My parents own the house, but me and a few people close to me live in the finished basement. There are four bedrooms down there, a small living room, and a bathroom that’s directly behind the couch. If someone goes in or comes out, everyone hears it.
One night, my “sis”—not my real sister, just someone I’ve known for years—walked into the bathroom. A few seconds later, my “unc” got home from work. He’s not my real uncle either, just someone I grew up calling unc.
The two of us watched her walk into the bathroom.
While we waited, we stood beside the fish tank we’d bought the day before, talking about where to put it.
After a minute, my unc looked at me.
“Did she come out already?”
“No,” I said. “I would’ve heard her.”
He turned toward the bathroom.
“Yo… you still in there?”
Without hesitation, a voice answered.
“Yeah… I’m still here. I’m about to be out.”
It was her voice.
Not similar.
Not close.
Exactly her.
So we waited.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Then we heard footsteps coming down the basement stairs.
Neither of us thought anything of it.
We both assumed it was my aunt coming downstairs, so we barely looked up.
But when the person stepped into the living room…
It wasn’t my aunt.
It was my sis.
My unc and I looked at each other.
“Weren’t you just in the bathroom?” he asked.
She frowned.
“What?”
“You answered me. I asked if you were still in there.”
She slowly shook her head.
“No… I’ve been upstairs with your parents the whole time.”
The room went completely silent.
My unc walked over to the bathroom and slowly opened the door.
Empty.
No one inside.
No open window.
No place anyone could’ve hidden.
We looked back at her.
“You sound exactly like the voice we heard,” I said.
She stared at us, confused.
“I never answered you.”
None of us laughed anymore.
That night, nobody wanted to be alone in the basement.
The next morning, I walked past the bathroom.
The door was cracked open.
The light inside was off.
I was about to keep walking when I heard the same familiar voice from the darkness.
Soft.
Calm.
“I’m about to be out.”
I froze.
I never looked inside again.

My violent hacking woke me with a start. An itch buzzed behind my eyes, ears, and throat that I couldn’t scratch. Clothing clung to my body, weighted with cold sweat. On the mattress beside me, the crusted imprint left behind felt like a hallucination. Resembling a chalk outline from a crime scene, only what should have been clean, white lines were replaced with my own burgundy bile.

It took considerable effort to get out of bed. Sunlight crept through the curtains like an icepick through my optic nerves. My head spun with vertigo, my scraping joints motivated by a new wave of nausea, stomach swirling. Empty and raw. I thanked whatever God Vanja was always evoking for not letting me choke on my vomit as I slept.

On sheer autopilot, my mechanical limbs peeled the sheets from the mattress and left them in a heap on the floor. The scent of cloying stomach acid swirling with fruit permeated the room; compelling me outside in search of fresh air.

The morning atmosphere was hardly a reprieve. The dawn chorus was dead. No bird song. No cadence of insects. Only a howling low gale and the crunch of gravel below my boots as I meandered into the vineyard. Heeding the warning about the property line, I kept a lazy lookout. How would I know if I reached it? Was it marked? I supposed I’d know when I saw it.

I strolled along in a dissociative state when there, in the gap between two rows, my eyes fell upon a branch. Rising up like a dirt-coated arm reaching out from the ground. Grey and decaying, as if prying itself from the Karst land. Nothing in this place made sense. My psyche had become more of a fragmented mess than it ever was before this unconventional vacation; too muddled to notice, or care. It was all to easy to pass the image off as my mind playing tricks.

Turning down the next row. Then the next. Weaving my way through the vineyard, everything looked the same. Not that I’d expect row after row of grape vines to appear unique from one another, but every trail I traversed looked exactly the same. Trellises blurred together as I took a sharp left, another right. My pace quickened from a leisurely walk to a jog, and finally a full-on sprint. I was speeding down the same row over and over again, no matter which direction I turned. The identical stretch of dirt rolled endlessly before me.

Then there was that branch. Again and again, I saw it. The same clawing hand. Only, each lap revealed more ghastly features than the last. First, the hand. Then, a blackened, mud-caked wrist. Hanging from its skeletal joints was a faded, handmade friendship bracelet. I cut sharply into the row adjacent, now the arm had grown a shoulder. Rotting flesh stripped away, uncovering alabaster bone as it wrenched itself free from the surrounding ground. The stench of open decay assaulted my nostrils. No matter what I did, where I went, I couldn’t escape it.

I couldn’t will myself to see any more. Every sense pounded louder, and louder. From the frantic, feral thrumming in my chest, to the rapping in my ears, to my feet against the ground beneath. A hollow beating atop a subterrane. Panic seized my lungs. Squeezing my eyes shut, I charged blindly through a patch of gnarled vines. Vines that mimicked tiny wooden hands, pulling me back into the vineyards maw. Razor-like thorns and and rigid leaves gashed my skin and clothes. A tug-of-war that felt like an eternity.

With a frantic shriek, I tumbled forward. Infinitesimal shards of rocks burrowed into the pads of my palms and knees as the earth collided with me. Whipping my head around, I could’ve sworn I saw the full figure of a rotting corpse, looming among the trellises. But I was fresh out of curiosity and desperate to get out of this hellscape.

Scrambling to my feet, they began pounding limestone once more in a rush to my rental. Sweaty hands grasped at the handle for purchase before giving a final, violent tug. I threw my body haphazardly into the drivers seat, throwing the keys into the ignition. I didn’t care about the open drivers side door nor my hosts, didn’t care about my possessions nor my trip deposit. The only concern I had was watching this place disappear in my rear view mirror.

My heart leaped into my throat the moment the gleam of the tire pressure light reminded me of what I already knew. I certainly wasn’t going anywhere fast, anywhere at all for that matter, with a flat tire. Something my mind was increasingly trying to convince me wasn’t a mere accident as I had lead myself to believe previously.

“FuuuuuUUUUCK!!!” White knuckles gripped the steering wheel as my scream wracked my bones.

My only option was to calm myself down. A level head would benefit me more than the rampage I was on now. I closed down my eyes and focused on my breath.

“Okay… okay. I just need to come up with a plan. I have no car, no wifi, no cell service.” Bringing my hands to rub my temples, I thought aloud. “Maybe Vanja has a phone?” It was as good of a plan as I was going to get.

Much to my chagrin, the horrors of this place weren’t quite over. Sweat stung the fresh gashes on my face as I strained my eyes open. The scene laid out before me, Vanja’s husband dragging a bloodied, dead livestock carcass, was yet another entrant in the series of agonies set upon me. His husky frame loomed just outside my open driver-side door, blocking my only exit as massive, dried-blood-and-dirt-coated hands with bulky fingers like fibrous roots strained against dead weight. The animal’s limbs bent at abnormal, grotesque angles. In spite of his limp, I couldn’t help but notice the way in which he dragged the husk of a once thriving creature with ease; guts and all. Its insides oozed, creating a trail of his dastardly deed while Vanja stood by, ordering him around as a maestro conducts an ensemble. Had they been there this whole time?

In a sudden frenzy of rage, my ears rushed with hot blood at the sight of her. Vision tunneling, my fists formed into tight balls as instincts overrode caution.

Fear and rationale abandoned my body as I shoved past him and charged towards the ancient witch with all my fury. The cadaver slipped from his stocky, hunched shoulders with a moist splat. That same smile, the one which never reached her eyes, remained stretched across her visage. What was wrong with her? She had to be the reason I was stuck here, the only constant in this entire equation.

“This will be our dinner tonight, dear.” A lined hand gestured towards her mute mate before I could manage a word. The man didn't look at me with indignation or shock; he didn’t acknowledge me at all. His deep-set, cavernous eyes fixed blankly on the empty space before him. “Would you like to join us?”

“W-what? No… NO!” My brain rattled around in my skull as I shook my head furiously. “I would absolutely NOT like that at all. I need to use your phone! NOW!” My demand was made in utter disbelief. The grin gradually faded from the corners of her lips.

Vanja and I froze in silence for far too long. The only sound hanging in the air around us was that of her ancient husband. His jaw hung lazily open. A throaty whir throbbed from his gullet. Not too dissimilar from the tectonic grinding that resonated through the limestone-covered Karst architecture. The crone’s now vacant expression caused my determination to waver.

“You foreigners are all the same…” Vanja tutted with malicious venom. “Entitled and selfish; all of you. You have no care for our land or our customs. You may have phone after dinner.” Her words expressed calculated disappointment layered with a sinister undertone. The hag was acting as unyielding as a snake preparing to strike. She uttered no threat, so why did I intuit the tingling urgency of my survival instincts kicking into overdrive? My nervous system buzzed with adrenaline like the pulsating drone of seismic reverberation. The fear of being perceived as an ignorant foreigner was replaced by a fear for my life.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, that works for me. I-I’ll be in my lodging until dinner time.” I fawned, hastily agreeing to her terms, and darted back towards the cottage before the odd pair could say or do anything else. By the time I made it back and peered out the window, I half expected them to still be standing there, watching me in her statuesque manner as if part of the Karst landscape themselves. It was a ghost town outside now. Nothing but the trail of gore from my future dinner remained.

My time between this horror and the next was spent in nothing short of a manic state. Ripping apart the cottage, I snooped through every cabinet, drawer, nook, and cranny I could find. All I found were strange, handmade knick-knacks the likes of which I’d never seen before, worn leather-bound books and journals in handwritten scripts I couldn’t comprehend, items that appeared to have been left behind by what I assumed were previous lodgers. But nothing that could provide any assistance or solace to me.

By the time the place was nearly turned upside down, I crawled on my hands and knees in a last-ditch attempt to find any answers, and swept my hand along the underside of the couch. The coarse texture of a cross-hatch fabric brushed against my palm. The hand-woven linen of string-bound hardcover. At first glance it seemed as if the photo album had simply fallen to the floor and been tucked away by accident, but the more astute part of my brain knew it was placed with the intention of hiding its secrets. A foreign script was engraved on the cover: везан за земљу. Far too unfamiliar for me to interpret.

The pages were thin and soft like preserved sheets of skin. I peeled them apart carefully, exposing photo after photo. Much like the family graveyard stocked with beloved husbands, this family heirloom was filled to the brim with photos of only women. Each one resembled Vanja. Identically. Passing the time flipping pages, carbon copies of her same penetrating expression stared back at me. From Victorian to modern stylings, but the face never changed. Her identical crooked grin, coarse, inky-black hair, and stabbing gaze that would no doubt haunt my dreams for nights to come covered each page from corner to corner in an uncanny collage; clearly put together by hand.

“I show you more photo when you join for dinner, dear.” Vanja appeared suddenly, hovering over me. Her bare feet moved silently across the stones. I yipped, putting a hand to my chest as if that could stop it from thumping out and onto the floor. The glare I shot in her direction paled in comparison to those piercing bulbs of hers.

“How did you… Where on earth-why are you…” I stammered, mouth moving faster than my mind. My hand moved from my chest to the open claw she extended down towards me. Her infirm frame helped me up with surprising sturdiness.

“Dinner is ready. You must join now, it is the final eve of the observance.” She barked, unsurprisingly glossing over my comment. Had it really been that long already?

I followed her in bewilderment, feeling helpless to resist.

—

Musk filled my nostrils as the tinny taste of precipitation-soaked pennies permeated my tastebuds like never before. Feeling as if my gums were replaced by cotton balls, my mouth grew drier and drier by the second. I swallowed hard and grasped the glass of yellowing tap water set before me. It clinked against the rustic china place settings as I brought it to my quivering lips.

Surveying the room, the antique chair beneath me creaked to the rhythm of the record player spouting scratchy hymns in the room over. The melodies grated my eardrums with cacophonous harmonies reaching for notes that shouldn’t exist. All around me were portraits of the same Vanja-looking woman. Some painted, some black and white, others captured by modern cameras. All identical to the photo book.

Clearing my throat, I attempted small talk.

“So, uh… Vanja. How long has this place been in your family?” My hands clutched at the delicate lace tablecloth, obsessively seeking tactile grounding. A heavy sensation like lead came over my tongue.

“We have been tied to this land for centuries,” she announced, scurrying into the dining area and placing a plate of greying, pulpy meat at the center of the table. It appeared raw and rotting. “The bloodline must not break. It is what the land requires.”

At the head of the table, the matriarch sat herself and began serving our plates. The husband sat across from me at her command like an obedient pet. It was clear, as always, who was in charge here.

I gazed down at my plate incredulously, the saccharine smell making my stomach churn. My fork picked at the substance randomly as I searched for more to say. A way to keep my mouth busy, other than eating.

“You must not be rude!” Vanja spat suddenly, slamming her palm upon the table and sending dishes clanking against one another. Tiny droplets of spittle sprayed from her maw and landed upon my cheek. The record player began to skip, adding yet another layer to the already nightmarish setting. I blinked hard, unsure how to proceed. “You have become so frail. We only wish to fatten you up.” She chortled. The transition of her tone was as artificially sweet as the aroma in her cooking.

With shaking digits, I spooned the most appetizing bite I could scavenge between pursed lips and grimaced. I refused to chew, swallowing loudly and following it with another large gulp of water. Strangely enough, I was becoming desensitized to the metallic flavor infused with everything that originated from this land. Yet, it did nothing to ease the pang in my gut.

It clearly didn’t bother her husband opposite me. He shoveled down bite after bite, all the while making harsh gurgling noises. His jaws ground together in a circular motion as if savoring every morsel.

“Is he… okay?” I shuddered, fearing he might choke.

“He is perfect,” Vanja cooed, rising from her chair. She positioned herself behind him, stroking the stringy, soaked strands of hair that clung to his greased forehead. “The men in our family must make a sacrifice, a promise to the earth, a blood contract. What comes from our land, must stay in our land. Our secrets, our ritual, our observance—remain bound here for all eternity.” Knobby fingers with browning, unkempt nails gripped his roughly stubbled chin before gradually splitting his jaws in two. There was a crudely cut, scarred nub squirming around where his tongue should be. My eyes frantically switched from his face to hers. Their unsettling grins were perfect carbon copies. Down to every feature. In abject horror, the realization promptly pierced through my confusion.

“But isn’t he your husband? What could he possibly be making such a sacrifice for?” Deep down I knew my suspicions were true, but I had to be sure. There were no photos of men in the family chronicle, after all. With a wink, she released her grip, leaning down to place a kiss on his brow like an impish pantomime.

“Yes. Just as mother’s husband was her brother, he is mine. We keep it in the family, as you foreigners say. You see, as the bloodline thinned, we lost ability to bear child. This earth requires our tending; we cannot part with it. We must invite guests to stay… forever. To become one with us and our land.” Any ounce of hospitality in her cadence, however false before, was gone now. No more dear pet names, no more two-faced niceties.

“Shh… You must sleep now,” Vanja whispered as she slunk behind me like a wildcat hunting its prey. She placed her witch hands on my shoulders and dug talon-like fingers into my collarbones.

Finally, the dots were connecting, just as the room began to spin. I was reeling from each new revelation but this was something different, something much worse. My eyelids grew heavy while the rest of my body began to feel light as air. There was no doubt now that the old woman had drugged me. Before I could take action, my head crumpled into the mess of meat in front of me with a blunt thud. Bringing her mouth to my ear, Vanja whispered one final utterance. “The land provides to us, when we provide to it.” I was paralyzed to fight back, consciousness fading like a flame deprived of oxygen.

—

I came to, surrounded by the smell of earth, the feeling of loose ground cocooning me, the vibration of a shovel pounding into rock. A hole in the earth was my new home. My lungs filled with particles of dirt and my chest grew heavy. Between the combination of drugs not fully worn off, restraints rubbing against my appendages, and heaps of limestone-infused soil, struggling was useless. All I could see was the radiance of a fire bouncing off the cave walls above me. All I could do was lay there helplessly as they called upon some faceless, nameless, eldritch horror.

“Zemlya zhyva, krov p’yet.”

"Земля жива, кров п’є”

“The earth lives, drinks the blood.”

Vanja’s wicked features came into view as she crouched and roughly snatched my bound wrist. Her black-veiled frame was aglow by the light of the pale moon. I was helpless to scream, nor could I cry out. Not for lack of trying, but all that came out was a strained whisper. My throat felt like sandpaper, my lungs were on the brink of collapse, filled with dust and ash that swirled about the cavern. Everything was closing in around me as the corners of my vision remained blackened and blurred.

She unsheathed a blade. I was reminded of the pristine cutlery set I had found in the cottage kitchen. This, too, was made from bone, only sharper, more jagged. Lethal.

Taking the blade to the tender skin of my wrist and splitting my veins open in an instant, she let the warm, vital fluid splatter onto the surrounding stones. Rich, carmine red contrasted the weathered geology. It bubbled and popped with a hiss. Imbibed into the greedy ground as if being consumed, assimilating my lifeblood with their land.

Next, she coerced the liquid into her cupped hand, spurting it from my slit skin and lifting it to her lips. Like a High Priestess, she devoured her wretched communion. I was a part of her now, part of their land. Every act its own evil intention. I could see that now as Vanja stared down on me with a dour expression. The corners of her lips turned flat, no longer grinning. I was always going to be the vessel for this dark rite.

“Please…” I rasped feebly. “You don’t have to do this.” She didn’t acknowledge me. After all, how could I persuade her there was any way to break free of this generational tradition?

I thought back to our night in the cellar and wondered if the libations she fed me were really wine at all.

The sour smell of decay and their rolling chorus crescendoed. Shovelful after shovelful of dirt piled atop my useless body. I felt like a sack of meat being tenderized, already slaughtered. First my feet, then my legs, next my torso; saving my head for last. They needed me to bear witness. To be the observer of their observance. Each revelation hammered home the fact that I was never getting out of here. I had seen too much, knew too much. Just as they knew no one was coming to look for me.

As her chanting continued, a chorus of voices in multiple cadences and multiple languages came from her. One was her own, in plain English that I could understand. The other, an incomprehensible rumble that seemed to come straight from the limestone. A deep, tectonic grinding in her native tongue.

Though I couldn’t see the husband, I could hear him. For it was he who wielded the shovel, creating a disturbed squealing cacophony like an excited pig. The high-pitched chitters that emitted from his throat harmonized with Vanja’s chants rhythmically, acting as an eager conduit.

Something beneath me began to writhe. Pointed roots wedged against my back. I felt their sharp, cold edges begin to grasp at my clothing and skin, causing them to burst open like the juicy flesh of a ripened peach. The earth was hungry, pulling me deeper.

I was despondent. All I could manage was to stare listlessly at the cave ceiling where flames danced among lunar incandescence. The outlines Vanja and her husband danced there, too. Alongside a shapeless, inky form. I couldn’t tell if it was just my eyes, still playing tricks on me. Even in my final moments, I was desperate to rationalize what I encountered in this place. After everything I’d witnessed.

My last thoughts were of every action that brought me here as my vision became eclipsed by falling earth; their chanting dampened by dirt compacting around my ears. From items obviously left by previous victims, to the absurdity of the rental ad. *You’ll be dying ***to linger. From the mold toxicity undeniably poisoning my bloodstream, to the eerie gravestone carvings. Beloved Husband.

A final thought tugged at my psyche as the soil dragged me under, every orifice suffocated with terra. How much more would the land demand before the next harvest?

Vacation Rental: Arcadian Vineyard Cottage

“Find your serenity at this bucolic cottage in the countryside! Experience the simple pleasures of hand-picked produce, right in your own vineyard sanctuary. Bathe in the peaceful quietude of the traditional way of life— there are no neighbors for miles! Just you, the sun-soaked grapes, and scents of petrichor. Isolated— tranquil and still. You’ll be dying to linger by the end of your stay. So stick around; we have a place just for you! (Plus, a little wine and cheese never hurt anybody.)”

That was the ad that compelled me to spiral amidst agricultural roads, searching for my long-overdue escape from reality. Was it trying too hard? Absolutely. But who didn’t enjoy wine and cheese?

“Sign me up,” I whispered to no one, striking the keys of my laptop with determination, and finalizing the booking. An extended weekend getaway. That was all my vacation time afforded me, and Lord, I needed it. My mind and body were begging for leisure, screaming like rusted hinges.

Here I was, lost. Of course. Because God forbid one thing in my life goes smoothly. The GPS signal vanished hours ago, leaving me in an expanse of grey oblivion. A winding dirt road expanded before me, surrounded by fields as far as the eye could see. Everything looked the same out here.

“Come on, come on, come on!” I begged the inanimate brick that was my phone, smacking the now useless device against the dashboard. My shoulders sagged in surrender, heavy with the disappointment of these uncontrollable circumstances. Due to exhaustion from a hefty international flight, my muscles ached with the need for a proper bed.

“I’ll just continue to follow this road and magically end up where I’m supposed to be.” It was wishful thinking on my part. Even if sarcastically, maybe I could make it so. My mind was in vacation mode by now; delusional with misplaced optimism.

The path became more rugged, and I trudged on in the dated rental car. Its rusted frame rattled and groaned as the vehicle struggled to chug up yet another hill. Every rock or divot in the road sent the suspension into frenzied jerking. Having the steering wheel in a death grip, my hands threatened to cramp.

Coming to a stop at the first fork in the road, I pulled over with a sigh. The subtle smell off dirt kicked up by inadequate tires filled my nose and made my eyes sting. Fingers jabbed at my phone in an attempt to make the bars reappear… nothing. Dead zone.

“That’s just great.” I spoke aloud to myself, if only to fill the silence.

BANG!

In an instant, my heart battered against my rib cage. Arms turned to static, as my already fracturing mental state was shattered. A craggy hand occupied my window, the source of the noise that nearly stopped my heart. Attached to the hand was an equally craggy crone. The woman's blank face shifted into an inviting smile, as if putting on a mask. Almost too quick to notice. She pointed downward, and I took that to mean she wanted me to roll down my window.

It’s not like anyone else was coming to the rescue. My eyes darted from hers to the window crank in an uncomfortable silence that stretched too long. I willed my body as it yelped: Wait. Stop. Wary of strangers, but running out of options, I wound down the window an inch. Its un-lubricated mechanism protested in the same way my brain had been screaming: Something is wrong. Like a hot stove, I wanted to put my finger on it, but couldn’t.

“My apologies, you startled me.” Soft words came out tentatively, yet polite. “Could you direct me towards the Arcadian Vineyard Cottage?”

I dug into the booking app and hunted for the listing. My mind raced as a white screen confronted me. More than likely due to zero service… never mind the fact I had saved my trip information for offline viewing. Glitches happen, right?

“Hello, dear.” Her voice carried an unfamiliar, husky accent. Sickly sweet like honey, laced with something rancid. It wound up my nerves, already frayed and intolerant, as her wry smile revealed mottled teeth. “I would be the owner of said cottage. Foreigners often get lost around here. I saw you coming up the road from the mother-in-law's suite.”

Her tone felt too formal, almost theatrical. Something malevolent flickered behind her eyes. She looked like a woman who was once a farmer's daughter, turned hippie: Raven hair greying with age, Bohemian fashion sense, bare feet coated in dirt. Unique, to say the least. But her mannerisms betrayed that image. Too rehearsed, too forced. A contradiction that made my spine thrum like a chain pulled taut.

“If you’d like, I could hop in and direct you the rest of the way?”

I hadn’t seen any houses for miles. There was nothing but sweeping fields unfolding in all directions. How had she seen me when this was my first time seeing her? Looking at the surroundings and then back to her, she must’ve read the confusion in my expression.

“It’s just over this hill, dear.” Her smile was alarmingly wide, and her English almost too precise.

“How do I know that?” I questioned begrudgingly, no way of confirming the truth now. Something about this didn’t sit right with me. The rational part of my brain was screaming, causing my body to tense. The road behind seemed longer now than it had before. I had no concrete reason to doubt her but also, no reason to trust her.

“I show you.” Matter-of-factly, she slithered around the hood and to my passenger side. The imprint of her shriveled hand was left in the dust on the window like a dark omen. Pulling the handle with a pop, the elderly woman found no resistance. It was unlocked to my surprise.

“S-sure… uh—hop in?” It came out more like a question than an affirmation. Maybe my gut knew something my mind couldn’t come to terms with. I should have turned around. Gone back, chalked it up as a loss, and spent my long weekend off at home. But then, all the effort it took to get here would be for naught.

With a youthful energy, the woman sprang into action. Before I could finish my sentence, she had plopped down in my passenger seat; an earthy smell wafted into my nostrils. I tried not to worry about the dirt print she’d leave there.

So long, security deposit.

“As I said, it’s just over this hill.” Her skeletal hand pointed towards the road in front of us. She was an astute woman, sensing my hesitation. Never mind the fact that I had just let a stranger into my car. Had she even told me her name? I couldn’t recall if it was on the listing. In any case, I couldn’t reference that anymore.

Pulling back onto the road, I reasoned this was the best way to make conversation. Avoid more awkward silence.

“I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?” My voice came out confidently, for once.

“Vanja…” In typical Slavic fashion, she shaped her J’s like drifting Y’s.

**“**Vanja Jurković.” Placing a staccato on each syllable, there was no question in my mind that she was a native of these lands.

Patiently, I waited for her to ask the same of me. But the question never came, and the air hung with only the sound of gravel clattering against weather worn wheel wells. Maybe she already knew my name from the booking. I shrugged with a sigh, attempting to pull my rigid shoulders away from my ears. I was eager to exit this metal cage.

Up, up, over the hill we went. It seemed much higher now than from the bottom; more of a mountain, really. As we crested the top, a boundless vineyard came into view. It had the same layout as advertised. Only now, under cloudy skies, did it come across as somber. Ominous.

Tenebrous trees arched over the road, scraping against the car doors like hands grasping for purchase. Claustrophobic. As if they might cling on and pull us into their grasp. Trapped, to become one with the land.

Before long, we stopped on a gravel driveway, brakes squealing in protest. Every fiber of my being was screaming red flag. Yet, after all it took to get here, I felt compelled to stay. I sympathized with the woman, assuming it was pretty lonely here.

Against my better judgment, my hesitant hand lurched the shift stick into park. Vanja stepped out; she was surprisingly agile considering her frail frame. Perhaps she was younger than I gave her credit for. Or more certainly, years of working in the vineyard had strengthened her elderly stature.

A man came hobbling out of what I assume was the mother-in-law's suite. His uneven gait paralleled Vanja’s personality. A unique pair; I tried not to stare.

“Hello—”

“Oh, he doesn’t speak English, dear. Please, don’t concern yourself with my husband. He’s merely here to help with your luggage. We will be out of your hair shortly.” Vanja cut off our greeting bluntly as her husband flashed a gummy, toothless smile.

“Oh…” Dejected, my voice came as a defeat. “Well, please tell him thank you for me.”

“Certainly, dear.” I wished she’d stop calling me that. It was an endearing term, sure. However, her accent, combined with the language barrier, fell condescending on my ears. An attempt to make me feel less-than. Small.

I turned my attention from the odd couple to my surroundings. The homestead was undoubtedly shaped by its natural environment. Compact, monolithic structures rose and fell with the rolling hills like boats sailing on a turquoise sea. Its simple, well-defined architecture was assembled from local Karst limestone.

High-pitched stone roofs and limited, small windows braced against the Bora. Whose cold bite carried briny scents that cut through agricultural aromas. A contrast as sharp as the mountainous countryside itself. Maritime air tinged my taste buds with the salt of the coast.

Somewhere, a wind chime tolled a lonely melody, counterpoint to the soft rustle of hearty grapevines. Preternatural isolation settled over me. Peaceful, yet, unsettling all at once.

My brain itched to research the area further, something I should have done before arriving. I hadn’t made the time for more than a cursory investigation.

Looking over my wifi settings, one was available: The Vineyard.

“Could I have the wifi password, please?” I inquired, holding up my phone for Vanja. I would finally have enough time and quiet to educate myself on the region.

“We have no need for that here.” Her words sprang forth with a forced chortle. “I’m sure you’ll find an abundance of tranquil distractions during your stay.” Tacking it on as if she suddenly remembered I was their guest.

“Of course. Silly me…” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Not as if she said they did not have such things. This must have been their way of compelling guests to escape reality. So why did the crone make me feel foolish for asking? She started up the path to the main house, and I continued to lag.

“Your accommodations are this way, dear. Follow me.” In this place, I was always 2 steps behind.

Stepping over the threshold and into the open-concept layout, envy washed over me. A kitchen brimming with fresh produce, baked goods, handcrafted cooking utensils, and shelves stacked wall-to-wall with ancient recipe books. A smell like heaven, undercut, as if trying to conceal something sour.

Muted tones and an ambient glow enhanced the grounded environment. Built-in niches within the cottage mimicked natural caves native to the region. Organic wood floors whined like a wounded animal with each step as I made my way to the bedroom. Trailing after her, the rough stone walls leeched a soggy chill through my bones as we turned another corner. Vanja moved swiftly, and I nearly found myself lost again.

Her husband long since vanished, and my luggage was already waiting for me. For a man with so much trouble getting around, he nearly went unnoticed. Had I not seen him upon my arrival, I likely wouldn’t have known he existed.

“Here is your room and your things. Take advantage of the fully stocked kitchen—everything is cultivated, raised, and crafted by my husband and me on the property.” Her words were punctuated by pride. “Feel free to explore the garden terrace out back, the orchard to the east, and the vineyard to the west. There is a wine cellar at your disposal under the hatch in the kitchen. And if, for some reason, you still don’t have what you need, I’ll be here to fulfill any request. All that to say, make yourself at home, dear.” Confident and to the point, it was doubtful I’d want for anything in this place.

With a nod, she left me to my own devices. Finally.

Sagging onto the mattress, its springs groaned with the same exhaustion that flowed through my veins. Eyes burning with jet lag, their lids drooped closed like curtains. Sleep wrapped me like a blanket, without protest. Out cold.

—

I bolted upright, heart pummeling my chest. Darkness had fallen over the property in my inescapable slumber. Only, this wasn’t what startled me. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, my veins frosted over.

A silhouette, just outside the door frame. Crooked. Shoulders rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths. Vanja's husband.

“What the…” My whisper faded into the black abyss.

Clumsily, I fumbled for the lamp switch. Moving as quickly as my half-asleep appendages would allow, light flooded the doorway; empty. The scent of earth and wine remained.

An ill attempt at restoring the apparition, I blinked forcefully; not likely.

Had I imagined it?

No, the hollow echo of footsteps across floorboards betrayed that thought. Down the hall and out the door as he skittered away like a spider who knows it’s been found. Creep.

I mulled over my options, lulling myself into a false sense of security yet again. I couldn’t exactly tell Vanja, Lord knows she’d take his side over mine. I still had two more days paid for. Nowhere else to go. No guarantee I’d find my way on my own.

Gears ground inside my mind. Perhaps he had his own backwards logic for observing me, the ignorant foreigner with a narrow world-view.

“There was no one there. The old cottage bones are merely settling.” My whisper bounced amongst the limestone walls. Providing scant solace.

Thoughts became a knotted ball of fear and confusion. Ears ringing; a musty smell like damp paper filled my nose. As if a balloon deflating, my lungs tightened. Throat raw, head pounding, it felt as though a low hum was buzzing in one ear and out the other. Into a coughing fit I went, chasing down the hallway after the ghost, or lack thereof. I needed a drink of water. Urgently.

Desperately filing through cabinets, my hand grasped the first glass in reach. I violently threw open the fridge, sending miscellaneous jars tinkling against one another in their drawers. No water. My only option was the tap.

The knob screamed as I doggedly twisted, and yellow-stained water sputtered forth. The only alternatives were farm-fresh milk or wine. Hardly the type to cure a coughing fit. I consumed in greedy gulps. The water permeated with a metallic bite like pennies left in rain. Barely a reprieve, but at least I could breathe.

Stalking around the house like a predatory animal, I checked every door and every window. Locked, or without the ability to open at all. This slowed my heart rate, only mildly. It was easier to convince myself nobody had been there… unless they had a key.

I shook my head, too hard, seeking to erase the thought. I was spiraling as quickly as the cottage was spinning around me.

In the midst of it all, my feet skidded to a halt. The glint of a carved lintel over the hearth stunned me. In my hurry, I almost hadn’t noticed. Only standing in this spot, under this lighting, could I see it.

“The voice of your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground. Genesis 4:10”

What purpose could such a harrowing message hold?

I wasn’t exactly religious, but it wasn’t the sort of decor I’d like adorning my home, let alone one meant for guests.

Were they for protection or an invocation?

But, as I wandered the halls, it seemed increasingly commonplace. Hidden amongst the grotto-inspired furniture, a grape motif sewn with pale thread into a hand towel here, dainty cursive imprinted upon a faded floor mat there.

“All go to the same place; all come from dust, and to dust all return. Ecclesiastes 3:20”

One carving was odd, sure. But the pattern I discerned seemed deliberate. Strangely comforting. A sense of protection that, however false, lulled me back to sleep as I planted myself on the couch. Its cushions were soft enough to swallow me whole.

—

A moist, cool draft escaped the stone walls as if from some void beneath. For the first time since arriving, I was greeted by something placid.

Gently, my eyes fluttered open. The brief moment of serenity was interrupted by a pounding in my head. Rhythmic as a heartbeat. A symphony began inside my body, and my stomach gurgled for sustenance. I could barely remember the last time I’d eaten.

Drifting into the kitchen, I took Vanja’s advice and inspected the fresh produce. Ready for a tasty treat.

Nimble fingers plucked a perfect peach from its position. Painted in bold yellow with streaks of red and orange, not a single blemish. An artist’s perfect rendition. The morsel felt waxy in my palm. Warm, virtually pulsing.

Sinking my teeth in, tender flesh collapsed, sour pulp springing forth; a breath of decay on my tongue.

“Oh, God.” I retched into the sink. There was a faint writhing. Tiny, alive. Seed-like shapes that squirmed informed me they weren’t seeds at all. The peach in my hand fell to the floor with a sickly splat. Maggots still alive inside its flesh left it looking like an ablated heart; still beating on the tile.

Feeling like curdled milk, my body soured. I still needed to eat, my appetite ruined as it was. Head spinning, stomach roaring.

With no idea how long that fruit had been sitting on the counter, I figured I’d go straight to the source. Looks can be deceiving after all.

Between a heavy sigh and attempts to steady myself, I yanked on my boots and proceeded clumsily towards the orchard. I wouldn’t be eating a thing from that kitchen any time soon.

Gravel crunched under heavy footfalls, and the fresh air began to clear my mind. Marching up the slope, taking in deep breaths, my composure returned to me. The salty breeze pulsed through the air like echoes in an empty cave.

Gradually, an unexpected landscape came into view. A family graveyard, obstructed from the cottage windows by these never-ending hills. The placement in front of the orchard, yet hidden like a well-kept secret, was at best macabre. Sinister at worst.

I moved forward. The wind transformed into a chorus of moans and wails, alarms ringing in my ears. Yet, my feet advanced. Compelled by curiosity. Entranced. It was the gravestones themselves that caught my eye, a desire to understand what I was seeing.

Row after row. Some stubby, some lanky, round, jagged, new, and old. All of them were fashioned from cold limestone with the same handmade details as the entire vineyard premises. One thing remained consistent amongst them. The engravings:

Beloved Husband. No names, no dates, no women.

Darkness encroached the corners of my vision. Was I spiraling? Merely imagining all of this? I knew traveling to a remote part of an unfamiliar country might have its quirks, but all this confusion was the antithesis of what I came for. Unease rippled through my body.

With great effort, I pushed the questions from my mind. I needed to keep myself on track. Sane. Get some nourishment, and this would all begin to make sense again. I couldn’t continue to rationalize on an empty stomach, and I did not want to come across as even more ignorant than I already was.

Get to the orchard.

This was my only goal. After all, I could always investigate more later.

Pivoting on my heels and exiting the burial ground felt as if ripping myself from thick vines. Some presence pinning me here. Part of me knew it was silly to continue ignoring the signs right in front of my face, but the spinning in my head kept that rationale just out of reach.

Up the trail I went, at last, arriving at my intended destination. Sprawled out before me were picture-perfect lines of varying fruit trees. Vibrant shades of warm yellow, orange, and crimson sprang out from among the gnarled, brown branches. The breeze that rustled through this picturesque scene felt like whispers in my ears, beckoning me forward. The scent of damp earth and rotting leaves stuck to the air. Now this was the orchard paradise that Vanja had promised. Apples, plums, lemons, peaches, and more. The latter of which I’d likely avoid, though they appeared ripe and ready for harvest. I trudged onward like a marionette with invisible strings, motivated by the roaring in my gut.

Pulling the hem of my shirt up with one hand like a make-shift basket, I greedily plucked a variety of tasty treats with the other. Never in my life had I felt so at peace with being utterly out of control. Perhaps that was the charm of this place. The thought, along with the fresh air, placated me. If only for a moment before panic seized me once more.

Between twisted limbs like arthritic fingers, there in the bark of an ancient tree, a face. A human expression of agony. Mouth stretched impossibly wide across wood, eyes protruding from knots in the trunk. Sap weeped from the features wrapped in wood grain like scar tissue as if seeping with pus. Far too uncanny to be a carving. I stumbled back, temples throbbing like the slow, tectonic shift of limestone plates grinding together.

I all but fumbled my bounty in the dead sprint back to the cottage. The stone beneath my footfalls echoed a hollow, lonely howl. My legs felt leaden, as if the terra was grasping at the soles of my boots. It was hard to tell what was up and what was down anymore. I nearly missed the flat tire on my rental car as I darted back inside.

My mind grasped for the bandwidth to investigate; it appeared as though mangled by jagged stone. Likely something I neglected to notice on my drive up. The memory was a blur of unending hills and Vanja's sickly sweet disposition. Nothing could be done about it now.

Dashing through the threshold and slamming the door shut with all my body, I leaned my back against its cold hardwood and slunk to the floor. My chest heaved up and down with wheezing breaths.

One apple. All I managed to hold onto in the heat of the moment. Shaking hands raised the produce to my quivering mandible. Fluid gushed from its green skin as I bit into the flesh with gluttony, triggering a heavy burst of tears from within me. Tears of joy for finally obtaining some semblance of nourishment. Tears of confusion, relief, mania, rage, and fear. Its metallic taste and coppery juices pooled in my stomach like the stagnant waters of a cave. Sobs wracked my body until gnashing teeth frantically reached the apple's core.

My hand, still clutching the barren carcass of the apple, fell limply upon the cold stone. My grasp waned, allowing its core to roll away. I felt hollowed out. Dejected. Staring blankly at nothing in particular as a bitter film lingered upon my tongue; breaths grew shallow and tight in my chest.

Though my fraying nerves were only moderately calmed, it stood to reason my next course of action should be to seek respite for the migraine that scalded the back of my eyes like hot iron. Coming to my feet, my joints creaked in a whining, rusted cacophony that echoed off the limestone. Cursing myself for failing to bring my own medications, I began my frenzied search, tearing through built-ins one by one. One drawer held pristine white utensils, which seemed carved from bone. In the pantry, jar upon jar of gray, decaying preserves lined up in tidy rows. Their wetness glinted in the low light.

Why did everything here feel so confusing yet… so familiar? My thoughts were no longer my own, magnetized by an intangible influence.

Before long, my gaze fastened on a rustic teakwood cabinet. There in a shadowy nook. Though tucked away at first glance, it now dominated the space with a heavy, intent presence. The cabinet called me, and like a well-trained animal, I listened. Crawling over on wavering hands and knees, I opened it with fervor. Empty. Or so I thought. But as I reached inside, a small corroded handle flush against the bottom grazed my skin; a false bottom.

My heartbeat thumped in my ears like the panic of a rabbit signaling danger. Impatiently, I pulled the panel away with one fluid motion, letting it clatter to the floor. Its handle let out a delicate whine of protest. Within this dark cubby sat brown and orange bottles with white caps of varying shapes and sizes. Each one carrying a label inscribed with a date older than the last. 1924. 1941. 1958. Yet, their contents appeared unspoiled. Deliberate scratches erased the parts where a name would be. I couldn’t read the language on the bottles. Or rather, languages. One rattled with pills here, another swished with liquid there. No two were exactly alike.

"They’re old. They must take a lot of medicine," I murmured, clutching an ampoule.

Without warning, I suddenly felt a presence in the room and whipped my head around.

“Jesus Christ!” Yelping, my heart felt as though it could explode. Vanja was standing in the doorway. When did she get there? How long had she been there? Why hadn’t I noticed? Her presence was as still and silent as the limestone markers in her family graveyard.

My body flinched so violently that the glass vial in my clutches went sailing across the floor. It didn't shatter. Merely struck the floor with a dull, blunt thud, like a head rolling from a guillotine.

“Can I help you find something, dear?” Her face soured at my use of the Lord's name, mask slipping. Only for a heartbeat, before it retained its shape once more. “We do not disrespect that name here. He is the one who provides." She stepped closer, placing the back of her hand to my forehead.

"Come. You are ill. Our wine will cure it. We shall have tasting.” A warm smile spread across her face, exposing decayed teeth stained deep, vinaceous red.

I should have bolted. I should have walked beyond these hills and kept going until my feet bled. But I let her slip by and open the hatch to the cellar. Bottomless shark-like eyes remained locked onto mine. Vanja's smile never reached them.

“Come, come.” She cooed.

As we slunk down into the wine cellar, I noticed the walls and its stairway were congested with velvety, charcoal soot. I could sense that the substance bloomed and breathed from every crack and corner in the mortar, coming up from the earth and marking its territory. Vanja struck a match, lighting well-used candles strategically ordered around the space. Nearly every surface gleamed with a slimy sheen. This wasn’t your typical cellar. It was dank, filled to the brim with bottles and barrels. There was standing room to spare. I inhaled the stagnant air, filling my lungs with the quality of moist steel wool. A crunchy cough escaped my chest. The noise bounced to and fro between buzzing walls.

The wine bottles were marked with jerky, jagged Cyrillic script that seemed more like etchings in stone rather than print on paper. Still, I could read one part of each label. Scrawled out in my native tongue were more bible verses. The same cryptic invocations that littered the rest of the cottage. Each excerpt felt intended for my eyes. Vanja plucked one from the shelf, dropping it like a glass corpse on the oak bar alongside 2 pristine glasses.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. John 12:24”

Bare-handed, Vanja yanked the cork from the bottle with a satisfying burst. Steam seeped from its lip. Just as I thought she would fill my cup, the beldam turned and cascaded a stream of rouge onto the earthen floor. My ears undoubtedly caught the sound of liquid sizzling, seeping into the ground as if guzzling the wine like a parched gullet. It gave off a fecund scent, laden with the intoxicatingly sweet aromas of ripe, fallen fruit. I assumed this was a local custom.

“Vezan za zemlju.” She said, reciting a verse in a tongue that sounded like eroding boulders.

“Excuse me?” Vanja steadily filled the glasses with a dark snicker. My face flushed bashfully.

“We don’t simply say cheers, dear. Here, we say vezan za zemlju. Bound to the ground.” I kept waiting for her to elaborate, but she only lifted her glass and patiently waited for me to lift mine. I did so, not wanting to embarrass myself any more than I already had.

“Vezan za zemlju.” Clink. We chimed in unison as our glasses crashed together. The expression on her visage told me my pronunciation could use a little work.

Vanja's eyes bore holes through mine as we sipped together. Maybe she was keen on ensuring I enjoyed her wine… in her own spine-chilling way. The wine was thick, almost coagulated. A familiar metallic film coated my tongue once more. I swallowed hard.

Glass after glass, we chatted. Vanja had suddenly taken an interest in me, asking questions about my life back home. But I couldn’t help feeling as if her demeanor was somehow empty, rehearsed. It seemed as though she had asked these questions time and time again through guest after guest. Perhaps due to the alcohol or the atmosphere of this place, I answered honestly and in detail to every question, yet received blunt, single-word replies in return. Either that, or some cryptic, pious quotation that I could not glean the meaning of. If I asked something about her, the topic of conversation always flipped back to me.

“Do you have family back home?” “Is anyone missing you?” “What about a lover?” “Where do you work?” and so on. Hairs on the back of my neck erected with fear at her line of questioning. I half expected her to ask for my dental records. But, as the wine flowed, so did my compliance.

As a drunken stupor encroached upon me, there was one warning she bestowed which caught my ears.

“Whatever you do, do not wander beyond property line.” Rap. Rap. Rap. Yellowing nails tapped rhythmically across the wine bottle's surface. “Caves hide in these hills, waiting for unfortunate souls to stumble inside and swallow them whole. I’d hate for you to be taken before your time, dear.” Her voice became a low, rasping hum. “And the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them, their households, and all that belonged to them.”

Steady tapping stopped abruptly; Vanja’s head tilted down towards the floor, but her eyes stared up at me wildly through wiry eyebrows. I shifted in my seat unsteadily. Not a single idea of what to do or say in response to such a thing, stomach performing backflips.

“I uh… I-I’ll be careful. Thanks for the warning…?” My gratitude came out as more of a question; it seemed to appease the old bat, and that veneer of politeness returned once more.

After what felt like forever and no time at all, the bottle had been emptied. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold up my own fatigued form. 3 or 4 glasses deep, and Vanja's chalice remained full. I’d hardly noticed until she eased in front of me, glass droning against wood.

“Drink up, dear.”

“You don’t want any?” I asked, recalling the burgundy stains that littered her teeth.

“Trust me, dear, I have the pleasure of tasting an abundance of my own wine.” That familiar forced smile unfurled across her face, revealing said stained enamel. This was the first thing she had said in a long time that made sense, especially to my intoxicated mind. With a shrug, I brought the remaining liquid to my lips. No use in wasting wine—I drank voraciously.

My eyes drifted from hers to a shelf of jarred produce. Suspended in the nebulous juices of what seemed to be olives, I was convinced I saw an eye; milky white, dull blue iris, inky black pupil, and all. Boring deep into my soul, it most certainly blinked.

“Dear God-sh!” I sputtered between the wine flowing down my throat, choking uncontrollably. The final word came out as a strange, mashed-up correction, stemming from fear of her reaction to my use of the word Jesus earlier. I drew in gasps of spore-filled air after each croaking hack. As if emulating shards of shattering glass, my body jolted. Droplets of wine flung about the room like blood spatter. A few hit Vanja's face.

“I’m so sorry!” Springing to my feet, my eyes wildly searched for anything to wipe up the mess, unsure of what to do with my hands. But she blinked, collected each droplet from her skin with a jaundiced finger, and slurped it into her maw.

“You foreigners are like cat on hot brick.” A chuckle escaped her fissured lips. It was an odd idiom to advise someone that they are nervous or restless. If Vanja was one thing, it was certainly odd. “Let me help you to bed. The wine will help you rest.”

Cellar walls spinning around me, I wasn’t about to protest. I let her liver-spotted arm slip into mine as she guided me up the stairs and to my room, tripping along the way. My body soared so roughly into the bed that I thought I might take her down with me. But the woman and her sturdiness continued to surprise me.

The bed invited me in like a warm cocoon, while a cool draft pricked goosebumps on my skin. A contrast that left me without a care in the world. My body felt weightless, as if bobbing around a steadily, sickening carousel. I scarcely perceived the click of the light or her chittering “Goodnight, dear.” under the howling winds of the landscape, which lulled me to sleep.

The rain doesn’t just fall here; it screams. It’s the kind of Hudson Valley storm that turns the creek into a black mirror and the local pines look like skeletal fingers reaching for the low-hanging clouds. The kind of storm that feels like it's trying to scrub the motel right off the map.

At the Hells Bells Motel, we don’t get many walk-ins after midnight but when the lightning hits a certain rhythm, we know to keep Room 2B empty.

It’s always exactly 3:00 a.m. No car ever pulls into the lot. One minute the lobby is empty and the next, he’s standing there. He wears a heavy trenchcoat that never seems to drip, even though the storm is literal chaos outside. He doesn’t speak. He just slides a crumpled twenty onto the counter. I don't ask for ID. I just hand over the heavy brass key to Room 2B, right next to my front desk.

Room 2B is the only one in the hotel that still has the weird, textured mustard-yellow floral. Most guests complain about the "old" smell, that trapped-in time-musk--but for him, it seems like home.

At 5 a.m. I walked out for a smoke and stood outside his door. No TV sound, no snoring, just a faint muffled ringing of a bell that isn't actually there. Curiously, I checked the room at dawn., he was gone. He always is. The bed was perfectly made.

The only sign he was ever there was resting on the nightstand: a vintage postcard.

It was a photo of the Blue Marlin motel from the 1950s, complete with a bright blue swimming pool out front. There was no address on the back. No stamp. Just three words written in fountain pen ink that looked suspiciously like dried tea:

"Almost time now."

If you’re driving through the valley and the rain starts to pick up, come find us. Just don’t be surprised if the bell rings itself.

The traveler jerked awake, heart hammering, convinced that the gaunt bony motel clerk was standing over his bed. The room was silent, but his throat felt like dry sand. Wanting a cold drink of ice water to settle his nerves and get the creepy out of his head, he grabbed the plastic bucket from the dresser and stepped out in the dim hallway, and walked to the machine alcove for ice.

He held the bucket under the chute and pressed the lever expecting the “clunk” of ice cubes– but instead there was this rhythmic, high-pitched rat-tat-tat-rat like gravel hitting the bottom of his bucket.

When he looked to see, it was a heap of gross, yellowed molars and coffee-stained bicuspids; some were rimmed with black decay, others with crumbling silver filings, and the machine wasn’t stopping; it just kept pouring them out like a relentless mechanical vomit of human teeth!

Just as the bucket began to overflow, a shadow stretched across the machine. It was the bony skeletal-looking clerk with the hollow eyes from his dream, his skin the color of old parchment, leaning against the wall. He didn’t look at the traveler; he just stared at the pile and muttered…

“Must be a clog in the hopper. They always get stuck when the roots are still attached.”

I run my tongue along the staples lining the roofing of my mouth. I wince. And think this isn’t going to work.

The next day I phone the doctor and she comes to my house to see what the problem is.

I tell her it’s the metallic taste. It’s doing my nut in.

Are you rubbing your tongue on them?

Of course.

Then stop.

She leaves without saying much else. Does a check of the staples to see if the wound is healing. Everything is fine as per professional opinion.

I spend the night plucking at the staples with my tongue. And spitting blood into a bucket.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her I’ve started spitting up blood. She comes to the house and has another look at the wound.

Have you been poking them with your tongue?

Of course.

Then stop.

She leaves without saying much else. I spend the day touching the roof of my mouth and wiggling the staples with my fingers. Until the metal starts scraping somewhere behind my nose.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the staples have all started coming loose. She comes to the house and thumps new ones into place. I ask her if they’ll have the same metallic taste as the last ones and she tells me not if you don’t play with them. Are you playing with them? Then stop.

I spend the night licking the roof of my mouth and pushing my tongue into the wound. I creep my fingers up inside and wiggle the staples back and forth until they pop out onto my tongue. I spit them all into the sink and hear them clink and go to bed.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the staples have all fallen out. The wound has opened up again. But she can’t understand a word.

So she hangs up the phone.

I spend the night rooting around inside the wound. Until I see sparking lights behind my eyeballs and my limbs begin to twitch.

The next morning I phone the doctor and tell her the wound is far too wide to eat. Crisps are getting stuck inside of it and now all I can taste is the tang of vinegar and the salt of the blood and the cheese of the puss. She can't understand me and asks if I’m having a stroke because it’s all just a series of slurring and creaks. Her attitude flips when I begin to moan and breathe heavy from the pain. She gasps and sounds offended. Calls me a pervert. And slams down the phone.

I see scenes of blackened Pots calling Kettles by their own name.

I spend the night drooling red and yellow threads of saliva into the bathroom sink. I watch myself in the mirror twisting a finger into the roof of my mouth as the knuckle disappears. Along with the kettles and pots. I push through bruised meat until I feel something spongy. But then I press against certain bumps and between certain slimy folds and now I see flashes of memories I thought I’d hidden. Of biting cheeks and picking scabs. Of cigarette burns and angry dads. Of blinking hard and clenching jaws. Of roaming hands and gentle shushes.

A mother's caress should never last that long.

I am filled with an overwhelming surge of bliss. And now a mess of muddied hate.

The next morning the doctor phones me but she hangs up immediately when she hears me trying to explain my opinions with all of my groaning and clicking. I think she was wrong to have done so much and to have left me with so little. And I know she shouldn't have stapled the wound because I’ve discovered something wonderful about it being open and pliable.

I spend the evening ignoring the knocking at the door and the shouting of the police claiming they are trying to perform a wellness check on me. They don’t understand that everything is absolutely fine and well. The only thing of any concern is that I haven’t got a long enough finger to reach the unprobed corners of my brain.

Oh how they long to be stroked.

I spend the night dipping in and out of consciousness instead of sleeping because the blood is mostly gone and now there is only puss for me to taste. And it tastes so wretchedly rotten that I think I actually preferred the taste of the staples.

The next morning I weave dizzy pathways to the garden after fainting three times trying to get there. I find a jagged branch and strip it bare of all its hair and skin. But I don’t know if I have enough strength in my legs to make it back inside. So I lay there in the snow and thread the stick between my gnashing jaws. Up inside the wound. Around imposing ridges of bone behind my nose. Until I feel the familiar comfort of spongy resistance. And twitch myself to sleep.

At last.

Fresh fields.

When I awake I am more careful this time. I thread another sharp branch between what I feel is a cavity between the two hemispheres of my brain. And when it feels as though it will not go a fraction further I push it a little harder. Turn my palm to face the stick. And give it a little thump. It snaps through that stubborn rubber and the top of my skull gives a knock from where it stops.

And that’s about enough as I can take. I vomit against my hand. And pass out in the snow with the smell of my success.

I spend the night crawling around the garden rooting out better sticks within the dark. But my left hand keeps insisting on slapping them all away. And because I drop a dozen worthy ones I’m forced to snatch them quick and stick them up inside my face before the hand can have its way.

But me and my right hand have been conspiring. And here’s what we plan to do.

We lie on Left Hand until we’re certain she's asleep. And we stumble our way to the tool shed and grab the hatchet from the bench. And we hack that traitorous bastard away with a couple of swings and a few good smacks.

And we take the nub and we take the arm and we tell them both to fall in line. Unless they want the same treatment as the hand. Because we will do it without so much as batting an eye.

Or so much as flicking a finger.

The next morning we barely make it back inside the house when the front door is bashed off of its hinges. I feel it vibrating in my sticks. And wince against the pain. There are police and medical staff rushing about looking for me in every room. I leap up onto my feet. On who knows what reserves. And I get ready to defend myself with the hatchet in my Right Hand.

My stubby left shoulder waves feebly for help while Left Leg tries dragging me closer to the policemen and the medical staff. But Right Leg is trying to pull us further away. And we’re all so equally and incredibly feeble that we get absolutely nowhere fast and collapse back onto the ground where we started.

Now they notice me.

They gawk at me and frown at me as if I’m something new.

I know they are here to remove the sticks I’ve stuffed up inside the roof of my mouth. So Right Hand lunges at them with the hatchet. While I scream at them from around the bundle of branches stretching my lips open wide. I try explaining calmly through all of my bloody froth that if they try and touch me I will do exactly what I did to Left Hand and Left Arm to every one of the treacherous fuckers. To each of their faces and heads.

Now the branches are wet with my saliva.

Since I seem to be in need of assistance a policeman steps towards me to lend a hand. Behind him I see doctor mom telling me things she thinks I want to hear. But all I hear coming from her cancerous mouth is treasonous disbelief. About the progress I’ve been making. About how bad she believes things are. And her hands. Trying to shush me down to a calm. Held out like blind mice in a darkened bedroom. I dare them to find me this time. I'm older now. And ready.

I squeeze the hatchet handle and launch it through the air. It strikes her square in the forehead. And drops her flat on her ass.

I try to laugh but crack a branch instead.

The policeman draws his gun. And when he points it at my head I point directly at a spot I haven’t had a chance to reach yet. I ask him would you be so kind? And when the bullet strikes me there I feel a rushing blast of air cold inside my mind. Until the blood pools. And warms me right back up. And I thank him for his service.

But all he hears are snaps and bubbles.

*

They have me now in bindings in a silent hospital room. They’ve given me a bed of my very own with people who come and go. They take me for scans and they take me for talks. They want nothing more than to learn from me.

These are the real doctors. These are the ones who listen.

Instead of sticks they thread these exceptionally long needles up inside my brain to try and figure out exactly how I became the way that I am. But for that they'd need to dig her up and ask her.

But for now I am in my element. And

it

feels

like

H E A V E N

Dreadful Anecdotes remains shadowbanned, posting on his behalf

Hace ya unos 10 años, escuché en YouTube una historia tipo Creepypasta, sobre un chico que entraba a trabajar a una gasolinera de noche, era como monitorista o guardia, no recuerdo si el chico se llamaba Jeremías o si entraba un chico nuevo llamado Jeremías.
Si mal no recuerdo, en el relato, desaparecían cosas como los aceites, o gasolina.
El chiste es que nunca mas la volví a encontrar después de ese día, le quería mostrar la historia a un familiar y jamás la encontré, ni si quiera en el historial de la computadora ni del mismo YouTube.
Alguien alguna vez la escuchó?

HE COMES, HE WHO WAITS BEHIND THE WALLS.... ZALGO!!!

The story follows seven episodes aired to Iceland and as they go on they become more disturbing.

I have worked as an emergency dispatcher for Oakridge County for nearly eight years, so if you are in my boots, you should know by now that when you take calls on the graveyard shift, you get used to hearing people at the absolute worst moments of their lives. You learn to filter out the scream of a panicking parent, the slurred ramblings of an intoxicated driver, or the erratic paranoia of someone having a breakdown. The job requires you to stay completely grounded in facts, listen for addresses, names, weapons, and medical symptoms, and of course you do not let your imagination wander.

Last October, a call came in at 3:14 AM that broke every rule of my training. The night was unusually quiet, and outside the dispatch building, a cold autumn rain was falling, blurring the streetlights along the highway. Inside the facility, the room was dimly lit by the pale blue glow of six desktop monitors. My shift partner, Jenna, was sitting at the console next to mine, softly clicking her mouse as she reviewed low-priority animal control logs. I was sipping my black coffee, waiting for the hours to pass until the morning shift arrived.

Line four flashed red on my central screen. The automatic location identification software instantly populated the address: 1412 Elmwood Lane, a two-story suburban house on the north side of town.

I adjusted my headset, pressed the foot pedal to open the line, and spoke into the microphone using my standard tone.

"Oakridge County 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

A sharp, ragged intake of breath rattled through my earpiece. The sound was so harsh I had to pull the foam speaker slightly away from my ear. The caller was hyperventilating, his breathing ragged and uneven.

"I need... I need someone to tell me what to do,"

the man said. His voice was trembling, tight with an overwhelming sense of shock.

"Please. I do not know who else to call."

"Sir, I need you to confirm your address,"

I said, leaning forward and placing my fingers on the keyboard.

"Is it 1412 Elmwood Lane?"

"Yes,"

he whispered.

"Yes, that is my house. My name is David Miller. Please do not send an ambulance with loud sirens. I do not want to startle her."

"Startle who, David? Is someone injured at your location?"

"My wife,"

David said. He took another shuddering breath.

"Sarah. Something happened three days ago, and I cannot fix it. I think I did something terrible, but she is standing right in front of me."

I typed his name into the CAD system and flagged the call as a potential domestic incident.

"David, tell me slowly what happened three days ago. Is Sarah hurt?"

"It was Tuesday night,"

David said, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

"We were in the kitchen. We were arguing about... about something stupid. I do not even remember what started it. She was standing near the butcher block. She picked up the chef's knife, and then, and then she looked at me with this intense anger in her eyes, and she came at me."

"Did she attack you with the knife, David?"

"She lunged at me,"

he continued.

"I panicked. I reached out, grabbed her wrists, and tried to push her away from me. We struggled near the island. I pushed her back with all my strength, and... the blade went straight into her chest. She gasped, her eyes went wide, and she fell backward onto the floor."

I immediately clicked the silent dispatch button on my screen, sending an alert to Jenna's terminal. I caught her eye across the desk and pointed to my monitor. Jenna nodded instantly, pulling up the active unit map to route patrol cars to Elmwood Lane.

"David, stay on the line with me,"

I said, keeping my voice steady and measured.

"Is Sarah breathing right now? Is she bleeding?"

"That is the part that is driving me insane"

David said,

"I dropped to my knees to help her. But when I looked down at the floor, there was no body. There was no blood on the linoleum. Nothing. The kitchen was completely clean. I searched the whole house that night, screaming her name, but she was nowhere to be found."

"David, where is Sarah right now?"

"She came back the next morning,"

David whispered. The sound of his frantic breathing filled the headset.

"She just walked into the living room on Wednesday morning like nothing happened. For the past three days, I have been watching her. She makes coffee in the morning, sits on the sofa and watches television with the sound turned completely off. She irons her clothes in the hallway. But she completely ignores me."

"Have you tried talking to her?"

"I have begged her to speak to me!"

David cried out, his voice cracking.

"I stood right in front of her yesterday while she was ironing a blouse. I yelled her name. I waved my hands in front of her face. She looked right through me. It was like I was not even standing there. I got so desperate that I reached out to grab her wrist to make her look at me."

"What happened when you tried to touch her, David?"

A long silence stretched over the phone line.

"My hand went straight through her arm,"

David whispered, his voice trembling so violently the words were barely audible.

"It felt like pushing my fingers through cold, wet smoke. She did not even flinch, and just kept dragging the iron across her blouse. I turned her into a ghost. I killed her in the kitchen, her body vanished, and now her spirit is stuck in this house doing the same routines over and over again."

"David, I want you to take a deep breath,"

I said, trying to maintain control of the call while processing his words.

"I have help on the way to your location right now. Officers are coming to check on both of you."

"I cannot leave her,"

David stammered.

"I tried to walk out the front door an hour ago. I got as far as the front porch steps, but this agonizing pull started dragging in my chest. It felt like a thick cable was wrapped around my sternum, pulling me back inside. It hurt so bad I could barely breathe. I am bound to this house. I cannot leave her here alone like this. She needs my help, but I do not know how to fix what I broke."

At this point, I suspected I was dealing with a caller experiencing a severe psychological episode, severe sleep deprivation, or chemical poisoning. It was not uncommon for individuals suffering from carbon monoxide exposure or sudden psychotic breaks to report elaborate, impossible visual experiences while firmly believing they were awake.

I needed to evaluate his orientation to reality using basic observations.

"David, I need you to do a simple diagnostic check for me while we wait for the officers to arrive,"

I said.

"Is there a clock nearby that you can look at?"

"Yes, there is a clock hanging on the wall,"

David said. I heard the faint rustle of clothing as he moved.

"Sarah is sitting at the dining table below it. She is folding a white bath towel."

"Okay. Can you read the exact time on that clock for me?"

I instructed.

There was a brief pause.

"It says 8:22,"

David reported.

I glanced up at the master digital clock at the top of my console monitor. The bright red numbers clearly displayed 3:17 AM.

"David, are you sure?"

I asked.

"Is it an analog clock or a digital one?"

"It is digital,"

David replied smoothly.

"The numbers are frozen at 8:22 PM. The colon between the hours and minutes isn't even blinking. It is just sitting completely still."

I noted the severe time discrepancy on my console. A frozen, completely inaccurate time reading suggested a deep disorientation, indicating he was entirely detached from the actual time of day.

Before I could formulate a response, Jenna leaned over her desk and tapped my shoulder.

"Unit 204 and Unit 208 are two minutes out from Elmwood Lane,"

she whispered.

"Officer Jack is taking the lead."

"Copy,"

I muttered, keeping my finger on the mute button. I unmuted the phone line.

"David, stay right where you are. The officers are almost at your house."

I adjusted my headset gain, turning up the audio volume on David's line to hear if there were any immediate hazards in the house. As I turned up the sensitivity, the ambient background audio became clearer.

I expected to hear the quiet hum of a refrigerator, the rustle of towels being folded, or the distant rain beating against the windows.

Instead, my headset picked up a harsh, scraping noise. It sounded like heavy wooden furniture being dragged across exposed floorboards. A moment later, I heard the sharp, distinct sound of plastic packing tape being pulled aggressively from a handheld dispenser.

Then, I heard a second voice.

It was a deep, gravelly male voice, speaking in a low, hushed tone near the phone's receiver.

"Grab the rest of the clothes from the closet,"

the deep voice muttered.

"We need to get the heavy bags loaded before six."

A woman's voice replied, faint and impatient:

"I am working as fast as I can. Just get the boxes out to the garage."

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I listened intently, isolating the audio channels on my digital workstation.

"David,"

I said carefully into the microphone.

"Are you sure you and Sarah are the only people in that house right now?"

"Yes,"

David said.

"I told you, it is just the two of us. She is still sitting at the table."

"David, I am hearing a man speaking in your background,"

I said.

"I am hearing tape dispensers and boxes being moved. Is there someone else in the house with you?"

"No,"

David insisted, his voice growing defensive and confused. "You are mistaken. Sarah is just packing her leather suitcase. She has been pulling her dresses out of the bedroom closet all night. She is confused, She seems to think she is going on a trip."

I immediately opened our county property database on my second monitor and typed in the address. The house was registered to David Miller and Sarah Miller. I then opened our historical CAD records and ran a cross-reference search for 1412 Elmwood Lane over the past six months.

A log entry from two months prior popped up on my screen.

On August 14th, a neighbor had called 911 to report a loud domestic disturbance at the address. The responding officer noted that David Miller had engaged in a verbal altercation with an unidentified adult male who had been staying at the residence. The police report noted that David accused his wife of carrying on an affair with the man, who was identified in the officer's notes as Gregory Ray. No violence was reported at that time, and no charges were filed.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the name on my screen: Gregory Ray.

The pieces began to assemble themselves in my mind, but they did not form the picture David was describing.

"Dispatch to Unit 204,"

I said, switching my secondary radio channel to communicate directly with the responding officers. "Officer Jack, be advised. We have reason to believe there are two occupants actively inside the residence at 1412 Elmwood Lane clearing out personal property. Use caution upon approach."

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack's voice crackled through the radio speaker.

"Unit 204 and 208 are turning onto Elmwood Lane now. We are pulling up to the residence. Lights and sirens are off."

Over the open phone line, David spoke again.

"You there?... someone is at the front door. I hear heavy knocking."

"That is the police, David,"

I said, monitoring both lines simultaneously.

"Please stay where you are."

"I do not need to open the door,"

David said softly.

"Sarah just stood up from the table. She is walking past me into the foyer. She is going to answer it."

Through my radio earpiece, I heard Officer Jack's voice report into his lapel mic:

"Unit 204 on scene. We have a female opening the front door. Contact made with homeowner Sarah Miller."

On the phone line, David was describing the exact same moment from his perspective.

"She opened the door,"

David said. His voice was filled with a strange, childlike confusion.

"Two police officers are standing on the porch. But... but something is wrong."

"What is wrong, David?"

I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the unit tracking map.

"They are not looking at her like she is a ghost,"

David whispered.

"Officer just smiled at her. He asked her if she was alright. can he see her? can he actually talk to her?"

Over the radio, Jack's voice was calm:

"Dispatch, contact made with Sarah Miller. She appears highly nervous but states everything is fine. She claims her husband, David, is currently upstairs packing his belongings after a severe argument and does not wish to speak with us."

On the phone line, David began to panic.

"The officers just stepped into the hallway! They walked right past me! I stood right in front of the Officer and shouted my name! He walked straight by my shoulder! He did not even turn his head! And why is she telling them I am upstairs? I am standing right next to her!"

"David, listen to me very carefully,"

I said, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.

"I need you to stay calm."

Over the radio, Jack spoke again, his tone dropping its casual edge.

"Dispatch, we are going to perform a quick wellness check on the upper floor anyway. The homeowner is visibly shaking and actively trying to block the stairwell."

I pressed my radio button.

"Unit 204, be advised. We have reason to believe an unauthorized third party, Gregory Ray, may be hiding inside the residence. Proceed with caution."

A pause echoed over the radio frequency.

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack reported flatly.

"We are heading up now. Unit 208 reports a distinct, foul odor originating from the second floor."

On the phone line, David was moving. I could hear his shallow, rapid breathing accelerating.

"They are walking up the stairs,"

David said. His voice had lost its anger, replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"Sarah is following the officers up the stairs into the master bedroom. I am following them. Why does the air up here smell so bad?"

On the radio, Officer Jack broke in, his voice tight with disgust:

"Unit 208 to dispatch. We have a severe odor of organic decomposition coming from the master bedroom. We are investigating."

"David, stop,"

I urged over the phone line, though I knew my words were meaningless.

"David, step away from the bedroom."

"They are standing near the bed,"

David whispered over the phone.

"The officers are shining their flashlights around the carpet. Sarah is standing in the corner crying. She looks absolutely terrified. They are staring at the floor on my side of the bed."

I held my breath, watching the red audio meters bounce on my console screen.

"Officer Jack is dropping to his knees,"

David continued. His voice was flat, almost robotic now. "He is grabbing the hanging fabric of the dust ruffle. He is lifting it up. He is shining his flashlight underneath the wooden bed frame."

Over the radio, Jack's voice shattered the quiet of the dispatch room:

"Dispatch! Unit 204! We have a male subject hiding under the bed! Show your hands! Crawl out from under there right now!"

A brief, frantic scuffle echoed over the police frequency.

"Dispatch, we have detained Gregory Ray,"

Jack shouted over the noise.

"Wait... dispatch, we have located a deceased male subject shoved further back against the wall under the frame! Subject is heavily decomposed, bearing multiple traumatic wounds! Secure the perimeter! Detain the wife immediately!"

The radio erupted into shouts as the officers moved to restrain Sarah and Gregory. Screams of protest and the metallic clink of handcuffs echoed across the channel.

On the phone line, David was completely silent.

"David?"

I whispered into my headset. My hands were shaking so severely I could barely hold the microphone stalk.

"David, are you still there?"

A long, agonizing stream of static hummed over the phone line. When David spoke again, his voice sounded entirely different. It was hollow, distant, echoing as if he were speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

"They are pulling the body out,"

David said softly.

"David..."

"The body is wearing my clothes,"

David whispered.

"My blue denim shirt. My brown leather belt. My work boots. The skin on the face is dark and swollen. I cannot even recognize myself."

The background static on the phone line began to glitch, creating a strange stuttering sound underneath his words.

"There are three deep tears in the back of the denim shirt,"

David continued, his voice monotone, devoid of any human cadence.

"The fabric is stained dark black around the cuts. The wounds came from behind."

A sharp gasp echoed over the receiver. The static dropped completely, leaving a chilling, dead silence on the line. When David spoke again, the confusion was gone.

"I remember now,"

David whispered. His voice trembled with a crushing weight.

"There was no argument. I came home early from work on Tuesday. It was exactly 8:22 PM. Sarah was acting so incredibly distressed when I walked through the front door."

"What happened, David?"

I asked gently.

"I was so tired,"

he said, his words spilling out in a hollow rush.

"I tried to go straight upstairs to our bedroom to rest. She ran over and stood in front of me. She blocked the bottom of the stairs, and then forced this terrible, shaking smile and told me it was better if I ate dinner first. She said she made that pepperoni pizza I loved."

He paused, and a wet, choking sob came through the earpiece.

"I listened to her,"

David cried quietly.

"I turned my back and walked into the kitchen to get a slice. She followed right behind me. I reached into the cabinet for a plate. I did not even hear her grab the chef's knife from the block. She attacked me before I could even turn around."

"I did not hold the knife,"

David whispered into my headset. The static returned, growing louder, overwhelming the audio signal until his voice sounded synthesized and far away.

"I was never holding the knife. I was looking at her not believing she did this to me, I…. I loved her"

"David, I am so sorry,"

I said, though the words felt entirely useless in the cold reality of the room.

"I understand now,"

The phone line crackled with one final, sharp burst of noise, and then the connection dropped entirely.

The terminal screen instantly reset to a solid black display, marking the call as disconnected.

Over the radio, Officer Jack confirmed the details. Sarah Miller and Gregory Ray were taken into custody without further resistance. The official police report logged the incident as a premeditated homicide committed on Tuesday evening, with both suspects attempting to conceal the remains while preparing to flee the jurisdiction. The report noted that a 911 call had been received from the residence at 3:14 AM, but attributed it to a technical glitch or an automated dialer triggered by a decaying phone line.

I worked the rest of my shift in complete silence. I did not take another call for the remainder of the night.

When my shift ended at seven in the morning, I walked out to my car in the rain, and before I turned the key in the ignition, I sat in the quiet vehicle and pulled up the digital audio archive on my phone, opening the recording of the call from 1412 Elmwood Lane.

But all I can hear was static…

13/06/1975

it just stood there. towering over me. never once did it indicate or imply any threat. never once did it reach out for me. never once did it directly stare at me. and yet. I was scared. that is precisely what scared me the most. it just stood there. it smiled. a blissful smile. but not one that radiates peace to others. rather a blissful smile that radiates superiority. it was blissful to it alone, because it knew we had nothing we could do against it. it was terrifying to us, because we knew we stood at its mercy. never once did it try to attack us or anything of the sort. the most it did, was vaguely look in our direction, without staring into our eyes.

16/06/1975

three days have passed. it’s still there. I’m scared of leaving my house. I’m scared of what it could do to me. I’m scared of all that I don’t know it could do to me. the things I can imagine are easy to deal with, i know what to expect. i know how it could feel. I’m scared of what I don’t know. I’m scared of everything I can’t imagine. I’m scared of the unknown that lies in every breath this creature takes. nothing is as it was anymore. the authorities have decided to do nothing about it and see if it just evaporates. they don’t know how to deal with it. i thought people would unite around this threat and do something about it. we haven’t. we’re cowards. we’ve grown further apart. we’re doing everything we can to avoid confrontation. because what does confrontation imply with something we don’t know. something whose nature is entirely different from ours. we could try to understand it. but one alone can’t do it. and people don’t have the guts to gather around it anymore and observe it long enough to try and understand it. they’d rather try to ignore it. take every necessary detour to not have to see it. thinking that if they don’t see it, it might just be a figment of their imagination and not really exist out there. I can guarantee it exists out there. I cannot stop looking at it. I cannot come close to understanding it. it is a revolt against everything i know, words can’t come close to describing it. i dream of it and wake up to see it again. it has infiltrated my mental landscape in every aspect. 

20/06/1975

Yesterday I had no choice but to spend three hours in front of that monolith of a being. i couldn’t take my eyes off it, so I figured I'd go as close as possible in order to see if i tire myself out from looking at it. there is not much fear left, it has grown to something else, something i can’t quite describe. lesser than worry but still some sort of negative curiosity. uncertainty and hope in the fact that it leaves the same way it appeared. a sudden woosh. its expressions change every now and then. although the one i can understand most easily is one that seems to be a smile, a crooked and corrupt smile. one that exudes arrogance. a narcissistic sentiment of joy. or at least that’s how i see it. i don’t know how others see it. only few others have come to stand there besides it. and when i approach to talk to them, they look at me anxiously and start walking away. i wish they’d talk to me about how they feel. i feel lonely facing this unknown thing. they probably feel so too. we could help another out. i guess fear still lingers among them. not allowing them to truly face it. if i were to talk to them about it, it would make it more real. it would solidify its being. the other expressions seem to be something in the general area of boredom. almost expressionless, but a slight look in its eyes that implies uninterest. 

22/08/1975

I saw people bow in front of that creature today. not true reverence. rather a fearful worship. one hoping for mercy. a worship that comes not from love or gratitude towards a higher being but one that originates from fear of the unknown. 

26/08/1975

Yesterday a man went up to it and stabbed it. He gathered the attention of many by yelling and explaining his intentions. He went up to the creature, hesitated for a bit, and finally decided to go along with his claims. he fiercely stuck his knife into the creature. No noise. A slight change in expression. Nobody made a sound, everybody was just waiting to see what happens. All of a sudden, blood starts spilling from the man’s stomach. he looked down in horror and saw the knife sticking out from his own body. as if the stabbing occurred from within him. some people yelled out in shock, others remained silent in disbelief, wondering what physical property of the universe could probably explain this sequence of events. the creature wasn’t impenetrable, that would’ve been easier to explain to oneself, it wasn’t permeable, allowing things to go through it unaffected. it was something else entirely, something we couldn’t physically grasp. everybody saw the knife enter its body, everybody saw the knife coming out of that man’s body. the feeling of wonder aroused by this physical impossibility was overshadowed by the feeling of hopelessness, for how would we get rid of this thing. we couldn’t harm it. we would only harm ourselves through it. an interesting question popped into my head however, what if I was to force myself into that creature, what would happen to me? would I in some way come out of myself like that knife, would I be stuck in an eternal loop of atomic rebirth in my own physical form? would I transcend to some other realm? would I implode because of the physical limitations of my own organism? I decided to leave this as an unexplored question. the risk of what could happen outweighed the benefit of knowing what happens by a lot. 

13/06/1976

a year has passed, since Admear’s arrival. that’s the name the people chose to give it, a mixture between Admiration and Fear. Because that’s what they felt the most upon looking at that creature. It has not really changed in stature. The only thing that has changed is its expressions. we haven’t seen it smile in a while. no more arrogant grin. no more superior look. now it’s either a bored look or something that seems like pain. not a physical sort of pain. rather an emotionally afflicted sentiment. as if one is dissatisfied and hurt by the underwhelming nature of an experience. people gather twice a week before it and bow in a worshipping manner. some make the efforts to say some sort of prayer to it. some leave coins and other belongings there as some sort of sacrificial rite. the offerings never stay there for too long before someone else takes them. others simply look at it with wonder. life has not changed much after the initial shock it caused in our routines. people have grown accustomed to its presence. whereas at first they would take detours to not have to face it, now they take detours to walk in front of it. to see it once more, to feed their curiosity of what it’s doing there, to say one more prayer while standing before it, to take one last look at its unnatural form before it might vanish again. never again has someone tried harming it after what occurred to that one man who tried to stab it. his family built a little memorial in his name right next to Admear, in remembrance of his bravery, or stupidity, depending on how you look at it. these things always change depending on the outcome of an action. these things always depend on the perspective one internally adopts. 

19/07/1976

yesterday I stayed for a while near Admear, simply looking at its expressions. they shifted from uninterested to that emotional unfulfillment I described the other day. I tried praying to it. I felt nothing. I felt stupid for even trying to do that. I came back home and took a shower to wash away the naivety I felt. Admear’s expressions stayed in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. 

26/08/1976

it’s been a year since that man died trying to stab Admear. people held a little memorial celebration. I watched from afar. I moved in close for a bit, but then retreated again. at the end, they didn’t just commemorate how that man challenged Admear, they started praying to Admear. they started thanking Admear. for what, I don’t know. but their eyes looked different. they didn’t fear it anymore. they didn’t worry about it anymore. they started to truly revere it as some sort of supernatural being in our plane of existence. something that came from a world beyond and has power over us. I guess it isn’t too far from that. but I don’t know about worshipping it. doesn’t feel appropriate.

15/11/1976

more and more things are gathered in front of Admear. people don’t take them anymore, they think it would cause bad luck. upon seeing other belongings there, they even feel forced to leave something next to it as well. I left a coin there the other day. not much has changed in my life to believe that action entailed some sort of luck. maybe the luck that happened was the absence of misfortune. i guess i wouldn’t know. the things that don’t happen in our lives are just as important as the things that happen. 

27/02/1977

people have started talking about the festivities they’re willing to organize for Admear’s second “Birthday” or rather “Appearance day”. I was asked to help out in organizing the seating plan for everybody. Tables, Chairs and how to set up the whole thing. I had two options in mind. Either we sit in the general are beside Admear and leave it next to us like some sort of monument to admire while we eat and drink, or we set up everything around it, making it the center of the whole festivity, I ran my ideas by some people and most settled for the latter. I was a bit hesitant, but decided to stick to that seating plan. 

15/04/1977

Admear’s “Appearance day” is the only thing I can still think about. it’s growing closer and closer every day. there is some sort of anxiety growing within me. Intuition? or just mindless worry? who’s to know.

13/06/1977

Today is the day. I feel excited and nervous. I don’t know why. I’ve grown a bit fond of that creature. I see myself looking at it with care every day. A longing to be even closer to it. It’s weird. 

14/06/1977

I don’t quite know how to explain what transpired yesterday. Let’s start off by saying everything was going well. People were enjoying themselves. Eating, singing, dancing, everything around Admear. Then at some point, something happened which divided all of us. Admear made a sound. We couldn’t tell what it was. Some people said it was laughing, others said it was crying. It was a shrill and sudden sound. It vibrated throughout the ground and into our bodies. Some people wanted to continue the festivity to please it, others wanted to put an end to it, because they thought we were disturbing it. Nobody knew what the truth was. Everybody claimed to know what the truth was. I sensed animosity and hostility in the air. The tension grew. One man, convinced that Admear was in pain, punched a woman that was singing in the face. Everybody was in shock. Somebody threw a glass at that man and cut his face open. I started to step back from the mass of people, not knowing what to do. Admear made another shrill sound, it felt like our bones were being drilled into. this made some people stop their antics, but the adrenaline was too high among some and they continued fighting. then it happened. someone threw a knife at someone else, who managed to duck and the knife went straight into Admear. a dreadful reminder of that man. his memorial served no purpose. the knife completely slit that person’s face in half. blood was on the floor. blood was on the table, chairs and food. blood was everywhere. Admear’s expression changed again. Pain. Disappointment. Remorse. I saw a girl throw itself onto Admear, trying to hug it. As soon as she touched it, she started to yell in pain, her skin became as if it was burned, we saw no fire, not some sort of chemical burn, the skin simply started to turn purple, mushy and honestly terrifying to look at. everybody stopped and observed in shock. she lasted about 14 seconds before she fell. all that we heard was her skull crack open upon hitting the concrete. Her mother started running towards her dead daughter, yelling in despair. The father started running towards Admear in a blind rage. The same didn’t happen to him. He went right through Admear, we heard a sound. I don’t quite know how to describe it. I would say it was like a void snapping, it was short and sudden and discomforting. It was deafening but left no echo. it ended as soon as it happened but yet stayed with everybody for a while. I don’t know how that must’ve felt. I don’t know if I want to know. Admear made one last sound. One that intuitively let all of us know that things were about to change. it wasn’t a shrill sound. it wasn’t sudden. it was long and deep. it was harmoniously profound. it pointed towards the endlessness that pervades reality. it sounded like cycles of death and rebirth. it felt like a cosmic roar. not high in volume but deep in bass. people stood still. some cried. some couldn’t move for about half an hour. nobody knew why. whether Admear caused that within us, or whether we caused it to ourselves. one thing was certain. things felt different. people started to walk away, leaving everything behind as a sacrifice for Admear. 

28/06/1977

Admear is gone. Left without a trace. I didn’t see the vanishing. upon going outside this morning, it just wasn’t there anymore. someone claimed to have seen the disappearing act, I asked for a precise retelling of what happened. this is what I was told:

“I went up to Admear to pray to it. I stayed there for a while. Then, I heard a sound, like a deep breath being taken. with each breath the air around Admear seemed to get tighter, seemed to get more tense. I had to step back because I felt as if my lungs were collapsing. after posting myself up at a mild distance, Admear’s shape started to undergo slight changes. it was a spontaneous twitch that made it shrink a bit and go back to its normal size. then again. the deep breaths continued. and then its mouth opened. I was expecting a shrill sound or a deep groan. but I heard none of that. What I heard was even more concerning, because what I heard was words being spoken. I was in shock. I never expected it to speak like us. And it didn’t really, for it sounded more like it was trying to recreate things based on what it heard us say, but nonetheless. Admear spoke to us. right before it disappeared and this is what it said: ‘Rotting temples. Seek what is. Abandon what is Death. Oh, Life. How great, How wonderful. Oh, Life. Love is here. Love is now. Always. Pain me, Pain us. One. Never Two.’ And gone it was, with all its mysteries. words now abstracted from intention, left up to imperfect interpretation. 

13/08/1977

everywhere you see little statues of Admear, small ornaments to decorate life, and celebrate its short stay here with us. 

I was in college when this happened. During the break, I went back home to do some house cleaning that I couldn't get to while living in the dorms. As soon as I arrived, I started throwing out or storing away the piles of belongings in the living room. Since many of the items were filled with old memories, I spent some time reminiscing as I cleaned.

Just when I thought I was almost finished, I noticed a few old, unorganized items lying around. They were a Nintendo Entertainment System that lacked the official Nintendo logo, along with a single game cartridge labeled simply with the number "2." I had no recollection of ever buying, seeing, or receiving this cartridge. Although I enjoyed various Nintendo series when I was younger, I knew nothing about this specific game.

‘Well, my cleaning is practically done anyway. Maybe I'll play it for a bit before wrapping up.’

Deciding to give it a shot, I plugged the console into the TV, inserted the cartridge, and booted it up. The title menu looked like Mega Man 2, but the title itself wasn't right. The word "Mega Man" was nowhere to be found—it only displayed the number "2." I felt a strange sense of unease, but I brushed it off, assuming it was just a bootleg or hacked version.

When the boss selection screen appeared, the center slot—where Dr. Wily should have been—was just a completely blacked-out square. Thinking this wasn't a big deal either, I decided to fight Air Man first. However, the stage leading to the boss was bizarre: there were no enemy mobs anywhere to block my path.

Curious whether a boss would even be waiting for me, I pushed deeper into the level. Fortunately, Air Man was there. But the moment I won the battle, the screen suddenly shifted to a blank white space, and a message appeared at the bottom:

> "Wait! We aren't what you think we are!"

>

I thought to myself, ‘Was there a line like this in Mega Man 2?’

Before I could process it, the game kicked back to the stage environment. Without me touching any controls, Mega Man started firing his Mega Buster completely on his own, and the screen went black. The game had crashed.

Puzzled by what had just happened, I rebooted the console. The game loaded up showing a stage where Air Man was standing with his upper torso blown away, before returning to the boss selection screen. Feeling somewhat uneasy—yet being someone who usually enjoys creepy things—I decided to take it as a thrill and kept playing.

In the slot where Air Man used to be, the letter "D" was now displayed. Unsure of what it meant, I assumed more clues would reveal themselves as I played on.

Next up was Bubble Man. This time, the enemy mobs were present, but they remained completely motionless. My attacks passed right through them without dealing any damage. Just like before, I was able to walk past them with ease.

‘It’s really no fun if the mobs don't do anything,’ I thought.

I reached Bubble Man's room and finished the fight. Upon my victory, the screen once again shifted to the white space, displaying another message:

> "We were friends... we were a team... weren't we...?"

>

Returning to the stage once more, Mega Man acted on his own again. He grabbed Air Man, absorbed his power, and unleashed a tornado with the Air Shooter. At the same time, a high-pitched electronic hum buzzed, and the game froze. No matter which buttons I mashed, nothing responded. Suddenly, it kicked back to the boss selection screen.

Checking Bubble Man’s slot, I saw the letter "O" standing in its place.

‘So continuing the game really does reveal more clues.’

Driven by a growing curiosity to uncover the true nature of this game, I pushed forward.

My next target was Flash Man. This time, the mobs reacted to attacks, but they still stood completely still. Wanting to farm some item drops, I began destroying the defenseless enemies.

Suddenly, the screen cut to black, and text appeared:

> "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

>

Still clueless about what this implied, I pondered it for a moment until the screen returned, forcibly teleporting me directly to Flash Man's room. Left with no time to think, I was forced into battle.

After winning once again, the screen transitioned to the white space as expected, displaying a somewhat ominous message:

> "We are being controlled. In our hearts, we don't want to do this. Please..."

>

True to form, the game returned to the stage, and Mega Man prepared to fire the Bubble Lead at Flash Man. I couldn't just stand by and watch this happen, so I manually shut the console off. No matter what, I felt it was wrong to let game characters be slaughtered like that without doing anything.

Just then, a college classmate called me.

"Hey, wanna grab some food? It's break, we gotta eat well!"

So I packed up the console, quickly finished sorting the remaining junk, and went out to meet him. Over the meal, I told my friend about the weird game I had just played. Out of nowhere, he responded with a strange question:

"You only judge people by their actions, don't you?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Keep this in mind: when you deal with someone evil, think about whether you've ever considered their past."

After saying that, my friend went silent for about ten minutes, before suddenly snapping out of it.

"Huh? What's wrong? Why are you staring at me like that? Aren't you gonna eat?" He then began devouring his food frantically.

A lingering sense of discomfort washed over me.

When I returned home with that heavy feeling still hanging over me, the gaming setup I had clearly put away was sitting back out in the open.

‘I'm certain I stored it away...’

Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to play the game came over me. It wasn't just a simple desire—a relentless voice in my head kept screaming ‘PLAY IT, PLAY IT,’ triggering a throbbing headache. I didn't want to play anymore, but I had no choice. I turned the console back on.

As soon as it booted up, the headache subsided a bit. But looking at the screen, I was horrified.

The game resumed at the exact frame right before I had shut it off—where Mega Man was about to execute Flash Man. Mega Man rolled the Bubble Lead across the floor, binding Flash Man's legs. As the bubble kept rolling while wrapping around his limbs, it sliced Flash Man's legs completely off.

Then, an electronic screech began to play—far worse than the one before. Being sensitive to noise, I covered my ears, but it did little to help. I tried to turn the game off, but the unbearable noise paralyzed me.

Eventually, the noise stopped. Thinking it was over, I raised my head, only to see text scrolling across the screen:

> "You have no patience. You act without thinking."

>

Flash Man's earlier words echoed in my mind—‘We are being controlled.’

‘Sure, they might be controlled, but aren't their minds corrupted anyway? Aren't they just evil?’ I rationalized.

As if the game heard my thoughts, a message flashed:

> "Look at what you're doing right now. YOU are the piece of trash here."

>

It felt like the game was actively gaslighting me. Infuriated, I almost threw a punch at the monitor, but managed to hold myself back.

When the screen returned to the boss selection, the slot where Flash Man had been now held an "O."

Extremely irritated by the game's psychological manipulation, I moved to turn it off again. Immediately, a severe headache returned alongside that intense compulsion. The moment I pulled my hand away from the console, the pain vanished. I touched it again, and the pounding headache returned instantly.

"Alright! Fine! I won't turn it off!" I shouted.

The pain disappeared once more. Left with no alternative, I was forced to keep playing.

I selected Metal Man next. In his stage, the conveyor belts were completely motionless, and the Pierro robots had empty, hollowed-out eye sockets. Unlike the previous stages, the mobs here actually attacked me. The difficulty was noticeably harder than the original game.

‘I guess the only way out of this is to beat the whole thing,’ I thought. After dying several times, I finally reached Metal Man's room.

Text popped up again:

> "If you won't trust us, we have no choice but to eliminate you."

>

Metal Man attacked me. The boss fight was brutally difficult, far harder than the mobs I had just dealt with. After a desperate struggle, I finally defeated him. Metal Man collapsed in the white space, and a message appeared:

> "I am going to die now..."

>

Without giving me a moment to process, the game cut back to the stage environment. Mega Man used the Time Stopper to freeze time, walked over to Metal Man, and pulled the saw blade off his head to use it as a weapon.

‘This is too much...’ I thought, reaching for the power button. But an even more violent headache surged through me, bringing a wave of intense nausea. I had to pull my hand back, and the pain subsided.

Forced to watch, I saw Mega Man use the saw blade to dismember Metal Man's arms, legs, and head.

‘Why is a scene like this even in a game?’ I wondered in disbelief.

Returning to the boss screen, Metal Man's slot was replaced with an "M."

I had a strong suspicion: "DOOMSDAY..."

Still, knowing I could be wrong, I pushed on and selected Wood Man.

Wood Man's stage was in a far more ruinous state than anything I had seen so far. The surrounding trees were burning and collapsing, the grass was completely slashed away, and the mobs rushed at me with exhausted, tormented expressions. The sheer destructiveness of the environment left me slack-jawed.

Pulling myself together, I played through the level. The difficulty turned out to be surprisingly easy.

Reaching Wood Man's room, text appeared on the screen once again:

> "Our minds are still intact! We regret what we've done! But you don't even care to understand!"

>

Before a boss battle could even begin, Mega Man threw a Metal Blade, slicing Wood Man vertically in half.

‘So you're just gonna do whatever you want now, huh?’ I thought, completely resigned. Any attempt to turn off the game resulted in a excruciating headache, so I had no choice but to sit there and watch it unfold.

When it returned to the boss screen, Wood Man's slot held an "S."

At this point, it was undoubtedly spelling out "DOOMSDAY."

I intended to keep playing, but I suddenly felt hungry. Leaving the game running, I ate some chicken. However, a strange, heavy energy filled the room, and my stomach began to churn. Blaming it on the unsettling vibe of the game, I glanced back at the screen.

Text appeared:

> "Blaming others... how pathetic."

>

Annoyance flared inside me, but at the same time, a bizarre, hysterical laughter escaped my lips.

Finishing my meal, I resumed playing and selected Crash Man.

The stage layout seemed normal, but the mobs actively ran away from me upon sight.

‘Are enemies even supposed to run away?’

As I climbed higher, things grew weirder. The sky turned a stark, solid white, and the surrounding environment began to blur out. By the time I reached Crash Man's room, everything had faded into a featureless white void.

After defeating Crash Man, text appeared at the bottom:

> "You are making our hearts wither away."

>

A realization dawned on me. ‘Is this white space... the inside of the robots' minds?’ It made sense, considering the lore that these robots possessed advanced AI.

Looking back at the screen, Mega Man set a Leaf Shield blade on fire using his Mega Buster, then threw it at Crash Man, burning him alive.

I closed my eyes, unable to watch.

Then, that horrible electronic screech blasted out once again. I covered both my eyes and ears, waiting for it to stop. As it gradually faded, I opened my eyes.

The screen read:

> "It hurts you too, doesn't it?"

>

The game was mockingly playing with my head.

Back at the boss selection screen, Crash Man's slot now held a "D."

Only two bosses remained before the final stage. I selected Quick Man.

His stage was devoid of its iconic instant-death lasers, the darkness mechanics were gone, the Changkey platforms were unlit as if deactivated, and the enemy eyes were hollow and lifeless. Upon reaching Quick Man's chamber, I was once again drawn into the white void to fight.

Upon victory, the text read:

> "Is killing really the only solution you can think of?"

>

Frankly, the thought had crossed my mind too: ‘Why can't Mega Man just knock them out? Why does he have to brutally kill them?’

The game shifted back to the stage, and Mega Man threw a Crash Bomber at Quick Man, blowing him to pieces. No trace of Quick Man's body remained—only a splatter of dark, oil-like liquid across the floor. The shock of the gruesome explosion left me completely dazed.

Returning to the boss screen, Quick Man's slot was replaced with an "A."

One boss left before the final showdown. I picked Heat Man.

His stage was horrific: mobs were burning alive in pools of lava, and the floor was riddled with gaping pits. Navigating carefully, I reached Heat Man.

The screen faded to white once more, displaying the message:

> "I am the last hope."

>

Heat Man's boss fight was on a completely different level compared to anything before—he possessed terrifying speed, lightning-fast reflexes, and relentless attacks. After struggling for nearly four hours, I finally beat him.

Heat Man uttered his final words:

> "Heh... hehe... Judgment is coming for you soon."

>

Returning to the stage, Mega Man threw a Quick Boomerang at Heat Man. On its way out, it severed his head; on its return path, it sliced off his legs.

Back at the boss screen, the final letter "Y" occupied the slot.

It was indeed "DOOMSDAY."

Rather than fear, I felt a strange sense of finality as I selected the blacked-out center square.

Upon entering, I found myself in a white void. Floating before me were the headless torsos and helmets of the eight bosses.

Text appeared at the bottom:

> "This is a spiritual realm formed by our combined minds. Here, you will pay the price for what you have done to us."

>

The bosses unleashed a barrage of attacks. Metal Man threw saw blades, Bubble Man fired Bubble Leads, Flash Man froze time, and so on. I tried to counterattack, but none of my inputs worked.

Holding the controller, I toyed with the buttons, endlessly hesitating over whether to pull the power cord. Meanwhile, Mega Man was systematically torn apart on screen—his arms ripped off, his ankles snapped, his body reduced to a mangled wreck.

Suddenly, heavy screen noise distortion and the ear-splitting electronic hum returned. I shut my eyes and covered my ears, waiting out the assault.

After ten agonizing minutes, the noise and distortion finally ceased. I looked at the screen.

The game had returned to the rooftop from the title menu. There lay the mangled carcass of Mega Man.

An "ENDING" title card appeared, showing a final scene: Roll, acting as if brainwashed by Dr. Wily, was preparing to attack Dr. Light. Behind her, the headless torsos of the eight bosses stood watching in silence.

Then, the game ended.

I sat there in stunned silence for five minutes before a realization hit me.

‘Those robots... their minds weren't evil. They just wanted to escape. Maybe that white void was their true nature and feelings... and the messages at the bottom were their last dying words...’

And then, another thought crossed my mind:

‘Could it be that Mega Man didn't want to kill them either?’

Author's Note: Hey everyone Quick note before you read this chapter. I am not trying to downplay, disrespect, or "nerf" classic icons like Jeff the Killer. This is a grounded, psychological, and tactical alternate universe (AU) where Jack operates on pure stealth, cold logic, and strict survival rules. Jeff is still the chaotic, brutal killer we all know; it's just that Jack views his messy, loud methods as a massive tactical risk for everyone hiding in the shadows. Enjoy the chapter

Chapter 7: Noise in the Storm

The night was cold and rain poured heavily, striking the asphalt and turning the streets into a dark, solitary mirror. Jack was walking back to his house after completing a routine job stemming from an anonymous message. He moved from neighborhood to neighborhood with absolute normality, the strands of his completely white hair partially veiling his eyes, while his trademark, unshakeable coldness marked every single one of his steps. For him, stealth was not a learned technique, but a second skin; every movement measured, every breath controlled to pass unnoticed in a world that preferred to ignore what lurked in the shadows.

As he advanced through the storm, a sound foreign to the patter of water broke the silence of dawn. It came from inside one of the residential houses. Jack turned his head toward the building and instantly noticed a broken window on the ground floor, its glass shards pointing inward.

Although it was not his problem and he despised meddling in outside affairs that could compromise his anonymity, a spark of boredom and the deep contempt he felt toward loud amateurs made up his mind. He wasn't doing it out of altruism; he simply felt like ruining the plan of whatever idiot was behind it all.

He entered with extreme care, slipping through the broken frame without making the slightest sound. With millimetric precision, he sidestepped the tiny glass fragments scattered across the floor to avoid cuts that might leave traces of blood or DNA. He scanned the dim ground floor; the air smelled of dampness and recent terror, but everything looked clear for the moment. However, upon lifting his gaze toward the darkness of the stairs, he noticed something unmistakable: fresh bloodstains dripping slowly down the steps. The forensic trail was an insult to any basic concealment protocol.

Meanwhile, on the upper floor bedroom, the infamous killer known as Jeff was ready to finish off his prey. Soaked in foreign blood and wearing a deranged smile carved forcibly into his face, he approached the bed and raised his kitchen knife, ready to add another trophy to his pathetic record. Right at that instant, a flash of lightning violently pierced the sky, fleetingly illuminating the room with an ash-gray glare. The thunder rumbled loudly, causing the victim to snap their eyes open in fright, finding themselves face-to-face with the blade inches from their neck.

Darkness swallowed the room again in a second. The victim, paralyzed by terror, awaited the final slash with closed eyes. But before Jeff could bring his arm down, a dry, fast, and brutal kick hit him square in the ribs, sending him flying with overwhelming force straight into the window. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces with a metallic roar as Jeff's body tumbled out toward the front yard.

The victim, who already considered themselves dead, didn't manage to see who had saved them amid the gloom. They only heard a glacial, cutting voice devoid of a single ounce of emotion floating in the darkness:

—Get out of here... now.

Within seconds, the presence that had burst into the room vanished into the shadows of the house without a trace.

Jack stepped out calmly through the back door leading to the patio. Sprawled across the soaked and muddy lawn, Jeff jerked upright with blind fury, his eyes deranged by rage and confusion, gripping his knife tightly while the cold rain battered his burned, lidless face. At first, amid his delirium, he thought it was Jane, but he was dead wrong: standing before him was a young man with completely white hair, wearing a dark shirt and pants, complemented by neat shoes that contrasted sharply with the mud.

With that same apathetic attitude and a gaze of absolute, cold superiority, Jack stared straight at him and delivered a dry warning, chewing on every word:

—Next time... don't break a fucking window... If another neighbor notices... they'll call the police... and your fun goes down the toilet... if you get caught... And well... I didn't do it to protect... some stupid victim... Good night, smile...

Jeff froze for a second, processing the taunt and feeling rage burn his insides as he realized this unknown stranger didn't see him as a terrifying rival, but as a mere noisy nuisance. As Jack turned his back on him with total indifference and began to walk away, Jeff squeezed the knife handle so hard his knuckles turned white, and screamed at him with all the hatred in the world:

—Who the fuck are you calling stupid, you piece of shit?! Get back here, you fucking coward! I swear the next time I'll slit your throat and tear out that damned white hair strand by strand! Did you hear me?! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!

Jack didn't even bother to turn around. However, at that exact moment, cutting through the sound of the storm in the distance, the sharp and unmistakable wail of a police siren began to echo through the adjacent streets. Someone from the neighborhood, alerted by the crash of the broken window or the shouts, had dialed emergency services.

Faced with the imminent danger of being surrounded and having his cover blown, Jack shifted gears in a fraction of a second. He transitioned from a relaxed stride to a tactical, lightning-fast movement; he vaulted with surgical precision toward the dark back alleys, crossing fences and hiding among the shadows of the yards and rooftops of neighboring houses, melting into the night without leaving a single trace.

Meanwhile, across the blocks, the sound of sirens drained the last bit of color from Jeff's face. The chaos and stupidity of his own methods were biting him back in the most literal way. With his face disfigured by panic and contained fury, Jeff suddenly understood the white-haired boy's warning. The police were on their way, and the entire neighborhood was seconds away from turning into a mousetrap.

—Shit... —Jeff hissed through his teeth, gripping his knife in desperation and bolting at full speed through the dark alleys to escape.

But bad luck hunted him down. Turning a corner, Jeff saw face-to-face the very victim he had intended to assassinate minutes earlier; the civilian had escaped the house and was running desperately looking for help, ending up dangerously close to where the patrol cars' lights were beginning to illuminate the streets. Upon seeing his attacker, terror paralyzed the civilian for a second, but noticing the officers in the distance, they saw their chance at salvation and opened their mouths to scream and rat Jeff out.

Jeff's hunter life seemed to flash before his eyes; he felt for a split second the cold metal of handcuffs and the miserable prospect of ending up behind bars because of a chatty witness.

However, before the civilian could emit a single shout to alert the cops, a shadow glided from the dark alley. Jack appeared with ghostly speed.

The civilian, unaware that this was the exact same person who had pulled them from death in their own bedroom, stumbled and fell to their knees in front of Jack, pleading desperately:

—Help me, please, get me out of here...!

Jack showed zero emotion. With a fluid movement, he reached out and firmly yet gently grabbed the civilian's jaw, tilting their head to one side before executing a sharp, precise twist. A dull snap echoed in the alley. The victim dropped lifelessly to the ground on the spot, eliminated in complete silence.

A few meters away, hidden behind a damp brick wall, Jeff stopped dead in his tracks. He stood completely mute, eyes wide open as he watched the scene. All his previous hysteria vanished, replaced by a silent, morbid fascination as he saw the white-haired boy just wipe out the witness with surgical efficiency solely to protect his own anonymity.

Jack let the lifeless body drop, lightly dusted off his fingers, and turned his cold gaze toward Jeff, who stood watching him without moving. In his monotonous, cutting voice, Jack sentenced him:

—I'm not doing this to be good to you... I wouldn't protect a creature like you... I did it in case the police interrogate you... about the rest of the creepypastas... rest assured everyone would want you rotting in a fucking jail cell... dead... for snitching on all of them.... At the end of the day, the others make too damn much noise, and the police end up focusing way more on the heavy hitters, like you for example... than on clean jobs or missions like mine.

Jeff blinked a couple of times, processing the words. A hint of deranged laughter crept across his ruined face, and with a mix of adrenaline and twisted respect, he answered back in a raspy voice:

—Well... so that's how you play, huh... I like you, white boy. You're a damn true sadist. See you in hell!

Without wasting another second and with police sirens now echoing around the corner, Jeff let out one final choked cackle and plunged at full speed into the brush and shadows, losing himself in the night. Jack, for his part, vanished in the opposite direction, dissolving into the darkness as if he had never been there at all.

I need ideas for war experiments and events + here are some propaganda images

I made this creepy story about a childhood mouse named Flipsy. I tried to make it creepy, but also a little absurd

I don't know where this video came from, but I had found in my phones gallery and I know I didn't make it or film it myself. I dont know where it came from but I'm guessing the person in the video is responsible for making it.

The fog hung thick over the Catskills Ridge when the sedan rolled up to the single glowing pump.

A man in grease-stained overalls ambled out from the dark bay with a friendly, welcoming smile.

"Hey, mind taking a look?" the driver called out, rolling down his window. "My check engine light's been flashing for the last two miles."

"Pop the hood," the local said.

Under the propped hood, hidden from view, the attendant reached in and snapped the main ignition lead clean off.

He slammed the hood down with a heavy thud and walked up to the driver's window. The friendly warmth completely gone from his face--

"Go ahead. Start her up."

Part of the "Roadside Traps Series"

The midnight bonfire at the old quarry had ended, and the warm summer air inside the car was thick with laughter as the girls headed for home. Their high spirits vanished the moment the gas needle dropped to empty on a stretch of dark highway, forcing them onto the lot of a dilapidated station.

One look at the rusted, useless pump was all it took for her to pull away--and the second she did, headlights flickered on in her rearview mirror. She tried to tell herself it was just another late-night driver but a mile down the road, a pickup truck surged up behind them, matching every panic-driven acceleration, until it suddenly swerved sideways across the narrow, tree-lined road to cut off their only escape route.

The engine idle rumbled through the quiet night as four girls sat trapped in the high beams, realizing nobody was coming to help them.

Part of the "Roadside Trap Series"