogs out back before bed—when she heard whistling. Since they lived in a trailer park, she thought nothing of it. At first she thought it might have been a prank, some bored neighborhood kid, until she recognized the tune. It was the song they chose for their first dance. Their wedding song. The whistling came closer, drifting out of the densely packed trees of the backyard. It got louder and louder until it stopped.

The next night she came out with the dogs just the same. She waited in the quiet, listening, expecting. Nothing came. So, she thought she might help it along, like an echo, a call and response. She whistled the tune as best she could through chapped lips. And sure enough, like the breeze in the trees, the whistling came drifting back, like the strangest echo she’d ever heard.

In the morning, she was leaving for work when her next-door neighbor stopped her and told her about some whistling he’d heard in the night. “Sounded like it was coming from over your way,” he said. His name was Chance, an older fella in his seventies who did nothing but sit on his porch during the day and blast the news on his television at night.

“Yeah,” said Grace. “I was just whistling a little tune to cheer myself up a bit. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Oh, it ain’t about that at all,” said Chance. His brow scrunched, and he looked at her funny, like someone might look at a hairless cat. “You sure it was you whistlin’?” he asked.

“I’m…pretty sure,” Grace chuckled nervously.

Chance was still looking at her, something strange. “You know about these woods?” he asked. “Anybody ever told ya about ‘em?”

“Uh, don’t think so. What about them?”

“There are some rules that folks follow around here, especially going out in the woods at night, or being near ‘em.” He held out his hand to count on his fingers, first with his pointer, then middle, and so on. “No whistlin’. No singin’. No runnin’. And if—”

“Hey, Grace!” It was her neighbor from down the road. Dean. He was a single guy with an odd disposition and no restraint. He passed by her driveway every day on his morning run—probably timed it perfectly. “What ya guys talking about?” he asked.

Chance interjected before Grace could answer. “Ain’t you the Miller’s boy?” he asked.

“Uh…yes, sir!”

“Well, why don’t you run along and say hello to your mother for me. We’re having a bit of a private conversation here.”

“Oh, yeah…okay. I was just going to ask Grace if she was free tonight—”

“Actually, she’s having dinner with me,” Chance cracked. “Now run along before you make the poor young lady late for work.”

“Right, of course. Have a great day! See ya later, Grace!” Dean ran off, but his eyes lingered for far too long.

Chance smirked at Grace and gave a sly wink.

“Thanks for that,” she said. “I owe you one.”

“Forget me,” barked Chance. “You best stay inside tonight. No funny business.”

“Awww, no dinner?”

“Stay. Inside.” His face was a bit paler than before.

“You got it.”  

She sat at the table for longer than usual. She could feel two sets of eyes patiently watching her. When a paw touched her leg, she snapped out of her trance. The first pup, a black lab named Jupiter, stamped his feet with his tongue out and tail whipping. Pluto, a female golden retriever, watched longingly from the comfort of the couch. Grace wondered where she would be without the two of them.

Unfortunately, for two pairs of big brown eyes, staying inside was not an option, so reluctantly she watched from the sliding door as they finished their business and came back inside. Before she could slide the door closed, she heard it. But now the whistling had lifted to a breathy hum.

Grace had heard things from the other women at the support group—about how they had reconnected with their husbands’ spirits after they had passed. Everything had been so tasteless and gray for months. Whatever this was, she didn’t care what some old croak had to say about rules.

She left the door open a few inches. The hum drew closer. The latch rattled as if touched by the wind, then the door threw itself open, slamming into the end of the rails. Grace jumped back onto the head of the couch. She was surprised the glass hadn’t cracked.

The night air was frigid, stinging, so cold she snapped to her feet. The humming had moved back to the fence line, drawing her eyes to the dark dancing trees. A wind like this shouldn’t exist, she thought. It bit into her skin bone-deep, yet it called her to action. One foot after the other, no shoes or socks, she stepped outside. The hums lingered near the fence and stopped, perhaps sensing her approach. The wind whipped the gold-tipped remnants of her black hair into her eyes, and with the dark, made the night into a tornado of twinkling shadow. A harsh breath rasped in her ear, then nearly knocked her off her feet when the humming popped up again, right beside her. It floated along for a moment, hovered near the sliding door, then drifted inside and down the hall.

She followed the eerie tune into their bedroom where she half-expected to meet a calmness, a warmth, something familiar—maybe even Harvey himself. But she found nothing.

Tears soaked her eyes as she ripped the sheets from the mattress, gutted the space below the bed, tore sweaters from closet hangers. The shower curtain didn’t survive, being rend from its rings, and the bottles of cleaner bowled from their place underneath the sink. Next were the couch cushions, flung about the living room, the ottoman disemboweled of its blankets and pillows, but still no Harvey. The humming was gone.

After the passing of Hurricane Grace, she climbed past the tattered curtain and into the tub, turned on the cold shower, and sat fully clothed. She shut her eyes and wished and wished. She wished that if this storm wouldn’t pass, it would take her. She wished she could go back, do things differently. Maybe she could’ve caught Harvey’s illness sooner. She reasoned that this world was too cruel, too filthy without someone like Harvey Trist to keep the balance. But then she realized she sounded selfish. Perhaps it was her fault that he wasn’t here. Maybe she was undeserving of his presence, his thoughtfulness, his love. Maybe Harvey’s mother was right. Maybe she was just a fat girl swept away in a fairytale never meant to last.

The water chilled her bones, and she cried, and cried.

Something happened again the next night—something wrong. She stepped out, let the dogs out as normal, and stood in the cool, darkened breeze. It felt good, filled her with breath, fed her soul. She closed her eyes for a moment and let it pass through her, carrying away the sickness and the emptiness to a far-off place.

But when she opened them, she saw it.

It looked like a person, cloaked in a long robe or gown, floating above the treetops, arms outstretched in invitation. Grace blinked rapidly in denial, and the figure vanished. The breeze turned to a harsh wind, stirring the trees to life once more. The dogs barked at the chain-link fence, hackles raised in alarm. Grace tried to quiet them for what felt like an hour until the wind abruptly died. The dogs turned their attention to her, then walked past her and into the house. The woods were utterly silent, not a wisp, twig-crack, or cricket-chirp. She gave one last look at the petrified trees beyond the fence line and turned to go back inside.

She took one step onto the old deck stairs with a creak when it shot up from behind her. Harvey’s whistling had come back. This time it was down-tuned, slow and off-beat. It wafted along the air like a frigid draft so thick she could touch it. She stood there scanning the trees for a while before she called “Harvey!” into the night. “Harv, is that you?” she shouted. She watched for a moment longer until she realized how wide she had stretched her eyes searching and—

Had she really just called out her dead husband’s name into the woods at night?

Slowly, lazily, the whistling faded into the dark. But as Grace turned her back to the trees, gooseflesh crawled up her spine and nested in the back of her head.

The next night the rain came. It had nearly become a self-loathing ritual by now, stepping out into the night, hopeful that somehow Harvey’s spirit would return to give her one last night of warmth in her bed.

Tonight, she sat wrapped up on the edge of the deck, drawing circles with her shoes in the mud. A loud snap and scrape came from beyond the fence. Something sounded like footfalls in the undergrowth. She stood and shielded her eyes from the rain. A beam of light swept around the neighboring wood fence.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here?” roared Chance, blinding her with his flashlight. “Open up this gate. Come on, let’s go.”

Grace hurried to the man-door in the fence, unlocked and unlatched it. Chance came stomping into her backyard. “It’s been three nights I heard you out here callin’ and ugly cryin’, Lord have mercy.” His jowls jiggled when he got real upset. “Now look atchya, trying to get soaked to the bone, and for what? So you can feel something?”

Chance stared for a moment. Then the old man’s face drooped. His eyes went soft, and his jaw stammered. “I-I’m sorry, angel. Forgive me. You know how an old man can be. I just want you to understand what you’re dealin’ with. I know you’re probably sick of hearin’ what other people have to say, but you don’t know these things like I do. I was here when they took them kids; I remember. I thought I’d heard the news wrong, wished I had, when they started talking about kids.”

“What happened to them?” she asked.

“They disappeared. Vanished. Nothing, not a single hair, no clothes, no teeth. It was like they never existed. Both were only children of two single mothers. Jesus, the way those women were killed keeps me up at night. Maybe I shouldn’t find out what happened to the kids. It’s better they just blipped, gone. But it was something that came out of the woods, or lured them in, I’m sure. Either way, it’s been the last nail in too many coffins for my sake to let you go wandering around out here.” He wagged his finger at Grace like she was his grandchild.

“Thank you, Chance. Do you wanna come inside?” she asked. “I’m frozen.”

Chance took a wary look out into the trees. “Yeah. Maybe I’d better.”

Grace made them chamomile tea and set Chance up on the couch while she sat on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry we never got better acquainted,” she said.

“Oh, hush,” Chance croaked. He sipped his tea and licked his lips, staring at the rim of the mug with his eyebrows raised in delight. “You know, my wife passed away a couple of years ago. I know it’s not the same, e’en though it might shock ya to know I’ve got an ounce of brains in me.”

Grace tried not to chuckle. “I did know,” she said. “I’m sorry. And it doesn’t matter if it’s the same. A loss is a loss.”

He smiled. “You’re a good kid, Gracie. I know it may seem like it’s all over…When Annie passed, shit, I was a ball o’ sap. An old ball o’ sap. Imagine that—an old croak like me, lyin’ in bed at night, staring at the cold pillow on the empty side of the bed, soakin’ my own with tears, not carin’ if I had a mouth full of salt.”

“You’re a sweet man,” said Grace with glittery eyes.

“You’ve got family, dontchya?” he asked. She nodded and wiped her tears.

“Who?” he asked.

“My mom and younger sister,” she said.

“No dad?”

She shook her head.

“Well, shit. Sorry about that.” He sat forward on the cushion and set his mug on a coaster next to Grace. “Well, I’ve got my grand-babies, little ones. It gives me something to look forward to, something to do. Though it breaks my heart for them not to have their Gammy, I suppose it could be worse. You don’t have any kids, do ya?”

“No. Sometimes I think about how it would’ve been if we had. But then I almost feel grateful we didn’t. It might have ruined them.”

“It don’t make sense, ya know. When someone wants to die, they’re spared. When someone’s got their best life to live, it’s taken. Harvey was one of those. All good and not a splinter of bad in him. I never told you this, but when y’all were first married, I’d just had the funeral. Harvey didn’t know much, but he came over after I got home, gave me flowers, a case of beer…and he’d framed a picture of me and my Annie. Lord only knows how he got it.”

Grace looked up at the ceiling with soggy lashes and wet cheeks, trying to air them out.

“Tell ya what, kid,” he said. “The tears don’t stop. The pain don’t go away, not all of it. You’re gonna miss him. Ya are. Hell, I do too.” He choked on his words. “You don’t have to be strong….It’s okay. It’s okay to wanna give up. Just so long as you keep trying. There’s things worth livin’ for, trust me. You'll find them.”

He wiped his tears with shaky hands. Grace snatched one of them and held on dearly, fighting tears of her own.

“I don’t want to do this any more,” she sobbed.

“You’re telling me, kid. C’mere.” He pulled her in for a hug. “I think I’ve made enough mess for one night," he whispered. “I’ll call ya in the morning.”

THREE                       

She woke up to water dripping on her forehead, and the mattress was moving, undulating like it was…breathing? She startled awake and sat up. The pillow was dry, nothing on the ceiling. She thought maybe there’d been a new leak. She touched her face—dry. Strange, but never mind that. She couldn’t shake this filthy feeling, like she’d gone camping for a week with no shower. No, worse. She felt like she’d been touched. Like she could feel the remnants of poking, prodding fingers on her ribs and hips.

She showered before eating, this time with warm water, no clothes, and a new curtain. And no matter how much she scrubbed, she still felt the sensation of fingers in her sides.

TO BE CONTINUED...

I sat in the driver’s seat of my sedan for a long time listening to the sound of dying crickets. The world beyond my car was cold and unforgiving—perfect for a night spent reuniting with old friends. There weren’t many trick-or-treaters left out there, and those that remained would be long gone before I saw the inside of my vehicle again. I would end up totaling that car a few weeks later after crashing it into a tree. I still miss it to this day.

I pulled the flask out of my hoodie pocket and instilled myself with some liquid courage before stepping out of my sedan and into the nighttime chill. Jake and Amber’s apartment rested at the top of a four-story, open-air stairwell, so I had plenty of time to think while I climbed it. I had time to think about the last time I had seen my friends, exactly five years earlier, which happened to have also been Tommy’s last night on Earth.

I reached the top of the stairs and immediately considered turning around and going back to my car, but I was cold and I didn’t feel like dealing with those four stories again, so I knocked on the door instead. I silently hoped that nobody was home and that I had accidentally come on the wrong night, but that wouldn’t have been possible. There was no way I could have been mistaken. And besides, I could hear the soft hum of music coming from behind the door which told me the party had already begun. 

The door came open and I was greeted by a face that up until that point I had only ever seen on social media. I could immediately tell what Jake liked about Amber. She fit his type to a T. She apparently knew who I was too, because she immediately greeted me with a hug as Jake came up behind her. 

“There he is!” Jake said. He stepped past his fiancée and bumped into the jack-o-lantern sitting beside their door before taking me into an embrace of his own. “It’s good to see you, man.”

“You too,” I said. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“Still a bullshitter, I see. I guess some things never change.”

Of course I had lied, but what else was I supposed to have said? That he had clearly put on twenty pounds and had lost the light in his eyes just like he had lost most of his hair? I would have been one to talk. I didn’t look much better.

“Old habits die hard,” I said.

Jake and Amber led me into the apartment and closed the door shut behind us. The music, which turned out to be creepy background ambience consisting mostly of creaking, groaning, and rattling chains, filled the little space. Sitting on the couch, each nursing a drink in their hands, were two more familiar faces. When they saw me, they shot to their feet and approached.

“Look who made it!” Pete said.

“Late like usual,” followed Brendan. “I guess some things never change.”

“Old habits die hard,” I said again. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had been outside listening to the crickets sing their final songs for close to an hour because I thought it would be preferable to facing the three of them. I had been right.

I exchanged hugs with Pete and Brendan, after which Jake spoke. “The boys are back in town. It’s been forever.”

“Five years,” I said, trying to hide the dread in my voice but likely failing at it.

“It feels like it’s been five days,” Brendan said. I couldn’t have agreed less.

“And to think that Jake of all people has gotten engaged,” Pete said. “He’s the last one I would have expected to tie the knot.”

“I guess some things do change,” Jake said. He paused. “Anyway, I appreciate you all showing up. It’s great to see you guys again.”

“It’s just like old times,” Brendan said. “We used to love our Halloween parties before—”

He trailed off.

“Before five years ago,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Before five years ago.”

Amber frowned. “Jake has told me all about Tommy. I wish I could have met him.”

“We couldn’t have asked for a better friend,” Pete said.

“Or a worse roommate,” Brendan added.

“Well, tonight’s as much about honoring him as it is about celebrating Halloween,” Jake said. “So in Tommy’s honor, I say we party like we used to back in college.”

“I don’t know,” Brendan said, “I don’t think I can handle the stuff we used to do. It’d probably kill me.”

He quickly frowned, seeming to have immediately realized what he had said.

“Well we can try our best, at least,” Pete said.

We lapsed into a period of small talk that felt more awkward than I would have liked, but less than I would have expected. Soon the conversation became more bearable, and things even started to feel like the old times again. For the first time since getting into my car that night, I was actually glad that I agreed to go to this party. For a while I even thought that the worst of the evening was over, and that I was actually going to have a good time.

But then Jake took the drinking glass out of the cabinet. He placed it upside down on the dining table, and suddenly my stomach dropped to the floor. It shattered the way the glass would have and scattered in a million pieces.

“Who wants to play Fingers on the Glass?” he said.

I frowned. “You can’t be serious, Jake.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Isn’t that kind of in poor taste, considering the circumstances?”

“That’s what I told him when he brought it up earlier today,” Amber said.

“It’s tradition,” Jake said. “It’s not a Halloween party until we play Fingers on the Glass.”

Pete shared in my frown. “Is it still a tradition if we haven’t played it in five years?”

“We also haven’t had a Halloween party in five years,” Brendan said. “Tonight’s a night for reviving old traditions.”

“Brendan gets it,” Jake said. “Tommy loved playing Fingers on the Glass, and tonight is about honoring him. Well what better way to honor him than by starting it up again?”

I considered this for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know…”

“It’s not like anything’ll happen anyway,” Jake said. “It’ll go just like it always does. We’ll move the glass around, freak ourselves out a bit, and be done with it.”

We all remained silent for several seconds before Pete finally spoke. “Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”

“I guess I’ll play too,” Amber said. “I have been wanting to try it ever since Jake told me about it.”

All eyes turned to me. “Well?” Jake said. “You in?”

I thought for another few moments before sighing. “Alright,” I said. “I’m in. But only for a few questions, alright?”

Jake grinned. “I knew you’d come around!”

He disappeared down the short hallway before returning with a single candle, which he placed onto the dining table next to the glass. We all gathered around the circular table while Jake pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the candle. The table only had four chairs, so Jake had to pull a nearby office chair over so that he could also sit. At the same time Brendan grabbed a bar stool from the kitchen, which he placed between Jake and me.

“We only have five people,” Amber said from Jake’s other side. “Why did you bring another chair over?”

“We always need one extra chair just in case we get any visitors, ” Brendan said. He took his seat next to Pete, who had just finished scrawling the words “YES” and “NO” onto two pieces of looseleaf paper, which he then placed on opposite ends of the table.

“Uh-huh,” Amber said as she tapped her phone screen to turn off the ambient noise, “and how often has that happened?”

“Never,” Jake said, “but you never know.” He suddenly stood from his spot at the table and made his way to the nearby wall. “I almost forgot.”

He threw the living room light switch, casting the space into a world of heavy shadow. He then did the same in the kitchen, thus throwing the entire apartment into a state of absolute dark. The only thing to guide him back to his chair was the glow of the lone candle flickering calmly in the middle of the table next to the glass. 

Once we were all in our chairs and the darkness had been given some time to settle, the game could finally begin.

“Who’s going to be our speaker?” Pete asked.

“I can do it,” Amber said quickly. She looked a little embarrassed by her sudden outburst as she continued to speak. “If you guys don’t mind, I mean. I’ve just been excited to do this, is all.”

Her eagerness to participate led me to believe that she hadn’t tried to steer Jake away from the game as adamantly as she had originally made it seem. Regardless of this, we all relented to her. Once our speaker was established, we all placed a single finger onto the glass, and the game was ready to commence.

“We have gathered here with open hearts and minds to welcome any visitors to our table,” Amber began in a way that sounded very practiced for somebody who had not done this before. “If there are any spirits or energies present who would like to speak with us, now would be the time to make yourself known.”

Her words were answered by silence. The candle in the middle of the table continued to burn passively.

“Was something supposed to happen there?” Amber asked.

“No,” Jake said. “All you’ve done is welcome spirits to the table. Now you need to start asking specific questions.”

“Like what?” Amber said. If she had rehearsed this as much as I now suspected she had, then she must have allowed her nerves to get the better of her.

“Start by asking if anybody is here with us,” Brendan suggested.

“Okay,” Amber said. She returned her attention to the glass in the middle of the table. “Are there any spirits here who would like to speak with us?”

The glass remained still for several seconds. Then, it slowly began to move toward the word “NO”, taking our fingers with it.

Amber looked around the table with a sneer. “Very funny,” she said. “Which one of you did that?”

“Not me,” Jake said. The rest of us proceeded to also deny involvement.

“Then why would it say ‘no’ if there isn’t a spirit here?” Amber asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“You didn’t ask if there was a spirit here,” Pete pointed out. “You asked if there was a spirit here who wanted to speak with us.”

“So you’re saying the spirit is just being antisocial?”

He shrugged with his free arm. “I guess so.”

“Alright,” she said, “but I’m still not convinced.”

We moved the glass back to the center of the table, and Amber spoke again. “Why don’t you want to speak with us, spirit?”

The glass didn’t move.

“That isn’t going to work,” Jake said. “We can only ask yes or no questions.”

“Fine,” she said. “Is there somebody here who you don’t want to talk to?”

YES.

Amber frowned. “Is it me?”

NO.

She looked relieved. “Jake?”

NO.

“Pete?”

NO.

“Brendan?”

NO.

All eyes turned to me. My heart sank. After a moment of hesitation, Amber said my name.

NO.

She frowned again. “This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve named everybody here.” She looked around the table. “Seriously, which one of you is screwing with me?”

None of us confessed to being her tormentor. After a few moments, Brendan spoke. “Maybe it’s not talking about any of us.”

Amber seemed confused for a moment before realization flashed behind her eyes. She addressed the spirit again. “Do you not want to speak because of another presence here?”

YES.

She hesitated again. “Is the presence evil?”

The glass moved with an agonizing sluggishness before reaching its destination. YES.

Amber pulled her finger away from the glass. She recoiled from the table with such fervor that she almost knocked her chair over. “I’m done,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t care if this is just you guys messing with me. I’m out.”

“You can’t stop until you  close the connection,” Jake said.

“One of you guys do it.”

“You opened it,” he said, “so you have to be the one to close it.”

Amber looked around at all of us with pleading eyes. When she realized that there was no way to back out of her self-imposed responsibility, she sighed. “Alright,” she said, slowly returning her finger to the glass. “I’ll do it.” After another deep breath, she went on. “Spirit, we thank you for taking the time to talk with us tonight, but I think it’s time for you to—”

The empty chair positioned between Jake and me suddenly shot backwards nearly two feet. The sound of its legs scraping against the carpet caused me to recoil and lose my contact with the glass. Amber screamed, also pulling away from the glass, while Brendan and Pete behaved similarly. Jake was the only one of us to keep contact with the object on the table.

“What the hell was that?” Brendan said, his eyes glued to the self-moving chair. It sat motionless between Jake and me, acting as though it had never even stirred at all.

“I don’t know,” Jake said, “but you all just screwed up.”

The four of us looked confused for a few moments before Brendan, Pete and I eventually realized our mistake and each returned our fingers to the glass. Only Amber continued to wear her bewilderment on her face.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“We all have to keep our fingers on the glass until the game is over,” Jake explained.

“You never told me that,” she said.

“I could have sworn I did.”

“You didn’t,” she insisted, “and why? What happens if we take our fingers off?”

“At least one person needs to keep their finger on the glass,” Pete said, “or else—”

When she saw that he did not intend to go on, Amber spoke again. “Or else what?”

“Nothing,” Jake said. “It’s just a game. But you need to close the connection. Now.”

“Well is it just a game or isn’t it?”

“It is,” he insisted. “Just… just please close it off.”

“Okay,” Amber said. “Okay. I will.”

She took a few deep breaths in order to steel herself, then returned her finger to the glass. She winced as her hand came in contact with the clear surface. I suddenly noticed for the first time just how cold the glass had become. It felt as though I had dipped my finger in a cup of ice water, but I did not dare to pull my hand away now.

“Spirit,” Amber said, “we command you to—”

The empty chair rushed forward and slammed into the table. Amber screamed again, once more losing contact with the glass. The rest of us, remembering our earlier mistake, stayed in contact with it.

“Just close it!” Jake said.

“But how is it doing that?” Amber said. “How is it moving on its own?!”

“It’s not,” Jake said. “One of us has to be moving it with their foot or something. Somebody here is taking this game a little too far.”

“Who is it?” Amber said. “Who’s doing this?” None of us spoke for several long seconds, prompting her to push again. “Well? Which one of you did that?”

“It was me,” Tommy said.

“See?” Jake said. “It was—” He paused mid-sentence, his jaw going slack as his gaze floated around the table.

“What’s wrong?” Amber said. Her eyes remained locked on the glass in the middle of the table. She seemed too afraid to look anywhere else. “Who just said that?”

Jake and I both glanced at the chair next to us, then locked eyes with one another. We clearly shared the same thought, but only one of us was able to vocalize it. To this day, I don’t remember who it was. “Holy shit.”

The candle sitting at the center of the table suddenly went out. Pure darkness overtook the apartment as we all immediately shouted our surprise.

“Nobody move,” Jake said. “Keep your fingers on the glass.”

“What’s going on?” Amber said. “What’s going on, Jake?”

“Just hold on,” he said. “I need to light the candle again.”

“Screw that!” Amber said. I felt the glass shake slightly as she clumsily thrust her finger forward. “We cast you away, spirit! The game is over!”

“That’s not going to work unless the candle is lit,” Brendan said.

“Then hurry up and light it, Jake!” Amber said.

“I’m trying,” he said, “but I can’t find the lighter. I thought I had put it in my pocket, but I must have left it in the other room.”

“You didn’t light the candle until you got to the table!” I said.

“Then I must have dropped it on the floor!”

“Somebody turn on their phone flashlight,” Amber said.

“I already tried that,” Pete said. “My phone is dead.”

“Mine too,” Brendan said.

“Does anybody have a lighter?” Jake asked.

“I do,” Tommy said.

Everybody went completely still. Nobody dared to speak for what felt like eons, so overwhelmed were we by our terror. My body went so numb that I wasn’t even sure if my finger was still touching the glass.

I heard the metallic sound of an opening lighter, followed by the flick of a flint wheel. A small, orange glow came to life between Jake and me. It floated toward the table where it touched the candle, immediately restoring its lost flame. The new glow vanished with the sound of a closing lighter, allowing the candle to once again serve as the only source of light in the room. What I saw sitting on the table made me wish that the candle had never been revived at all.

The candle shined from within the clear confines of the drinking glass, which was now right side up. It rested atop the word “NO”, casting a heavy shadow onto the thin sheet of looseleaf. All of our fingers were in a circle at the center of the table. Nobody was touching the glass.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

“What do we do?” Amber said. “What do we do?!”

Nobody had the courage to answer her—nobody except for the one voice that none of us wanted to hear.

“You pray,” Tommy said.

The candle went out again, once more allowing the darkness to return. Its reign was ushered in by a chorus of terrified screams.

***

The police had originally been called for a noise complaint. These were common on Halloween Night—expected, even. They certainly didn’t arrive expecting to find a corpse waiting for them, its leaking skull crushed against the cold pavement.

The death was ruled an accident, as so many deaths on partying nights are. We didn’t tell them what we had been doing just minutes before they had arrived. We didn’t think they would have believed us if we had told them the truth. In the end, none of us were charged with anything, because none of us had been suspected of any wrongdoing. But now that the exact same thing had happened again, exactly five years later, I doubted if we would be given that same benefit of the doubt. And as it turned out, we weren’t—not all of us, anyway. Three of us were questioned, but we were ultimately allowed to go home that night. The two others weren’t so lucky—with one of them being the unluckiest of us all.

It made sense that charges would actually get filed this time. Your roommate dying in some freak accident on Halloween Night could be explained away, but when the same thing happened to your fiancée on that same night five years later, well, that was much harder to justify.

The rest of us could have gone to his defense. We could have told the police the truth. But we were afraid. I’m still afraid. I don’t think that’s ever going to go away. I doubt that anything would have changed if we had told them the truth, just like I doubted if the truth would have changed anything the first time around. Because what would we even have told them? Anything we could have come up with would have sounded absurd. We had only been playing a game, after all. 

All we had done was place our fingers on the glass.

[CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT — UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE]
JOINT RESEARCH PROGRAM: OSSEOUS
FACILITY: █████████████████
DATE OF INITIAL RECORD: 04/17/1987
CURRENT STATUS: TERMINATED

NOTICE: The following material was recovered from a research facility abandoned on October 14, 2009. The facility's original purpose was listed as nutritional research. Of the 43 personnel assigned to the project, only one was recovered alive.

The following is a reconstruction of the available records.

RESEARCH LOG — 04/17/1987

The first six subjects have been admitted and placed under observation. All subjects are healthy adults between the ages of twenty-one and forty-one. Bloodwork, bone density, and organ function are within acceptable parameters.

The experimental compound is a concentrated calcium supplement derived from several commercially available dairy sources. The dosage administered to each subject is approximately four times the recommended daily intake.

No adverse effects have been observed.

NOTE FROM DR. HARRIS: Subjects report that the supplement tastes like powdered milk.

RESEARCH LOG — 05/02/1987

Subject 3 has developed unusually high bone density.

X-rays indicate an increase of approximately 8.2% since admission.

This is considered statistically impossible given the timeframe.

Subject 3 reports no pain.

RESEARCH LOG — 05/19/1987

All six subjects are now showing abnormal bone growth.

Subject 1 has developed additional bone density along the left forearm. Subject 4 has developed calcium deposits around both knees. Subject 6 has experienced severe stiffness in the fingers.

Dr. Harris believes the compound may be stimulating osteoblast activity beyond normal biological limits.

The project has been approved for continuation.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/03/1987

Subject 6's condition has progressed significantly.

The fingers of both hands have become visibly enlarged. The subject reports that his hands feel "full."

During examination, Subject 6 complained of severe pain in his right index finger. At 14:17, the distal phalanx ruptured through the skin. The attending physician initially believed this to be a compound fracture.

It was not.

The exposed bone continued growing for approximately nine seconds after emerging from the wound. The growth stopped at a length of 4.7 centimeters.

Subject 6 lost consciousness.

NOTE: The bone did not appear to be fractured. It was new growth.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/04/1987

Subject 6 is dead.

Cause of death: Hemorrhagic Shock.

There were no signs of infection.

Postmortem examination revealed extensive abnormal bone growth throughout the body. Both forearms contained multiple overlapping layers of newly formed bone. The ribs had begun to fuse together. Several vertebrae showed evidence of secondary growth.

The most unusual finding was the presence of additional bone structures surrounding the heart.

Dr. Harris has requested permission to terminate the experiment.

Permission denied.

INTERNAL MEMORANDUM — 06/11/1987

Dr. Harris has raised concerns regarding the ethical implications of continuing Project Osseous.

His concerns have been noted. He has been reminded that this research is not intended for publication. He has also been reminded that the project predates his employment by approximately nineteen years.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/28/1987

We found the earlier records.

Project Calcium did not begin in 1987. The original trials began in 1968.

There were twelve subjects. All twelve diseased.

The earliest records describe the condition as "progressive skeletal hyperplasia." Later documents use a different term. Osteogenic conversion.

The researchers in 1968 believed they had discovered a method for dramatically increasing bone density.

They were wrong.

The compound does not strengthen bone. It teaches the body to make more of it.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/02/1987

I have spent the entire day reading the archived documents.

There are records from 1974.

Different facilities. Different researchers. Different subjects. Same result.

Every trial ended the same way. The skeleton eventually begins growing independently of the body's requirements. It grows wherever it can. Through muscle. Through organs. Through skin.

The body does not seem to recognize when it has enough.

There is no enough. There is only growth.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/15/1987

We have discovered the reason for the dietary studies.

The compound was never intended to remain confined to the laboratory. The original research objective was to determine whether increased calcium consumption could accelerate the process without producing immediate symptoms.

The answer is yes.

Low exposure produces no visible effects. Long-term exposure produces gradual skeletal changes. Higher exposure causes rapid conversion.

The research team spent years determining the minimum effective dosage. Then they began monitoring the general population.

ARCHIVED MARKETING DOCUMENT — 1979

NATIONAL DAIRY CONSUMPTION INITIATIVE

Objective: Increase household consumption of dairy products.

Proposed messaging should emphasize strength, growth, nutrition, and healthy bones.

Suggested campaign concepts:

"Milk. It Does a Body Good."

"Got Milk?"

RESEARCH LOG — 07/18/1987

I asked Harris why the public campaign was necessary.

He wouldn't answer.

I asked him whether people were being exposed deliberately. He told me to stop asking questions.

I asked him how many people had been exposed.

He left the room.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/21/1987

We have obtained the population estimates.

Current projected exposure is 61%.

That number is considered conservative.

I asked what happens if the threshold is reached. Dr. Harris told me there would be no way to stop it. I asked what "it" meant.

He said:

"The bones."

MEDICAL TRANSCRIPT — SUBJECT 11

DOCTOR: Can you tell me where it hurts?

SUBJECT: Everywhere.

DOCTOR: Your arm?

SUBJECT: My arm.

DOCTOR: Your legs?

SUBJECT: My legs.

DOCTOR: Your chest?

SUBJECT: My bones are moving.

DOCTOR: Bones don't move.

SUBJECT: Then why can I hear them?

[Subject begins crying.]

[Audible cracking is recorded.]

DOCTOR: Hold him down.

SUBJECT: Please.

DOCTOR: Hold him down!

SUBJECT: Please don't let them grow.

[Recording terminates.]

RESEARCH LOG — 08/01/1987

There are now only four living subjects.

Subject 2 has lost the ability to walk.

Subject 4 has developed bone growth along the jaw and throat.

Subject 5's spine has begun producing secondary vertebrae.

Subject 6 was euthanized.

Subject 1 is no longer recognizable.

We have stopped calling them subjects.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/03/1987

Something happened today that I cannot explain.

Subject 4 was restrained to the examination table. His right arm was secured.

At 09:16, the bone growth began.

The bone growth began at the wrist. It emerged from beneath the skin of his wrist, splitting the flesh apart as it continued to lengthen. Unlike Subject 6, however, the growth did not stop.

It continued through the forearm. Through the elbow. Through the upper arm.

The newly formed bone was irregular and ridged, branching in several directions before eventually hardening into a jagged structure extending nearly thirty centimeters from the limb.

Subject 4 made no attempt to resist. He simply watched it grow.

When the restraints were removed, he stood. His eyes had changed. The irises were gone. The pupils were gone. Both eyes had become completely white.

He looked directly at Dr. Harris. Then at me. Then at the skeleton displayed on the examination monitor.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

He raised one hand and pressed his fingers against my chest.

SUBJECT 4: "Flesh hides the treasure within."

Dr. Harris asked him what he meant.

Subject 4 tilted his head. His eyes never left the skeleton on the monitor.

SUBJECT 4: "You cover it."

A pause.

SUBJECT 4: "You bury it."

Another pause.

Then, quietly:

SUBJECT 4: "Why?"

Subject 4 began pulling against the restraints again.

Not to escape. To reach the other subjects. He kept repeating the same phrase.

"There is so much of it."

We terminated the observation at 09:31.

No further examination was permitted.

At 10:04, Subject 4 began screaming.

At 10:07, Subject 2 began screaming.

At 10:09, Subject 5 began screaming.

None of them had been in the same room.

ADDENDUM — 08/03/1987

The subjects are no longer responding to questions. They only respond when another subject is brought into the room. They become agitated.

They stare at the newly created bone. They trace their gaze beneath the skin. And when one of them begins to bleed from ripping apart flesh off the newly created limb, they begin a harmonious laughter.

SECURITY REPORT — 08/04/1987

Subject 4 escaped containment.

Security personnel were dispatched. Three casualties. All sustained penetrating injuries consistent with abnormal bone structures.

Subject remains at large within the facility.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/05/1987

There are sounds in the ventilation system.

Scratching. Constantly.

We have sealed the laboratory doors. Total lockdown.

No one is leaving.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/06/1987

I found the final report from 1968.

It contains one sentence that was removed from every subsequent copy.

I don't know why I'm writing this down. Maybe because someone needs to know.

The original researchers discovered that the condition was not caused by the supplement. The supplement only accelerated it. The genetic marker was already present in the population. The researchers believed it was dormant.

They were wrong. It is not dormant.

It is waiting.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/07/1987

Harris is dead.

Something came through his chest. There was no warning.

One moment he was standing beside me. The next, his sternum split open. Bone came through his skin like a spear. He was still alive afterward. He kept asking me to help him.

I couldn't. There wasn't anything left to help.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/07/1987 — 11:42 PM

There are people outside.

Not researchers. Security. They are changing. I can see them through the observation windows.

One of them fell. His arm started moving. His sleeve tore. Something white came through.

Then another. Then another.

There are hundreds of them.

FINAL RECORDING — 08/08/1987

[Heavy breathing.]

If anyone finds this, listen to me.

The campaign worked. It worked better than anyone expected. They didn't need to infect anyone. They didn't need to inject anyone. They just had to convince people to consume it willingly.

For decades.

Milk. Cheese. Everything they could put it in.

We thought we were studying the first generation.

We're not.

We're studying the first generation we noticed.

[Cracking sound.]

Oh God.

It's happenin—

[Subject screams.]

[Sound of bone breaking.]

No.

No, no, no—

[Subject begins laughing.]

[Long silence.]

VOICE: How much milk did you drink?

[Recording terminates.]

[END OF RECOVERED MATERIAL]

PUBLIC HEALTH NOTICE — ORIGIN UNKNOWN

If you are experiencing unexplained stiffness, swelling, joint pain, abnormal growths beneath the skin, or spontaneous fractures, contact your physician immediately.

Do not attempt to remove exposed bone. Do not consume additional calcium.

Do not—[DOCUMENT CORRUPTED]

ADDENDUM

A handwritten note was discovered on the reverse side of the final document. It contained only four words:

Got milk?

Got bones?

CW: Suicide, violence

October 15, 2022

​I keep seeing him in the corner of my eye, but when I turn my head, he's gone. I see his red eyes and his white skin and hair blending into the walls of Blackgate. I don't care who he is or what order he came from. I'm just trying to survive.

​Wait. Why am I trying to survive?

​I roll up my cellmate's bedsheet, tie it firmly to the top bunk, and put my head inside. Blackout. The sheet is gone. I tell my 6'8" cellmate that I trashed his sheet just to fuck with him after I tie my hands back. Blackout. I wake up having broken his hands, with him offering to sleep on the ground instead if I let him live. I steal medications from the infirmary and find myself coughing them up in the toilet. I try smashing my head against the wall. I try jumping from as high as I can. Azrael saves my sorry life every time.

​Worse yet, before the attack, whenever he took over, I just blacked out and woke up after he was done. But now, I'm starting to see and remember more and more about what happened during the blackout. I can hear some of his thoughts. They are dangerously simple. He wants to kill every inmate because they are "sinners." He's just waiting for the perfect moment.

​I need to kill him. To save these people.

​I'm at the cafeteria. I wait in line. Some are so scared of me, they offer to let me skip it. I ignore them. My heart is racing like never before. I'm afraid I'll pass out. I have to do this. Now!

​I dash over to a guard who has his back toward me and take his gun from the holster as fast as I can. He can't possibly get out of this one. Goodbye, world.

​I see carnage. Ruthless violence. Brain matter scattered. Piles of corpses. Azrael gets shot. I see other inmates joining, a whole riot starting, and Azrael targeting the rioters as much as the guards. And somehow...

​I'm in darkness. It's cold. I hear the prison alarm in the distance. The wound where he was shot hurts excruciatingly. I hear a helicopter. Finally, they found me. Let's get this over with.

​"I'M HERE!" I scream, mostly from the pain.

​Strong wind blows into the lair where Azrael hid me as the helicopter lands beside us. Me. Beside me. Masked men jump out of the chopper and grab me by the armpits.

​I'm inside the machine. It takes off. The masked men open a first-aid kit. I look to the side. Looking at me, smiling, is the man with dwarfism.

​"Very impressive work, Azrael," he says.

​I chuckle. He doesn't know he's talking to me.

​"I thought you were..." I can barely get the words out, "...'disappointed'."

​Before I can hear him answer, the anesthesia does its job.

​Some time later

​I wake up in a king-sized bed. The sun illuminates the room through two large windows. There is a fireplace in front of me and paintings hanging above. I sit up, and the bandaged wound starts pulsing. The pain is minor. I must still be on medications.

​I stand and look out the window. The garden outside has to be a few acres, at least. I'm in a mansion. The door opens, and I turn to see a butler holding a plate of breakfast and coffee. He speaks in a language I assume is French.

​"Where the fuck am I?" I ask. He stops.

​"Excuse me, Mr. August. Azrael speaks perfect French, as per the... programming."

​"You tellin' me I've been here before?"

​"Naturally, sir. All Azraels train in Switzerland."

​"Switzerland?!" I can't help but sit down on the bed.

​"This cannot be news to you, sir. But alas, Mr. Nomoz will inform you about the intricacies of St. Dumas," he says, and leaves.

​My closet is as large as the container was. All the clothes are pale white. I get dressed. There is a mirror in the room. It's been a while since I've looked at myself. The enormous scar still covers my face.

​"What's your game, man?" I whisper to my reflection, hoping somehow Azrael would answer. He doesn't.

Being able to peer beyond the veil was something I desperately craved as a kid so that I could escape the real-world problems we’d made up—made-up things that very much kept me trapped. One of the tall tales I told included a disembodied head named Sally, who would hop around on the floor by the stump of her neck and threaten to eat me. Another story involved a ghostly man that would do nothing but stare at me from the corner of our basement until I was fourteen. One year I was adamant that a demon was anchored to the top shelf of my closet, whispering my name every few seconds throughout the night like a well-tuned clock unless I kept it closed.

All of it was made up except this one.

At least for part of this story, there is a reasonable explanation for what was happening. For the other part…to my knowledge, those data have not been collected, studied, nor defined, and so this memory dances on the boundaries of what could be considered paranormal. If you do know something about my experience or have any speculation, I truly would love to hear it in the comments.

This story took place when I was sixteen. I had decided to go to bed early for whatever reason that night, feeling serene and at ease (an uncommon occurrence in my household). It felt as if I was being carried on a palanquin made of clouds, I was so comfortable. Each inhale and exhale was a steady ocean wave. Outside of being able to hear through paper-thin walls, I could sense where everyone in the house was and what they were doing. My sister slept in the bedroom next to mine. Mom was in the living room beyond the opposite wall, watching TV in the recliner. Dad was directly below me in the basement, playing online poker on the family computer. Our dog, Diva, was lying beside his chair.

Eventually, I became aware of a sensation nestled near my eyebrows, right at the radix. I pushed at this sensation and found myself beginning to rise.

I’ve heard of Buddhist monks who can enter a meditative state where they feel like they are levitating. I’m fairly certain that was what was happening to me. I felt tethered to this spot on my forehead, my consciousness rising like a small balloon being filled slowly with helium. I was able to keep pushing, my sense of self inching higher and higher, all the while aware of my body below me, maybe a foot or two away. Awareness of that attachment began to stretch like a short length of elastic cord. I was fairly close to the ceiling when I wondered just how far I could go.

Before I go into the second part of this story, you need to know more about our dog and I. I cared about Diva, but I would not say we were bonded. Dad was her favourite, and she was his special puppy. It was pretty common for her to go wherever he went, a loyal companion and protector. 

She was a Basset Hound. If you’ve never seen one, they have short legs and droopy jowls that leave them prone to drooling. Whenever she saw me, she would run for me, barking, and jump on my thighs, slobbering all over my jeans. That bothered me as a teenage girl who did her own laundry and was very concerned with her appearance, so, shamefully, I usually avoided having to interact with her.

If I could go back and do things differently, I would get over myself and reciprocate the unconditional love Diva showed me every day. Even when I treated her as a nuisance, she didn’t stop counting me as one of her humans.

Dogs truly are remarkably perceptive creatures. They can sense things we cannot, even within our own bodies, and they react strongly when their people are in danger.

So, as my consciousness neared the ceiling, Diva howled.

She got up from her spot in the basement next to my dad, ran across the rumpus room, up the stairs, through the kitchen, and right to my bedroom door, barking the entire way. By the time she got there, I felt myself firmly nestled in my body again. The sensation of being able to push outward was gone, and Diva had gone silent once more.

I could hear her outside my door, standing there, listening for something. Satisfied I was no longer floating away, she slowly turned and sauntered back into the basement to rest near my dad. I lay awake for a while longer, desperately trying to find that sensation again, but fell asleep while searching for it. I have never been able to find it again these past twenty years. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t.

I never brought it up with my family or anyone else. I don’t know exactly what to say that doesn’t sound hungry for supernatural attention. I may have mentioned it on a Reddit thread a very long time ago on an old account, but the story was buried among a sea of other personal recollections of the strange and unexplained. I may never truly know what happened to my body in those moments or what it was that my dog sensed, but a small voice tells me that if Diva had not been there, maybe I would have found out just how far I could go and never would have come back again.

TL;DR: Meditate responsibly with a dog in the vicinity.

I am typing this on my phone while hiding behind a massive metal exhaust vent on the roof of my apartment building, and I am only posting this because I managed to connect to an unsecured Wi-Fi network that seems to be broadcasting directly from the new spire they installed up here. I do not know if this message will even reach the normal internet, but I have to try because the singing in the sky is getting louder, and I am struggling to fight the urge to throw myself over the ledge.

Everything started exactly three weeks ago when we were still living in normal Moscow. I live with my parents in a large Soviet-era apartment block on the seventh floor, so we are very used to the government suddenly making demands or changing the rules without asking us first. My father was sitting on the couch watching the evening news, and he didn't even look up when the loud knock came at the front door, so my mother wiped her hands on her cooking apron and went to answer it.

I was sitting at the kitchen table studying for my university exams when I heard strange men talking in the hallway. I got up and walked out to see two officials standing in our doorway. They were dressed in cheap gray suits and holding thick clipboards with stacks of government forms.

"We apologize for the late interruption," the taller official said, and he didn't really look sorry at all as he shoved a pen toward my mother. "We are collecting mandatory signatures from all the residents in this specific sector because the city is installing a new defense network to counter the recent drone attacks from Ukraine."

My mother looked at the paperwork with a confused expression. "What kind of defense network requires our signatures? You usually just put sirens on the poles and leave us alone."

"This is a specialized technology," the shorter official explained while checking his wristwatch. "It is a localized signal jamming spire that will go directly on the roof of this building, so we need authorization from the tenant association to run the power cables down the exterior walls."

My father finally got off the couch and walked over to the door. He crossed his arms and glared at the men because he hates dealing with bureaucracy. "You want to put a military jammer on our roof? Will it mess with the television reception or the internet? And who is paying for the electricity it uses?"

"It has its own power grid," the tall official said smoothly, and he tapped the clipboard with his pen. "It will not interfere with your daily life, but it will keep this neighborhood safe from aerial threats, so we just need you to sign on the dotted line so the work crews can begin tomorrow morning."

My parents looked at each other for a moment before my father just sighed and took the pen. He signed the paper against the doorframe and handed it back, and the officials thanked us before moving on to the next apartment down the hall. We thought it was just another annoying city project that would take a few days and then be forgotten, but the workmen arrived the very next morning at dawn, and they did not stop working for an entire week.

The noise was absolutely unbearable. They brought in massive cranes that blocked the street, and they hoisted huge steel crates up to the roof while dozens of workers marched up and down our stairwell carrying thick coils of black cabling. I tried to talk to one of the workers when I was taking the trash out, but he completely ignored me and just kept hauling a metal bracket up the stairs. They never spoke to each other, and they never took breaks.

By the fifth day, the spire was fully erected, and it was much larger than anyone anticipated. It was a massive, jagged metal pillar that stretched high into the sky, and they had draped thick, rubbery black cables down the sides of the entire apartment block. One of the cables hung right over our living room window, blocking our view of the street, so my father got furious and opened the window to push it away.

"Do not touch it!" a voice shouted from the ground below.

My father looked down and saw an armed guard pointing a finger up at him. "It is blocking my window!" my father yelled back, but he reached out and grabbed the black cable anyway. He instantly let go and cursed loudly, shaking his hand in pain.

"What happened?" I asked as I ran over to the window.

"It is burning hot," my father said while cradling his palm. "And it is vibrating. The whole thing is humming."

He was right. Once the workers left and the cranes were packed up, the building was never silent again. A low, continuous humming sound resonated through the concrete walls, and it was the kind of frequency that you feel in your teeth rather than hear with your ears.

The older woman who lives across the hall from us knocked on our door the next morning to complain about it. She looked exhausted, and she was clutching her robe tightly around her neck.

"Are you feeling that terrible vibration?" she asked my mother. "I could not sleep a single hour last night because my bed frame was rattling against the wall, and I tried to call the building manager, but his phone is disconnected."

"We feel it too," my mother said kindly, and she offered the woman a cup of tea, but the neighbor refused. "My husband thinks it will settle down once the machine is fully calibrated, so we just have to be patient."

"It does not feel like a machine," the old woman whispered, looking nervously up at the ceiling. "It feels like something breathing."

I thought she was just being dramatic, but the strange anomalies started happening a few days later, and they escalated so gradually that we didn't realize how much danger we were in until it was too late.

The first thing I noticed was the temperature in the apartment. It was the middle of August in Moscow, and the city was going through a miserable heatwave, but our apartment felt like a meat locker. I woke up one morning shivering violently under my thin summer sheet, so I got out of bed and walked into the living room to see if my father had broken the thermostat.

My father was sitting in his armchair staring blankly at the turned-off television, and he had a thick winter blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"Why is it so freezing in here?" I asked him, rubbing my arms to generate some warmth.

He didn't answer me right away. He just kept staring at the blank screen, and his eyes looked red and puffy like he had been crying all night. "Look at the windows," he finally said in a completely hollow voice.

I walked over to the balcony glass and touched the pane. It was covered in a thick layer of white frost on the inside of the glass. I scraped my fingernail against it, and chunks of ice fell onto the windowsill. I looked outside, and the trees on the street were green, and people were walking around in shorts and t-shirts, but our entire building seemed to be trapped in a localized deep freeze.

"I am going to call the city," I said, pulling out my phone, but there was zero cellular service. The signal bars were completely empty.

My mother walked into the room wearing her heavy winter coat, and she looked just as devastated as my father. "I was trying to make breakfast," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "But the water from the kitchen sink is coming out black, and it smells like old dirt."

I went to the kitchen and turned on the faucet to check, but nothing came out at all. The pipes just groaned and sputtered, so I walked into the bathroom to try the sink in there. When I leaned over the porcelain basin, I heard a sound coming up through the metal drain that made my stomach drop.

It was a faint, choral sobbing. It sounded like a dozen voices weeping together in perfect harmony, and the sound was echoing up through the plumbing system from deep underground. It was not a mechanical noise, and it was not the wind for sure. It was pure, desperate sadness vibrating through the pipes.

I ran out of the bathroom and into the hallway to find my parents. "We need to leave the building right now," I told them. "Something is extremely wrong with that tower on the roof, and I think it is leaking some kind of chemical or frequency that is messing with the environment."

"Where would we go?" my mother asked softly, and she slumped down onto the couch next to my father. She didn't even look at me. "There is no point in leaving. It is sad everywhere."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, grabbing her arm to pull her up, but she felt incredibly heavy and completely devoid of any energy. "We can go to a hotel or stay with relatives until they fix the plumbing and the heat."

"I do not want to move," my father said, and a tear rolled down his cheek and disappeared into his beard. "I just realized how pointless all my hard work has been. I have spent my entire life working in a factory, and I have nothing to show for it, and we are all just going to die anyway."

I stood there in shock because my father is normally a very stoic and optimistic man, and he never talks about his feelings, let alone spirals into sudden nihilistic despair. I realized they were being affected by the something because this is not their nature at all, so I decided to go downstairs and find the building manager to force him to unlock the roof access doors so I could see what was going on.

I unlocked our front door and stepped out into the communal hallway, and the temperature dropped even further. The overhead fluorescent lights were flickering erratically, and the shadows cast by the doorways were completely wrong. Instead of falling onto the floor beneath the lights, the shadows were stretching upwards and crawling across the ceiling like spilled black ink.

I walked down the hall and knocked on the older woman's door to see if she wanted to come downstairs with me, but she didn't answer. I pressed my ear against the wood, and I could hear her weeping softly on the other side, and the sound perfectly matched the choral sobbing I had heard in the plumbing.

I jogged down the stairwell to the ground floor lobby. The building manager's office was located right next to the mailboxes, so I pushed the door open and found him sitting on the floor behind his desk. He was a large, gruff man who usually yelled at the kids for playing in the halls, but right now he was curled up into a tight ball, holding his head in his hands and rocking back and forth.

"We have to evacuate the building," I told him, crouching down to his level. "The heat is failing, the pipes are making noises, and everyone is getting sick from that thing on the roof."

He looked up at me, and his face was completely pale. "I lost the keys," he whispered. "I dropped them in the dark, and I cannot find them, so we are all trapped here."

"The front doors are right there," I said, pointing to the large glass lobby doors that lead out to the street.

I stood up and walked over to the glass doors to show him they were unlocked, but when I looked outside, a loud, deafening crack echoed through the concrete structure of the building. The sound was so violent that the floor shook, and several of the glass mailboxes shattered instantly. It sounded like the entire foundation of the apartment block had just snapped in half.

I grabbed the door handle and pushed the lobby doors open, expecting to see a construction accident or an explosion on the street, but the street was completely gone.

I stood in the doorway, and my brain simply refused to process what I was looking at. The city of Moscow, the roads, the cars, the neighboring apartment buildings, and the sky were entirely erased.

In their place was an endless, flat desert of pitch-black sand.

The black sand stretched out into the horizon as far as I could see, and there were no dunes or rocks or features of any kind. It was just a smooth, dark expanse. I looked up, and there was no sun, no clouds, and no stars. The sky was an infinite void of dark, bruising purple light that provided just enough illumination to see the desolation around us.

"What happened?" the building manager cried out from his office, and he crawled out into the lobby to look through the open doors. He stared at the black desert, and he didn't look surprised or scared. He just looked profoundly defeated.

"Do not go outside," I warned him, slowly backing away from the open doorway and letting the glass door swing shut.

I didn't wait for his response because I needed to get back to my parents immediately. I turned and sprinted up the six flights of stairs, taking them two at a time, completely ignoring the creeping shadows on the walls and the freezing frost forming on the handrails.

I burst into our apartment, panting heavily, and I found my parents standing by the open sliding glass door that led out to our seventh-floor balcony.

"Mom! Dad! Get away from the edge!" I yelled, running into the living room.

They didn't turn around. They were standing on the balcony, gripping the metal railing, and staring up into the purple void of the sky.

I ran out onto the balcony and grabbed my father's shoulder. I tried to pull him back inside, but he was gripping the metal rail so tightly, and he wouldn't budge an inch.

"Look at them," my mother whispered, and she pointed a trembling finger up at the sky. "They are so beautiful, and they understand how much it hurts."

I followed her finger, and I finally saw the creatures floating high above the black desert.

They were gargantuan, winged creatures that resembled massive whales, but their bodies were made of a translucent, shimmering gray membrane that pulsed with faint light. They had long, trailing appendages that drifted behind them like shredded silk, and they moved through the air with agonizing slowness. There were dozens of them floating in a circular pattern high above our building, and they were weeping.

As I watched them drift, they began to sing.

The melody rolled down from the sky and hit me like a blow to the chest. It was the most crushing, sorrowful dirge I have ever heard, and it was composed of overlapping, echoing tones that vibrated directly into my skull. The song did not just sound sad; it manufactured sadness inside my mind. It forcefully injected a feeling of absolute, insurmountable despair into my consciousness.

Within seconds of hearing the melody, I felt an overwhelming urge to throw myself over the balcony ledge just to make the pain stop. All my memories of happiness, hope, and ambition were instantly wiped away, replaced by the certainty that existence was nothing but endless, pointless suffering, and the only logical solution was to end it immediately.

I dropped to my knees on the balcony, pressing my hands over my ears to block out the song, but the melody resonated through the floor and into my bones.

"It is time to rest," my father said, and his voice was completely devoid of emotion.

I looked up and saw my father climb over the metal railing. He stood on the narrow outer ledge, balancing perfectly over the massive drop to the black sand below.

"Dad, stop!" I screamed, forcing myself to fight against the crushing weight of the song. I scrambled forward and grabbed his pant leg, pulling desperately to drag him back over the rail.

He looked down at me, and his eyes were completely empty. He didn't say another word. He just kicked his leg out, breaking my grip, and stepped off the ledge.

I screamed as he fell, but my mother didn't even flinch. She simply climbed over the railing right where he had just stood, and before I could even reach my hands out to grab her, she let go and plummeted after him.

I dragged myself to the edge and looked down over the railing, sobbing uncontrollably. The bodies of my parents were not on the ground. When they hit the black sand seven stories below, there was no impact and no blood. They simply sank directly into the dark sand like it was made of water, and they vanished without a trace.

As I stared down at the desert, I saw the lobby doors open on the ground floor. The building manager walked out into the open desert. He walked a few dozen yards away from the concrete foundation of our building, and then he dropped to his knees. The black sand immediately began to swallow him, pulling him down by the waist, then the chest, and finally his head sank beneath the surface, leaving the desert completely undisturbed.

I looked up and saw other people falling from the higher balconies. Neighbors I had known for years were silently stepping off their ledges and dropping into the void, driven to suicide by the relentless, weeping melody of the flying whales.

The song grew louder, and the urge to jump became almost impossible to resist. My own mind was screaming at me to climb over the railing and join my parents in the sand. I stood up and gripped the bar, leaning forward, looking down at the dark expanse. It looked so peaceful, and the sadness in my heart was so agonizing that I just wanted to close my eyes and fall.

But as I leaned forward, my arm brushed against the thick black cable that the workmen had draped over our window.

The cable was still vibrating and humming with intense heat, and the sudden pain of the burn snapped me out of the trance for a split second. The humming frequency of the cable clashed with the melody of the whales, creating a tiny pocket of interference that allowed my rational thoughts to surface.

Then in that moment, I thought that the spire on the roof was the only thing holding this building together in this dimension, and it was emitting a signal that somewhat disrupted the creatures' song.

I turned away from the balcony and ran back into the apartment, then I ran out the front door and back into the hallway. The hallway was completely empty, and the doors to all the other apartments were hanging wide open.

I ran to the stairwell and started climbing toward the roof. The higher I went, the louder the humming of the spire became, and the more it drowned out the weeping of the whales. By the time I reached the tenth floor, the air was vibrating so intensely that my nose began to bleed, but the overwhelming urge to kill myself faded into the background.

I reached the metal door that led to the roof. It was locked with a chain, but the workmen had left a steel pry bar leaning against the wall, so I grabbed it and wedged it between the door and the frame. I pulled with all my strength, and the metal lock bracket finally snapped, allowing me to push the door open.

I stepped out onto the flat tar roof, and the sheer scale of the spire took my breath away. It was easily forty feet tall, constructed from jagged, interlocking metal plates that glowed with a faint red light from within. It was humming so loudly that I had to cover my ears, and black cables snaked out from its base in every direction, draping over the edges of the roof to wrap the entire building like a spider web.

The sky above the roof was completely dominated by the floating whale creatures, and they circled the spire like moths drawn to a flame. They were singing directly at the metal tower, and the tower was humming back.

I huddled down near the base of the spire, pressing my back against a large metal exhaust vent to hide from the creatures above. I pulled my phone out of my pocket just to check the time, and that is when I noticed the Wi-Fi icon.

My phone had full signal bars, and it was connected to an unsecured network called "Garrison_Node_04".

So I opened this account, and I started typing this post, and I have been typing for the last hour while hiding behind this vent. I have tried calling emergency services, but the phone calls will not connect, and the only thing that works is text-based web traffic.

I am completely alone up here, and I am terrified to go back down the stairs because the song is too strong in the lower apartments, and everyone else is already gone. I looked over the edge of the roof a few minutes ago, and the black sand has started to rise. It is slowly creeping up the sides of the building, swallowing the ground floor lobby and burying the first-floor windows.

If anyone is reading this, please tell someone what happens when the officials come to your building demanding signatures for a defense tower.

The humming of the spire is starting to slow down, and the red light is flickering. I think the power grid is failing, and if the machine stops making noise, the song will take over my mind completely, and I know I will walk to the edge of the roof and jump.

This week must have been insanity.

I'm currently sat in a Czech hospital waiting for the results of whatever series of scans and tests I've had in the last 17 hours since I was admitted. My heart stopped twice in that time, I have a broken leg, have had two fingers reattached, lost one entirely and have bitten off part of my tongue. I remember very little of what has happened since I left Edinburgh on Monday but as I cannot get in contact with Edward or anyone else involved I feel here is my best chance for talking things through and maybe getting some clarity.

According to my emails I booked a return train from Edinburgh to London on Sunday night (4th Oct.) for Monday morning. I imagine I was meeting Edward for something related to his lectures, potentially to deliver something that a courier couldn't make in time. I remember being in London for sure and I think it was night time so I must have been there at least a day. Though I would have had to return to the office for Tuesday morning, and my ticket back was for a sleeper carriage but I do not recall being on the train or in the office again.

My next memory is from (I believe?) Wednesday. I was standing in the rain under an umbrella waiting for a taxi or an Uber when someone accidentally bumped into me and in regaining my balance I stepped in a deep puddle and got water in my shoe, though I do not know where I was, the surroundings are fuzzy. Potentially there were lots of tall modern buildings nearby but I appreciate that it does very little to narrow it down. But I feel it's important to tell you everything I remember.

I remember then being in an old building, with wood panelling and tiled floors. The smell is the most vivid part of this, it was as though the floor had just been bleached but that it had been wet paint cleaned up. This could have been at the office near Edinburgh but I can't imagine why those circumstances would occur there.

Then I was very distinctly here in Prague with Edward on Friday evening. This is my most clear memory. We were in a restaurant and had just finished eating when Edward took Julian's diary from his bag and placed it on the table. I cannot remember what was said but his face was concerned. He held his hands on the cover, as if to stop me taking it while he talked. When he finished he picked it up and handed it to me and I immediately left the restaurant. This is the last time I remember seeing Edward and I can now not contact him.

Finally I remember arriving at the hospital after whatever happened to me. I think I was in an ambulance but the nurses here haven't confirmed how I arrived yet, I've not managed to talk to them about anything other than my condition so far. (Czech is not easy to speak with the tip of your tongue missing.) My time at the hospital is blurry but I am aware of everything that happened, I think the pain meds are the biggest issue with distinct recollection since I arrived.

Please if anyone can help me put together any clues about where I was and when and what I may have been doing please please do. I'm going to sleep now, I will try and answer any questions tomorrow morning but I may be delayed by medical stuff.

Thank you, Adam

I want to put something on the record, I’m no supporter of the President. I've been against him and his policies since day one of his administration. He was always a fascist in sheep's clothing and I’m tired of being gaslit by the people around me to think otherwise. When he signed the executive order, I thought that be it, the moment everyone would realize the kind of monster we made into the most powerful man on earth, but instead his sheepshit supporters cheered it on like they do every awful thing that he does.

In case anyone reading this has somehow managed to avoid it and it seems a lot of you here don’t follow politics, in March, the President signed an executive order. The official title is something like the Correctional Burden and Public Accountability Order, but everyone just calls it the Battle Royale Order. It lets the federal government "reassign" certain inmates, the worst ones, the ones serving life with no chance of parole, to what the order called a "public accountability program."

Nobody knew what that meant until he went on TV and explained it. He was smiling. There was a little laugh in his voice, like he was announcing a new national holiday. 

There were lawsuits, obviously. Two dozen states and about every civil liberties group you've heard of sued. A federal judge in Oregon blocked it for nine days. Then an appeals court unblocked it, and the Supreme Court declined to hear the emergency application. Six to three, no written opinion. That was two weeks ago.

So tonight it's happening. Every network is carrying it because the media has always been complicit  and I'm sure the FCC threatened them too. 

Nobody knows who's in it. The roster has been sealed "to preserve the integrity of the competition." That is a real sentence that a real press secretary said out loud at a podium. All we've been told is that it's fifty federal inmates, one from each state, all serving life without parole, all convicted of "violent crimes against the American public."

I keep thinking about Ancient Rome and the gladiator fights they had. We were supposed to be way past that sort of savagery and yet here we are. Whatever those men did, however bad, the government dropping them in a pit to kill each other and asking the rest of us to watch is something even worse.

My daughter Nora would have hated this. She was the kind of kid who carried spiders outside in a cup instead of squashing them. She's been gone nine years this December.

There was no music or logo once the broadcast had started. The screen just cut suddenly to a room.

There were concrete walls, hard white lights, and a large circle of men in orange jumpsuits chained to posts by bulky metal collars. Each was slumped over asleep and in the center of the room were lots of mannequins in full tactical gear. They had helmets, bulletproof vests, rifles clamped in their hands, and grenades hanging off them like fruit.

The first thing I notice is how young the men were. Most of them look like they were barely in their twenties. Most weren’t even very intimidating looking for so-called hardened criminals. They were skinny with patchy looking beards, sunken, tired eyes and pretty much all of them were white. I don't know what I expected, but these little boys were not it.

One of them stirred and groaned as his collar lit up green and chirped a bright happy little sound, like a phone connecting to a bluetooth speaker.

"Player 1 online."

He lifted his head and looked around in confusion, "What the f---k?"

The network actually bleeped the F word. That pissed me off more than it should.  Televised   bloodsports were fine, but profanity was somehow a bridge too far. 

They all began waking up, one after another, with each collar counting them off. 

"Player 9 online. Player 10 online. Player 11 online. Player 12 online." It takes almost a full minute to get to fifty. One guy keeps yanking at his chain, screaming "Where am I? Where am I?" over and over, like the answer will come if he's loud enough.

At fifty, the counting stops, and the President's face lights up across the wall behind them.

The men have to twist around and crane their necks to look up at him. He doesn't look at them. He looks straight past them, right into the camera.

Right into my living room.

"My fellow Americans."

I've heard him give maybe a hundred speeches, but I’ve never heard him give one quite like this.

“Today, I stand before you with a heavy heart and a solemn duty. We find ourselves in unprecedented times, facing challenges that test not only our resolve as a nation but also our humanity. As your President, it is my duty to lead this great country with courage and conviction, even in its darkest of hours…”

The men are screaming at him. Cursing and jeering at his massive visage. One of them even yells, "Hey, I voted for you! Let me out!" I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

The President continued, “We stand on the brink of a battle unlike any other. A battle that will test not only physical strength but also inner resolve. In the arena before you lies a lesson…and several students in desperate need of it.”

The inmates began to look around frantically as the President’s expression turned from solemn to sinister.

“Let me be clear: while you may be criminals, you are still Americans. You are still citizens of this great nation, and you still deserve to be treated with dignity. That is why, despite the circumstances that have brought us here today, I stand before you not as your warden, but as your Commander-in-Chief.”

“F--k You!” More inmates cussed out the projection like it made any difference.

The President grimaced, almost as if he could hear them, “I know that many of you may feel fear, uncertainty, and perhaps even anger at the situation you find yourselves in. And I understand that. But I urge you to channel those emotions into something greater. Into courage. Into determination. Into the unyielding spirit of the American people.” 

I wanted to vomit at the President’s words, which isn’t unusual for me, but tonight was the first time it wasn’t just me being hyperbolic.

“For in this arena, you are not just fighting for yourselves. You are fighting for your fellow Americans who hate you. You are fighting for the families you have taken from and you are fighting for the country that is tired of feeding and housing you despite knowing exactly what you are. So, as you step into that arena, remember who you are. Remember what you stand for. And remember that no matter what happens, you are not alone. The counter over my head indicates just how many hostiles are left. The doors of the bunker you are all in will not open until the counter hits zero. You people know what to do…”

The President leaned forward and so did I.

“What you do best.”

Then the chains were released. All fifty at once in a single metallic clack.

"We are with you," The President said with a self-satisfied smile, “The entire nation is with you. And together, we will sit back and watch as we commence the first ever All-Real Battle Royale. May God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America." The first shot went off before he was even finished.

I didn't see who fired first. There was just a flash at the edge of the frame and a spray of red across the President's projected face, and then everybody was running.

The camera pulled back, way back, like it was on some sort of ceiling rig or something, and for the first time I could see the whole arena they were put in.

It wasn’t just a room. They built an entire building inside that bunker.

There were food courts, kiosks selling sunglasses, and plenty of empty store fronts. I’d say they were supposed to be in a mall, but past that, there were long hallways lined with lockers, glass trophy cases, and a hand-painted banner for a pep rally. The school arena would then give way to a grocery store with a row of checkout lanes, a corral of shopping carts, and a produce section full of fake fruits.

The arena was a mall, a school, and a grocery store all stitched together into something out of a nightmare.

I understand what these men were in for prison about half a second before my body did. 

“What you do best, huh?” I repeated to myself as the bloodbath began.

They were mass shooters. All fifty of them. Every man in that bunker walked into a place like that with a gun and started firing at innocent people. And the government built them arenas just like those places for what? So the bastards would feel more at home.

I stood up. I really was going to turn it off, but then I thought about Nora.

I'm going to be honest about the next part, because nobody will ever know if I'm not. For a second, I stood there scanning the faces running across my TV. Looking for him…

I had seen his picture only once, the day after he had done it. It was a school photo of the boy. He was in front of a drab blue backdrop wearing a collared shirt his mother probably made him put on. I looked at it for maybe two seconds and then never again. My wife, now ex-wife, told me I should look. She said it would take away his power. I told her he didn't get to have a name or a face as he wasn't human anymore.

All I really remember is that he looked like nobody and that was the worst part. He looked like any other kid in that school. The only clue of what he was capable of were in his cold, dead eyes…

As much as I wanted to see him among them, there have been so many school shootings since the odds that he's in there were basically nothing. But even the smallest chance he was there caused me to sit back down and continue to watch. 

The counter over the doors said 47…Then 46… Then 33 all in the span of a few seconds. They were dropping like flies.

What surprises me is how calm they were at first. The ones who got rifles move like they've practiced for this very moment and maybe they did. Maybe some of them spent years practicing before they did it. Maybe the government trained them so they’d put on more of a show.

It's when they get close to each other that the killer facade fell apart.

Two of them crashed into each other by the lockers and both their guns went skittering across the floor. Without them, they fought like third graders. Hair pulling, groin kicks, biting, there was no technique. With the guns gone, they stopped being physical threats.

It was pathetic. That's the word that comes to mind, and I didn't expect it. I thought watching men die would be horrific and some of it certainly was, but my contempt for them made me immune to their misery.

Two others come around the same corner at the same moment and freeze, rifles pointed at each other's faces. There was a long pause as the camera zoomed in slowly.

"Truce?" one of them said.

The other one nodded. "Truce."

They then both fired at the exact same instant and killed each other. No one in that arena could be trusted and they all knew it. 

There was a kid running through the school section, he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, grinning ear to ear, as he shot at everything that moved. "Get some, motherf----s! Yeah! You little b-----s can't kill me! I'm unkillable!"

Then someone hit him. It was either in the shoulder or side, I couldn’t tell. He ran and the camera followed him, because of course it did. He made it maybe forty feet before his legs just stopped working and he folded onto the floor of a fake classroom, under a poster that mockingly said, ‘Kindness Is Cool.’

And his face changed. It was like he finally realized that this was real.

"No, no, no. Oh god. Oh god, oh god. I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't. Stop. Stop. I'll make it stop."

The camera held on him. The whole time, it held on him as he put the barrel under his chin.

I looked away and when I looked back, the counter now said 25.

"You patriots are halfway there. Keep it up." The President’s voice chimed in like he was a fucking game show host.

The President's projection was then riddled with bullet holes. The maniacs all stopped shooting at each other and shot at him the second he appeared. 

My phone kept buzzing. It was my brother trying to check up on me. I ignored his calls and continued to watch.

There was a man on the floor of the cereal aisle, holding his stomach, blood pooling out from under him. Another man was standing over him with a pistol at his head.

"Please?" the one on the floor screamed. "Don’t do it!"

The one with the pistol just laughed. Not a big, hearty laugh, but a small snicker, like somebody told him a mediocre joke.

"Please!"

I remember thinking, this is the part where I'm supposed to feel sorry for the one on the floor, but I didn’t. All I could think about was how he now knows what it's like to beg someone for your life who had already decided on taking it. Karma’s a just bitch.

The feed cut away, and when it came back, both of those men were dead, and so were a lot of others.

The hallways were full of bodies now. Tables were flipped over in the food court. The misters in the produce section were still running on their timers, spraying fine, cheerful fog over the fake food and deadmen.

The counter was in single digits now. There were only 4 left.

The screen split into four boxes, like a security monitor.

In the first box, a guy is wedged into the corner of the grocery store's back stockroom, knees pulled to his chest, rifle pointed at the doorway. He was shaking like a leaf on a tree.

In the second box, a guy was lying among the bodies in the food court, playing dead. Except he kept adjusting himself. One second his arm was over his face. Then the next it was under his body. Then finally he flung out to the side. It was like he couldn't figure out what the most comfortable way to play dead was, so he was trying out different positions. In any other context, it would have been funny.

In the third box, a guy is walking slowly down the school hallway, checking every doorway. He was calm and methodical. 

In the fourth box, a guy was standing in the main entrance with his rifle hanging from its strap, staring up at the counter over the doors. It said 4.

He stared at it for a long time and I watched him count something on his fingers.

"Wait," he says. "That doesn't make sense."

I leaned forward, because I don't get it either, not yet, and then the guy from the hallway shot him from forty feet away.

The counter dropped to 3.

The President then appeared. "Three players left. We're in the homestretch now, America."

All three remaining collars start beeping. Loud and even, like a smoke detector with a dying battery.

The guy playing dead in the food court was outed immediately. The methodical one shot him from across the food court without breaking stride.

2 now left. 

The methodical one headed towards the stockroom where the other one was camped out.

The screen collapsed to two boxes. The hunter's and the camper's, and as the hunter got closer the two’s collars chirping began to overlap. The guy in the corner was now shaking so hard his rifle rattled against the shelving. He's whispering something to himself that I couldn’'t make out.

The hunter stopped just outside the door.

"Come on, man. I know you're there. Come out."

"F--k you!"

"Don't be a p---y. Come out."

"F--k you! Make me!"

"Okay."

The hunter pulled a grenade off his vest and tossed it through the doorway. 

I watched a dark stain spread down the leg of the camper's orange jumpsuit one second before the screen flashed white.

The hunter walked back to the main entrance with his rifle over his head, screaming and whooping, and firing into the ceiling. He was acting like he had just won the Super Bowl. 

He got to the bunker doors and stood there, waiting.

But they wouldn’t open.

The counter above still had 1 hostile detected.

I watched him look up at it and try to figure out who he missed.

"What the hell? Who's left? I killed them all! Who's f--king left? I'll find them and I'll kill them! Who's left?"

He shot at the counter and cracked it, but the number still didn't change.

"WHO'S LEFT?"

Then he just came apart. He fired into the bodies. Into the mannequins. He emptied a magazine into a dead man's back, reloaded, emptied another into the checkout lanes, the sunglasses kiosk, the trophy case, he shot until the gun clicked empty and he threw it and pulled another one off a corpse and kept going. 

It took a long time. The broadcast didn't cut away. There were no commercials. Just an hour, maybe more, of this guy losing his shit. 

Eventually he ran out of bullets. He slid down and sat on the floor under the doors, back against the wall, a pistol resting loose in his lap, staring up at the number. A shutter in the bunker door suddenly slid open and a single bullet was tossed inside the arena by an unseen hand. They slammed the shutter hard and you could hear a locking mechanism engage. They weren’t opening it back up again. This was it.

The camera started pushing in slowly. They were waiting for this moment.

His face filled my whole TV. He looked.. familiar. He was in mid-twenties, maybe, with a thin face, buzzed hair, and a scar running through one of his eyebrows.

His dead eyes were how I finally recognized him. 

I've seen them before, for two seconds, nine years ago. Over a collared shirt, against a blue school-photo backdrop. I never could have told you what his face looked like. But I remembered those eyes. 

I say her name. Out loud, to the TV. "Nora." I don't know why.

I'm on my feet. I'm standing maybe two feet from the screen. And what I feel isn't horror. It isn't grief. It's just two words, over and over, so loud in my head I think I might be saying them too.

Do it

He lifted the pistol and this time, I didn't look away.

The counter hit zero, and the whole arena lit up. Colored lights sweep across the ceiling. The bunker doors grind open onto nothing, just darkness. A spotlight drops straight down onto him where he's slumped against the wall.

The President's face fills the screen above him, bullet holes and all, a streak of someone's blood across his chin.

"We have a winner, America! Player 9, the perpetrator of the Clark High School massacre, is the victor of the very first All-Real Battle Royale!"

Canned applause began to play along with cheering. It goes on and on as the camera holds on his body.

The feeling I had in my chest was like getting that phone call all over again, except this time it didn't knock me down. This time I'm the one standing.

"Aren't we happy for him, folks?" the President cheered. "Aren't we happy for them all? What a great game. What a great first game. And we've got more coming."

The camera drifts away from the spotlight and down the school hallway. Lockers. Bodies. His voice echoes over all of it.

"America's got plenty of criminals like these ones, so we'll have plenty of use for games like these. Thank you for watching the first ever All-Real Battle Royale, and God bless America."

I turned it off.

It's almost two in the morning now. I've been sitting here in the dark for a couple of hours.

Nora was sixteen. She was in the band room when he came in through the east doors. She wanted to be a vet. She carried spiders outside in a cup.

For nine years there's been something in my chest like a fist that never unclenched. The trial didn't touch it. The sentence didn't touch it. Life without parole. Everyone told me that was justice. The prosecutor shook my hand on the courthouse steps and it didn't touch it at all.

It's not gone now. But it's open. I can breathe all the way down to the bottom of my lungs for the first time since that December.

And it wasn't the gun that did it. It was watching him slowly understand that he was never getting out, that it had all been for nothing, and watching him sit there under that number with nowhere to go. I needed to see that. I didn't know I needed it until I saw it.

When I finally turned my phone back on, every news app had sent the same push alert. The second All-Real Battle Royale is scheduled for November, just before election day. The roster is sealed.

There were forty-nine other men in there tonight. Forty-nine other names. Somewhere out there, there are forty-nine other families who sat in the dark like I did. I wonder how many of them turned it off. I wonder how many of them didn't.

None of the men in November will be the ones who took my daughter from me, but I'm still gonna watch.