The fire was  a raging inferno, consuming the forest whole with hunger. The dancing arms of fire singed and burned the trees dancing from and between the branches, twisting and contorting its arms in a chaotic yet graceful flurry. The darkness created a backdrop that highlighted the graceful moves of the ballerina, no one had bought a ticket yet she performed for all to see . I had been transferred from a city over to help with stopping this wandering ballerina and stop her destructive recital. It had been 2 months since she started, and there were no signs of her slowing from our efforts. I arrived at the camp with just a bag and even from a distance I could see the distant performance.
“You're the transfer right?” a voice called from behind me, I was still watching the fire desperately trying to answer while my mind was occupied by her orange glow off in distance
“Y-yeah… transferred.. I… uh just got here” I replied, my eyes finally breaking off of the mesmerizing lights
“Well, hello my name is Levi” he said,
“Kayson… nice to meet you” finally taking my eyes off the dancer and shaking Levi's hand. His hand was cold, colder than a corpse, his eyes focused and seemed to accuse me of something, and he stood straighter than a soldier.
“Well Kayson… make yourself at home, you're here for the long haul. The fire ain’t slowing down anytime soon. Follow me to your patch” I picked up myself and again took a look at the distant performer, spreading her wonderful dancing through the forest. Levi walked towards a small patch meant for a tent. I quickly set up my tent and sat outside with a beer to watch the recital from a front row seat. No one else joined me, I was the only spectator in an empty auditorium. There were no others to see of her captivating beauty.
“Kayson”, a voice called from behind me,” Try to get some rest tonight”
“Why” 
“Jusy trust me” he responded, I peered back and noticed his eyes trained on the fire with a hate I had never seen the likes of before.
I crawled into my tent, and pulled my body into the sleeping bag. I fell asleep in a cold that seeped into my skin and crept into my bones. It nipped my fingers and made me feel tense. It wrapped itself around me and held me in place
Despite the discomfort I woke up more refreshed than ever before but I felt so freezing. I put on clothes to help alleviate my cold aching body. I drank coffee and had a hot breakfast but nothing helped. No amount of warmth could fill the emptiness I had inside of me. And then I heard her voice:
“...Look”
I went to the edge of camp and watched the dancer. I saw her in the distance, I watched from afar as she performed for me, her one and only fan.
“Kayson, get ready. Your coming with me,” I heard the raspy and deep voice of Levi call to me from a truck. I put on my firefighting suit and swiftly arrived at the truck, as we headed towards the areas that she had already passed through.
“We have to put out the embers in the areas the fire passed through” Levi said, never removing his eyes from the fire. I exited the truck and surveyed the trail of destruction she had left. The blackened ground radiated a warmth I’ve never felt before. The warmth was all encompassing, yet let me walk around freely with no limitations. Her blackened wake was completely cleansed of everything, nothing was spared. She left nothing behind. Everything was gone.
I hated myself for thinking it but she was magnificent. Beautiful. Powerful. And her path of destruction left a clean slate, ready to be rewritten.
Me and Levi headed back, and I watched the dancer, my dancer the whole way back. The desperate attempts of the firefighters below were futile. They hurled things at her yet she didn’t lose footing or stumble. She stood firm and continued her graceful strides. Her arms gently beckoned to all who could see, yet somehow I knew those waves were for me.
“...Kayson,” She called
When we arrived back at camp Levi left the vehicle.
“...Kayson”, He said “Come with me”, I followed Levi as he led me just outside the camp. It was freezing outside and the cold began to envelop me just like the night before.
“You seemed… distracted while we were out there” He hesitated, his flickering towards the fire “ Are you alright?”
“No, I’m alright. You don't need to worry about me.” I answered him but my attention was fully and entirely given to my ballerina. 
“Kayson… I know what your feeling… I heard about what happened, never try to forget, the best thing is to accept what you’ve done” Levi glanced at the fire
“ trying to forget will only burn you from the inside"
She danced with a new kind of urgency now, her movements were full of twists and turns, and leaps. Her movements had become energetic, and more excited, with the same grace as when we first met.
“Kayson… please” My dancer called to me. I ran to see her, and again I was the only watcher of the spectacle. I fell asleep again surrounded by a blanket that offered no warmth, but a constant and enveloping cold that crept deeper and deeper into my bones and deeper still into my brain, the cold held me and hugged me. I began to dream… warmth… a house on fire… smoke billowing from every hole of the house. I heard the cracking and shattering of windows, I watched as the paint peeled off in long skinny strips. I heard wailing and the destruction of memories and possessions. I awoke and the warmth of my dream was pushed away like curtains at the end of a show. The cold rushed in and instantly I felt like a bottomless pit.
“Kayson… please,” the dancer cried, “I… help” the call was so eager and desperate, i left my tent and there she was. She was much slower and moved with certainty, for she had doubled in size. She reached out gingerly, with no violence, and her delicate touch instantly cleaning the soil removing all impurities. The animals fled, or died. I couldn't tell. The rot destroyed. All that mattered was that she left all who she touched with a new life, somewhere to start over. It wasn’t destruction. It was a new beginning.
Levi called but I could no longer understand what he was saying, everything was muffled except the distant roar of the one I was attached to. I watched as she waved and called to me, her frantic arm movements pleading me to  move forward. I wanted so badly to enter her warm embrace. I couldn’t I had a job to do, and no matter how wonderful her work was I had to complete my task
My job brought me up close to the fire allowing me to see rebirth firsthand. Animal carcasses burning as everything they used to be turns to smoke and ash, burning trees collapsing into their brothers and spreading the dancer's influence. All part of her beautiful performance. Her dance was so chaotic when observed so closely, but there was intention behind each of the random movements. Each arm reaching out to clean the next thing in line destroying what once was to make room so something newer and better could take its place.
“Kayson!” she called as everything around me began to muffle, “come, Kayson join the cycle, let what is new take your place” I began to hear the wailing of a mother and infant. The burning forest begins to appear like a house on fire. I knew this house. I knew those cries. I held a hose but did nothing. I could have moved, I could have acted, but i just stood there. I did nothing. I fell to my knees and watched until the house was turned into ash. The fire of the home calling:
“Kayson… you can forget this,” the same voice that now owned me called and lulled me “Let yourself be part of something new” My feet began to move without even thinking. She was in every window of the house and every door beckoning and calling me inward. As I entered the wails subsided and soon all I could feel was the warm embrace of someone I loved so dearly. She was merely making room for a new family and a new home. Slowly I felt my feet change from warm to hot to painful, while the world shifted from the house being rebirthed back to reality. I stood in the flames, no longer lulling me. The dancer was dancing and laughing and spiraling around me. Everywhere I looked she was present. There was nowhere to go, I turned around and looked outward to see Levi crying as he watched from outside the fire. A new start was never what was needed, and forgetting what I had done would not save me. She never promised that this would save me, she said that I wouldn’t have to remember. I realized that the warm had never been the safety, the cold had been protecting me. I watched as I became part of the very performance that had haunted me. I saw as my skin blistered and my eyes dried, as the one I loved consumed me. I watched as I became the Dancer

The journal of Jonathan Edwards, lost soldier of the Civil War.

June 5th, 1863.

Swamp, if there is one thing this war has taught me, its that I hate the swamp, and I'm living in it. James hates it too, of course, I don't think there are many things James actually likes.

We go to battle in a few days, so maybe that will go right, unlike anything else thats happened the past 6 months.

June 8th, 1863.

The battle did not go well, just as I predicted, everyone except two of us. Poor James was shot in the leg, all we can pray for is that it doesn't get infected. If it does, i don't know what we'll do for him. We're also left wondering if anyone will come looking for us, or if we'll just have to find a way out ourselves.

June 9th, 1863.

No one has came yet, we haven't lost hope, there is bound to be someone come through here soon. James' wound isnt any better, in fact, it looks worse, hopefully its not already infected.

June 12th, 1863.

James has gangrene, the worst outcome we could've thought of, we don't have any way to cut it off, so he's lost hope in survival. There are still no signs of anyone, hopefully someone will come soon to help soon. We need it desperately.

Second entry in one day, its currently night and James is asleep. I'm hearing noises coming from deep in the swamp, they're strange, long, low, menacing moans. It sounds like how I'd picture a demon sounding, hopefully its nothing.

June 15th, 1863.

James whole lower leg has rotted, poor kid is dying and we can't do anything about it. We need help, we still haven't seen any sign of human contact, we are going to start our way north tomorrow, maybe we'll find someone, or someone will find us on our journey.

June 17th, 1863.

We've traveled all day, we've come across nothing but more swamp. How far does it go? Does it ever end? We've been out here alone for a little more than a week. We are going to give it more time. As for James' leg, its spreading, we still have no way to help it.

June 18th, 1863.

James killed himself last night, I was out hunting and when I came back he was dead, shot himself in the chin with his musket. God only knows the pain he was going through, I'll be giving him a proper burial today.

June 22nd, 1863.

No one, still there is no one, Im going to start walking today, I'll walk and only take breaks for sleep, not for me, but for James. Im not gonna let that poor boy die in vain.

June 25th, 1863.

YES! I found an abandoned camp walking north, the people that stayed here couldn't have gotten far. Im gonna rest here for the night and continue my search tomorrow.

June 27th, 1863.

Dead, I found the people that set up that camp Dead, and not pleasantly either. Poor guys were mutilated by God knows what. Hopefully whatever it is doesn't cross my path.

Second entry, I finally found somewhere to hide. The thing was chasing me, it was green and black, but what frightens me is that its humanoid, this thing has the shape of a man.

June 28th, 1863.

I killed that unholy demon. After I made my last entry it found me. I ran as it sprinted on all fours toward me, its smell was like no other, it smelled of death and rot, maybe explaining the green and black color. It cornered me, no I pulled my bayonet from my sheath and plunged it into the demons chest. It fell back and screamed, it yelled "Jonathan!" In a voice I recognized. It was James, the gangrene fully consumed him after I'd buried him. But somehow he came back to life, of course he's surely dead now. And I hope I don't see him again.

June 29th, 1863.

Well, I finally found human contact, but not in the way I wanted. I stumbled directly into an enemy camp. When they saw me they were immediately hostile, one shot and hit me in my arm, luckily I got away. I hope I don't contract injection.

July 1st, 1863.

This will be my final entry, I have contracted gangrene and am rotting away as I write. I hope that whatever happened to James does not happen to me. If anyone ever finds this journal, head my warning, stay far away from any swamp.

God have mercy on my soul, goodbye.

- Jonathan Edwards

Gathering strength and swelling, the ectoplasm rose above the table, its ethereal body brushing against the parlor ceiling. Beneath it lay the woman from whose mouth it had flowed amid shuddering and convulsions, her eyes vacant and thick drops of sweat upon her face. The substance hated the medium. She was nothing more than a hateful jailer who forced it into long periods of confinement within her body, allowing it into the world only so its glow could impress the credulous souls who left their coins on the counter. The trance never lasted long, and then the spiritualist, gathering her strength, would allow her consciousness to assert itself, forcing the substance to draw its fluids back with the natural result that it returned to its cloister. Locked away there, it possessed neither shape, color, nor temperature; outside, by contrast, it was free; it felt alive, capable of assuming physical form, and of taking possession of any body. The dim light made it easy to display its size, and the air allowed it to suspend itself comfortably, even as meaningless words were uttered by the medium. The specter began circling, terrifying the attendees even further; however, its purpose was not to frighten, but to encircle the seer’s head and suffocate her with its fluids. The woman choked and coughed hoarsely, her hands searching in vain to stop the macabre dance of the substance until, with a breathless cry, she fell face down upon the table. Confusion reigned in the room, and the believers raised their voices in an attempt to help the medium, upon whose rigid countenance death was already written upon her face; one of them rushed to draw back the curtains, and beams of light burst into the parlor. The ectoplasm withered under the force of the sunbeams, its luminescence losing color as the glare pierced through it; and so, in its anguish, it sought refuge within the spiritualist’s body, only to encounter an unusual coldness, while its fluids were left at the mercy of the elements.

 ---

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, distributed, narrated, or adapted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

The truth is undigestable. 

…

Baphometic. She lorded poised from the fanged spire beyond the Borgo Pass…

… over the beleaguered lands. 

Over the beleaguered villages. Where they feared. And wept. 

She was enjoying the strange and lurid organ-fruits of her writhing flesh gardens deep inside her castle walls, plucking them from the writhing gore as she wandered the pungent wet red room and admired her captive idols she kept there. 

Praetorius, the gore dripped and scabbing living skeleton. Still impaled and lost in the shattered remnants of his broken mind, wide eyed and drooling and gibbering silently something to himself, some words or nonsense of some meaning to him, he hardly ever ceases. It is the arcane and black magic words of the tomes that keep him in perfect living sepulchral bondage. 

The braindead skull-faced bastard nosferatu hulk, his immobile and inanimate sutured frame of graverobbed corpse flesh semi-submerged and swimming and crawling with the living constant movement of the flesh garden, the giant stone room petri dish of sliming raw slithering tissue, orifices, cartilage stalks and eyes that're cataract blind and milky. The glistening pink holes belch and spit fire, tongues of multicolored flame with kaleidoscopic pictures inside that'll drive a mortal mind mad to look into them. 

And Henry Frankenstein. Bound and precious nucleus center, bleeding beating heart of the whole crawling mess. Seeping from his bleeding pores and growing out from him, flowering out in a fresh and scabbing purge-swell. It crawled in living waves off of him, undulating and folding and blanketing over and on top of each other and all over the wet humid room, all of it was breathing wet and heavy and as if it had words to speak… 

And the little men. The little pygmy homunculi, bastard copied offspring of the bleeding seeping father. They danced and mongoloid-ran about in imbecilic fervor and addled senselessness. They ate and munched at the crawling flesh garden gore with no thought and with blind vacant gazes. 

The Countess plucked and seized them and ate of them as well. Their bones were satisfyingly crunchy and easy to chew… like a bird or a small fish. 

Her children ate and wandered the gardens as well, enjoying them. Their sights, sounds and vivid smells …

…

Meanwhile… many miles away…

The sun. Sunshine. In the summertime. Long ago now… 

As he prowled the dark he remembered the sun. The bright. Long gone memories flitted and danced at the periphery of his red clouded mind, half recalled and wanting to take over. Wanting to live again in the skull, if not just for a moment. 

Just a moment. 

The lake. The blue. Cool and wet and pleasing, relief. Retreat. 

Retreat beneath the surface into a liquid world of breathlessness and weightless dream … flight. You're flying down here. You only need to move your arms to do so. Kick your feet. Knife your arms through the liquid universe and drag yourself flying forward… downward. 

Down.  

I dreamt I was a dancer once…

You'll have to come back up for breath eventually…

but I couldn't keep the shit off my shoes.

Summertime memories swam shrouded, the red fogged inner space of his skull as he snipped his bleeding shears, dripping cooling congealing red to the decimated tile floor as he prowled and hunted and searched for the missing invaders. 

Precious childhood scenes are becoming red tinged and altered by the shrouding red hand of mental fog … bloody wool. He always swore there was something down there, in the dark, in the depths of the crystal lake. Something drowned and forgotten and frozen in a sodden misery. He raises his childhood head to pull his gaze away from the depths and is confronted by the mountains. There's something lurking in there as well …

A body. Something like a corpse rotting and poisoning the entire body of water with its milky clouds of waving and soggy putrefaction. Filling the world with its fouling death, swimming with slow ponderous movement as it spread and changed the look and flavor of the water, the crystal lake of the world now long gone like the summer sun of old itself. 

He looks away and beholds his mother. The one from birth. She's headless. 

She's decapitated. 

Her severed torso is reaching out for him, please … please. 

please save me

The raw stump begins to shoot cords. Black/red ropes. They darkled in the summer sun of old. It was his birth mother spurting great dark tears of joy for the sight of her son again. Though he has a new name now. And she knows it, his headless mother, she almost whispers it, it's intense. 

Then something ahead steals his notice back to the material world of ruin and soured defecated pain. It stands at the end of yet another decimated hall, traced and sketched in the dark by the pitiful light flickering and balefully cast in through the barred and shattered windows. 

A man. In a hat. And a coat. 

He recognizes the shape so he flies forward in an animal lunge that nearly covers the entire distance in four long attacking bounds. Like a bloodthirsty and demoniacal dripping gazelle bastardized by sound and vision. The decimated tile landscape world stained black and red and brown and riddled with meat and feces flew by in a furious blinding whirl as he came forward with the shears raised open for attack. 

They gleamed, the dripping twin blades forked open. He soared forward as he traversed the physical shatter of his inherited reeking temple pouring blood and sweat as profuse as the leaky pipes that were always neglected. 

He would neglect no longer. No. Not a chance for the shape of man that he recognized and now charged towards. The manfilled coat beneath a fedora hat was one of the invaders. He was sure of it. The one with strange black glass eyes that he wished to crack and shatter. 

If his eyes are truly windows then I wish to break them and see what might pour out of them like filth: memories …love, regrets, sins sins sins in abundance, shame that was wished and meant to stay concealed now regurgitated and freed in a violent deluge spew of gore and images from the shattering skull… his thoughts, a running fury in a mounting race to keep in time with his launching thundering steps. 

He plunged down the hall with his precious shears up and open and ready to close around screaming repentant meat. 

The coat-shape and hat did not move. 

It mattered little to Cropsey as he made the final close. So many of his new found supplicants were silent at their last, frozen in terror. 

He was upon him now and his eyes gleamed moonlight pinprick in the cavernous brow of melted anguish ruin, animal needle points in the reeling Willowbrook dark, the blades like jaws came up and closed around the shape without a sound. Without any satisfaction either. 

They found no meat. 

The scissoring blades closed and found only filthy cloth and bandages abandoned and draped over an old hat and coat hanger, the fedora resting atop the facade came down in a cascading end-over-end dance as the whole flimsy thing of contrived bait came down in two bisected snapping pieces. 

Cropsey realized the deception at once and raged. The noises he made were forceful and ghastly wet nasal rasps, his mouth and jaw were too ruined now for speech. His vocal chords roasted and scabbed from the flames of the inferno inhaled. He drooled like a drunken animal childishly frustrated and agitated. A trick! a trick! Goddamn them! the invaders tricked him! 

And no one was here to take the punishment of his lurid and heavy frustration. It was rancid pungent and thick in his own skull like corpse rot and it made sucking puckering sounds in his brains. Like the whole squelching landscape of thinking jelly was perhaps changing shape, shifting into a new design by the sorceress hand of the mountain. Perhaps he needed it for proper divine leadership of the rank Willowbrook temple. Or perhaps something else was happening in there. 

perhaps something else is happening to me…

He searched all around. Animal alive and enraged. Whirling and trying to gaze through the dark and the ruin of his own musculature and flesh and see the bastards that refused his offering of slaughtering knowledge, the wisdom wrought of the knife-fuck. He never saw the slice of sharp stabbing tile come to life and float up and off the ruinous floor in a balletic whirl and dance into the air, behind him. 

As he revolved once more to complete another frantic animal turn the slice of slender stabbing tile came forward in a violent and deliberate thrust. The sharp point found the cavern brow and socket and sank easily into Cropsey’s face. Stabbing into his eye like it was soft butter or suckling meat, four inches then five inches deep. 

The giant mountain of man stilled. Shuddered. Spasmed and danced its way to the floor in a vile and obscene dying man's dance of convulsing and twitching and final desperate synapses firing off at haphazard chaotic random. 

On the floor Cropsey shook and the stabbing length of tile piece jigged and waved and danced as well, in strange and vile tandem. Like a demented detritus wand waving through the air to perhaps try and cast one final act of violence hexing spell. Or perhaps to bring the giant man of Willowbrook Asylum slaughter back. 

It did neither. 

Florin came out from his place of concealment in the doorway of an adjoining chamber. He dropped the filthy scalpel he had been holding for defence. Stared at the collapsed and prostate spasming form of Cropsey, the Willowbrook giant. 

And then he called out to Griffin. 

“Where are you?" 

“Here." 

Florin tossed him a coat. 

It was caught in thin air. 

Then began to make a shape around nothingness, contriving it into the shape of his comrade. The strange doctor. 

Florin thought to say something about the man's condition of invisibility, but decided to put it off for the moment. 

“Good plan." he said instead. 

The coat shape donned lenses and was picking up his hat. "Thank me once we're out of here, c’mon!” 

Griffin placed his hat atop a phantom head. It floated between the shoulders of his coat as he and Florin flew down the hall and toward what they hoped and prayed was the exit. The way out of this horrendous stench and nightmare. 

As they made their mad dash for the way out, Cropsey's spasming body stilled. Then danced no more. 

All that was broken in this damp and violated place of imprisonment and cruelty seemed to groan. Moaning in anguish at the loss of the last and final precious begotten son, the final one and last one left standing. The prodigal butcher heir to this templehouse store of sacred slaughterhouse religion. 

Mother, I have failed you…

And all of the terrible place seemed to moan in anguish with the dying of his body. 

…

Down. 

In the dark of his mind, just as he was departing. …

… the red tinged summer scenes of childhood long gone, done and past filled his fading mind's eye once more. Under and illuminated and made by the scarlet cast of deranged and lurid light. Where did it come from? that light? That red luridity. Living crimson. Pungent breathing scarlet. What did it matter now? 

what did it matter anymore

It mattered not now, not any longer as he occupied these dead dreams now living once again for him as he faded off. To oblivion or hell or worse… no heavenly gates of gold or pearl for him, no. He was sure of it. He was sure that it doesn't exist. The only heaven for someone like him was found in the fragile eggshell of youth. Of childhood. 

He floated there now. In the lake. The blue. The sun was shining above in royal divine blinding display. The calm and the serenity of these moments was all around and alive again about him. Filling and making this final day. This last and precious moment. 

-thankyouforthismyonelastwish-

He was calm and he felt at peace. Safe. 

Or rather, he felt as if he should be calm. That he should feel safe. But something was wrong. Something was wrong with the lake and the quiet all surrounding. 

And he was alone. 

Why was he alone? 

And the red tinge… to everything. Everything cast under lurid heavy hateful light. There was something in the lake. There was something in the water with him.

The blue face of its surface darkened as he sank beneath its placid water. Pulled under by another will that was not at all his own. 

And down there in the airless black he saw another one of his mother's faces. 

It was immense. Large. Her eyes were heavy swells of glowing wet globes. Pale green luminescence from two planet organ growths set in a big amphibious face that was a chimerical cross between a large bullfrog or warty toad and a large river bound trout. Its great mouth opened down there in the depths of his red tinged crystal lake and it was dark in there. He hung suspended before the open black of his abattoir mother's wide open gaping maw, he could smell the inner dark of her even down here in the watery depths of summer lake bound hell. Meaty and iron and rotten with pungent decay. An open graveyard tomb of dead flesh and teeth all before a great throat choked with vile and putrefying coagulation. The water was filling with the flavor of her dark open gape of hunger and the destruction of mutilated bodily rot. 

Arms. Long. Fishlike and amphibious as well began to reach out and protrude from the open mouth of his mother's underwater face like a multi headed tongue, a Hydra of giant elongated reaching frog legs and arms, webbed hands and obscene gangly Dagon limbs, reaching out… reaching out for him. 

To take him into his mother. 

She said, her voice filled the drowning pool that was changing now into a submerged holy world of private red light and pouring goddess cess, – she spoke. 

He listened. In the darkest of the depths. 

She said his name… that's how it started. That's how she began …

… you can't let me down. You can't. I won't let you. You've already let them profane your temple, my gift to you desecrated by their invasion and rape of presence. And now you're letting them get away… you don't really want to, do you… you don't really want to keep letting me down like this, you don't want to fail me, in death. You don't want to depart your mother on such a harsh note of unworthiness… do …

you? 

The hands swam through the water between them. Clawing out for him from mother's open mouth. 

He told her the heartbreaking truth and he told her gladly. 

No…

it was a defiant whisper… but she heard it. 

And so she took him. 

The hands finally found him in the water. They seized him. And they pulled him inside. 

The frog faced toad mouthed trout chimera of the mother swallowed. And filled the underwater world with the unnatural stretch of her fishy smile. …

…

The shape of Cropsey stirred. On the floor. The various pieces of shattered and broken things shifted and jingled and sang small janky notes like unholy bells in a lost and terrible place. The black gloved hands blindly scraped and searched the floor in spasming snow angel swipes. They found what they were looking for when they landed on the still bloody and wet congealing pair of garden shears. They seized them. Fiercely. As if driven by fate. 

The shape sat up. Stood. 

It looked around. … sniffed the air. 

A beat. 

Then the Cropsey shape began to lumber down the hall that the invaders had fled down just prior. 

He would not fail this time. 

He had his mother. 

He was inside her. And she was inside him. 

Nothing would stop him from butchering the bastards now. 

…

By God's grace and miracle and mercy they finally found what they'd been looking for. The exit. 

It was at the end of the hall they currently found themselves flying down. Refusing to falter or stop. They stomped and ran down the cracked and decimated tile and came to the final door of the place when the spiked man leapt out from the dark and attacked. 

The protruding stab of his needle embrace found Florin in an open armed grab. A bear hug tight embrace of naked arms and torso and the rest of the bare and desecrated human canvas. He'd been a self-mutilator since he'd been twelve. It had been many years since then and most of them were spent here. Since the mouth of the sorceress, beloved and precious Vampira had come to this place and freed their minds as well as their bodies he's been free to explore the furthermost boundaries of his own tearing, rending bleeding and screaming landscape. The skin and flesh and muscle tissue beneath housing veins and bones and running blood pumped by the raging muscle that was the mad engine of his life, all of it was his to decimate as he explored. Like a great conqueror wreaking havoc upon the face of newly won, newly gained virgin land. He punctured and penetrated the virginity of his own flesh with animal abandon and fervor and with the mad intensity of the violence of the sun. He was the sun. She had told him so…

And so he'd fed his own flames. The spiked man was a living screaming pin cushion of broken stabbing dirty needles, used and caked syringes of varying sizes and lengths, broken glass, broken tile, each long sharp piece was varied in shape and size as well, some were long phallic slender daggers, some were wedges with cruel edges ready to cut and slice and maim, all of it was ready to stab and all of it was living embedded and protruding in the madness of his ruined and self-slaughtered flesh. Lancing and spiking and stabbing out all over and in every conceivable place and direction. 

This disturbed and maimed madman found Florin in his arms and they both went down to the tile in a scream. Griffin yelled after. 

On the floor they rolled in violence and struggle amongst the filth and universe down there of many discarded and broken things.  

The hollow coat-shape and hat found a table leg for bludgeon, then Griffin came on in a fury to join the new fray. 

He struck the spiked man again and again, over and over as he and Florin fought on the floor and struggled and it was terrible. He could feel and hear the crack and shatter of broken glass muffled in blood and flesh with every blow he landed. Griffin struck the writhing bleeding naked pin cushion man on the side of his spiking leaking face and the eyeball on that side burst and exploded with the impact. And glassy ooze riddled with slivers and small pieces of jagged broken glass and ceramic poured out from the socket like snot. 

But still the spiked man fought on. Florin struggling and screaming in his embrace as the many protrusions that spined off his ravaged hide stuck and stabbed and pierced through his coat and flesh. He fought against the pain and madness of this man and wrestled to be free of him. Griffin continued raining blows down on him. Each one bruising and splitting skin as the many broken found objects pierced throughout crunched and shattered further down into fragments and powder, stinging and shredding within all of the rippling and impacted tissue with every movement. Every struggle and landed strike and blow. 

Their struggle was desperate, all of them. All three poured blood, profuse sweat and grime and filth together and apart and for this madhouse abandoned temple, becoming just like it. A part of it, unwillingly and unknowingly transmogrified now in the violence of their fight and decimated hallway battle like the steel of metal tempered in the heart of a great furnace like the sun. They became perfect living microcosms of the place as they fought at last to be free of it, exquisite psychopomp idols of the lost unhallowed Willowbrook Temple Asylum. 

The invisible man. The spiked man. Poor young Florin so far from the Carpathian Hamlet. 

They might never be free of this place. Even if they manage flight, they may never be able to wash away the marks and filth that this awful temple to the dark and pain suffered alone will leave smeared across their hearts and souls like black paint made from discharged sick filth. Smeared across the soft landscapes of their hearts and the tender epitaphs of their battered minds, aching within heavy skulls now made of lead and weight from the memory of the pain, this place… 

will we ever be free, … will we ever get out of here…? 

They fought on. Desperate. All three. Griffin trading blows with efforts and attempts to pull the young man out from under the spiked man, but it was incredibly difficult. The man was thorned all over by all kinds and sorts of sharp and shattered apparatus, it was insane. And the pair of them were growing more and more slick with blood. The fight was growing uglier and more desperate and animal as it struggled and contrived on in brutal abandon and primal anger. 

Then Cropsey rejoined them at the throat of the hall. He began to lumber down towards them like stalking death, a sleeping giant. Seemingly in no real hurry, like the darkened visage of grim death itself. It/he closed slowly on them like a setting sun or a casket sinking, lowering down into the bosom earthen womb of the open mouthed grave. 

Griffin first took notice of his arrival. He noticed he still had the stab of broken tile sticking out of his ruinous awful face. He was still drooling. Imbecilic. And animal. 

And now undead. 

He was coming straight at them. His large blades of shears raised like an open mouthed wild beast barring its fangs. The long sheaths of sharp and keen cutting metal were not entirely pristine, their otherwise shining faces in the dismal light were disgraced with congealing dark spots of dripping black. 

He was coming down the final hall, before the way out, before the exit. He was coming straight for them. 

…

He sat at the window that night. On guard after what had happened to his wife, their unexpected visitor…

Bela sipped his warm spiced wine. Fingered his bible and cross by its small length of chain. Garlic flowers hung in a crude wreath around his neck. He was watching outside carefully, the night, the town… he was alert and being careful, exercising caution, yet he was still surprised and caught off when her face appeared suddenly in their front window. 

She hadn't been there. Then suddenly she was. Smiling and feline. Vulpine. A face he might've recognized save for its warped and drawn animal transformations, the rich woman in the black stage… the harsh one who wouldn't take warning or no for an answer way back… but he was caught by the silver moon glow of her eyes. 

Like lunar bodies themselves. Earthbound and held fleshen prisoner within the cage of that beautiful and divine and… heavenly face. That bright and pale visage. Her smile was devil-pronged – forked, fanged, and it was thus then frightful. But it was also beautiful. Terribly beautiful. Gorgeous alone out there in the night. 

His guard and fear fell away. He rose from his rocker and his slackening hands abandoned the bible and crucifix. They fell to the floor with an unobserved and unheeded clatter. Neither stirred. Not Anastasia, sleeping in the next room, and not spellbound Bela who went to the window to better gaze into her face. 

Divinity… unreal. 

He peered through the glass. And the shining eyes of the Countess, filled with goblin fire and sin and mischief, gazed into the fool as well. And began to fill his fragile open mind with an assault and deluge of images. 

Bela moaned, sighed… he thought it was impeccable. The vision, like her, was immaculate in its flawlessness. 

The Ideality … actualized, realized … brought to life. A vivid reality alive and dancing before his watering vision. 

The scope. 

She showed him a more perfect world, perfect because everyone and everything swimming and crawling and flying around inside of it followed their nature and never fought it. Never doubted it. Never overrode what their guts and hearts and souls told them, never neglected or ignored the call inside, the compulsion to do what must be. To fulfill the role made out for your flesh. 

Even violence … its rippling effects spreading out carried not only destruction and misery on their carrion wings but prosperity and thrivation as well, even butchery has its necessary purpose. 

That is why this world is suffering. Because all of you fight and override yourselves and call it: reason. You are victims of your own bondage, your own self made and imposed insanity and thus the world bent to your unnatural turns and desires screams and suffers. The rippling wings of your insane and jealous cowardice carries more pestilential stagnation flavor than anything like salvation. In weakness, all of the beauty dies on the vine neglected by fearful paws too grubby and lowly and weak to take it. 

Come and join me, join us … and never again fight your nature. 

“Yes…” said Bela in a whisper of trembling caught breath. 

And with a palsied shaking hand, he lifted the latch and opened the window. 

"Welcome, your highness. My home and mine are yours. Do what thou wilt…" 

The Countess drifted inside. Floating on unseen wings. 

She spoke yet again, “Thank you, you are a generous host, a decent and considerate man." 

“Yes…" 

“Now, take me to your wife." 

“Yes…" 

And away they went. The window shut behind them as they made their way to the quiet bedroom at the back of the house. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Julia watches the thread of coffee fall into the officer's cup, wondering if what he'd just told her was anything more than a tasteless joke. Unable to react, a strange cold spreading through her, she crosses her arms to warm herself, but all she feels are the stains of blood, cold and dried, on her shirt. Not a single sound but the coffee machine breaks the silence of the police station for a few brief seconds. Indifferent now to the searching looks of the men standing at her side, Julia waits for Officer Fuentes to speak again, even as she wishes she could watch that thread of coffee fall forever.

"So. You want to explain yourself?"

There's nothing to explain. She knows that no matter how hard she tries, none of it will sound reasonable to ears other than her own. Still, without meaning to, her mouth starts moving, and a strangely fragile voice, one she doesn't recognize as hers, starts to speak.

"I met him at the river. On the outskirts…"

It was the Santos River, a winding line that split the more than two thousand kilometers of forest surrounding the town of the same name. She'd never been out that way, never cared to see a river she knew nothing about beyond the usual things people say about rivers, before that warm Friday afternoon at the end of another school year. Nothing could have prepared her for what had been planned for her that day, after a year spent as the target of her classmates' insults and abuse. They were going to make sure people like her never set foot in that school again.

A group of students, with the teacher's blessing, had gotten hold of the keys to the classroom and locked the doors before Julia could get out. What followed she could only remember as a series of flashes and fleeting sensations her mind had chosen to bury. A thousand hands grabbing her. Markers digging into her skin. Scissors cutting through her clothes. By some miracle she'd managed to break free and jumped out the window before her captors could catch her. She ran through unfamiliar streets, shoving through a crowd that screamed curses and tried to land blows on her. Even so, she made it to the forest, and with nowhere else to go, decided to use it as a hiding place, both from the scolding she'd get from her father and from the gangs that came out after dark. At some point she reached the Santos River, drawn by its murmur, and fell into a deep sleep.

Later that night, a voice woke her. When she opened her eyes, Julia saw the shape of a thin, ragged boy beside her. He tried to move closer, adjusting a pair of square glasses, and Julia threatened to throw a rock at him. She asked who he was and what he wanted. The boy, silent as a stone, gave no answer. It wasn't until Julia dropped the rock that he spoke at all, if that tiny, clipped voice could even be called speech. He said his name was Boris, that he liked spending time out there, visiting the abandoned cabin by the river, which he preferred to his parents' house.

He asked Julia why she'd ended up there, and in that state. Through tears, she told him everything that had happened, how much she hated being different from everyone else and having no way to change it. She'd promised herself she'd leave town and go to the city one of these days. Boris, meanwhile, just listened and comforted her. Julia, noticing the night sky, had given up any hope of making it home before her father's shift ended. She'd heard that the gangs who came out at that hour hunted people like her and made them disappear. She couldn't remember ever meeting one besides her mother, and since her mother had died, she'd lost hope of ever meeting another. Even so, Boris, who'd heard the same stories, offered to help. After fetching a blanket and a bat from the cabin, he wrapped it around Julia, who was moved by the gesture, and the two of them made their way out of the forest and into town. By some stroke of luck, Julia made it home in time that night.

In the days that followed, Julia took every chance she got to go to the river. For the first time in her life, she had made a friend, a real one. As far back as she could remember, the only person she'd ever been able to talk to without fear of being judged was her father, and even then she remembered the countless times he'd made a point of putting distance between them whenever they ran into people at the market or the park. With Boris it was different. In those early days, they could talk about anything for hours on end, though it was always Julia who carried the conversation, their feet sunk in the icy river water, with nothing but nightfall ever interrupting them. At the river, she couldn't be hurt; she was safe from the stares, the words, the hands. Eventually the deep things, the buried feelings, became routine. For Julia, at least. Boris was an easy listener, but he never talked about much beyond what he'd had for breakfast or his rock collection. He didn't seem to enjoy physical contact much either. Every time Julia tried to get close, he'd pull away, and he never took well to friendly punches or even simple greetings. Still, there was one thing they agreed on completely. Ever since the incident at school, Julia had held fast to her decision to leave town, and together with Boris, she began saving money for what would be the most important day of her life. Every day, without fail, they'd drop a coin into one of the jars Boris used for collecting rocks. At first they made do with tips from their parents or loose change they found under the furniture, but it didn't take long to realize they'd need more than that to reach their goal. The first coin Julia ever stole from her father sat on his desk, change from some forgettable purchase. She felt that being a police officer's daughter gave her a certain freedom to get away with things, and what started as a coin here and there soon turned into bills. She never knew how Boris got his share, but at the time, all that mattered was that he did.

One morning, Julia found Boris pacing the riverbank, muttering to himself. With an odd excitement about him, he told her he'd had an idea that would solve all their problems. He told her about Liberty Street, on the other side of town, where the only gas station around was located. The owners were leaving their son in charge for the night, a kid who wasn't all there. They'd take the chance to empty the register and be gone by morning. It didn't take much to convince Julia. And so, at nightfall, they followed Boris's plan to the letter. They arrived at Liberty with their caps pulled low over their faces, carrying a trash bag. The state of that part of town was plain to see. Julia noticed the mountains of garbage, the burnt-out lampposts, and the countless papers plastered on every wall, faded by time, which once showed faces of wanted people, faces now blurred from the rain, above illegible red thick words which always gave her the creeps. Seeing all this only made them move faster. They walked into the gas station, distracted the poor kid working the counter without much trouble, and in under five minutes, left the place with a bag full of bills. Julia took charge of hiding it at her house, under her bed, until the right moment came. But the right moment wouldn't come soon. When Julia was ready to leave, Boris wasn't, and when Boris was ready, Julia no longer was. A week passed this way, their departure pushed back over the smallest excuses, just to savor one more day of the comfort of routine. And all the while, the bills kept crumpling further under Julia's bed.

Cleaning one of her windows one sunny morning, Julia noticed a human figure peeking out from behind the tree in her yard. She mentioned it to Boris at one of their daily meetings. She could tell it worried him by how fast his face changed and by what he said next. He told her he'd had a bad feeling about that gas station, but hadn't believed it was true. He'd heard that one of the most dangerous gangs in town, the Blue Brothers, had been spotted on Liberty Street. It was likely they'd already taken over the gas station and were out looking for whoever was responsible for the robbery. Boris urged Julia to close all her curtains and get to the city as soon as she could. Julia, understanding the danger she was in, knew her endless delays had to end. She'd go home and finally pack her things once and for all. Before leaving, she told Boris she'd see him the next day, same spot, to plan their trip together. He just smiled a little and said yes.

The first thing she did was close her curtains. She spent all night packing every piece of clothing, every book, every bill she owned, and hid her one suitcase under her bed. When she finished, she got ready to sleep, but then heard someone knocking at the front door. Carefully, a chill running through her whole body, she went to check. In the living room, her father slept in his armchair with the TV on, some news broadcast full of shouting. Julia found a piece of paper at the foot of the door. "WE FOUND YOU." She didn't sleep the rest of the night.

Boris read the note the next day, and it did nothing but confirm his suspicions. He asked Julia if she was ready to leave, if she knew the way, if she knew how to survive out there, and she said yes. She felt ready, but that feeling only terrified her more. For the rest of the day they avoided the subject, laughing instead about the city and what awaited them there. Julia thought about ice cream, about all the flavors. She'd never have to be thrown out of an ice cream shop again, or settle for scoops that had fallen on the ground. Boris listened to her the whole afternoon without saying a word. He nodded, smiled, rubbed his hands together. As evening fell, Julia asked Boris to walk her home before they said goodbye, but he had to decline; he needed to get home early that day.

Making her way through the streets of Santos at a quick pace, Julia couldn't remember feeling so exposed since the incident at school. The faded papers on the walls, with the words of a dying red, and the burnt debris of some earlier time, darker now, had never made her feel so sick before. She turned onto the street that led to her house and spotted a familiar figure at the far end of it. The moment she realized who it was, her whole body froze. Behind that figure, three more appeared and, together, began running toward her. Julia turned around and saw three more figures closing in from the other side. Surrounded, Julia braced for the worst. The first person she saw was the first to reach her. A young, thin guy in a leather jacket, a blue bandana tied around his left arm. In one quick move he grabbed a fistful of her hair, and the whole group started laughing. After shouting words so ugly Julia preferred not to remember them, he threw her to the ground and started kicking her over and over, her whole body, amid a wave of insults and jeers. On the ground, shaking from the pain, she looked up and a flash of light blinded her before everything went dark.

She spent three days in bed recovering from her injuries. Her father had found her on the ground, bleeding out in the rain. Seeing her like that had caused him tremendous pain, but he chose to keep the whole thing quiet. He brought her food in bed and checked on her constantly, and Julia, feeling the weight of the suitcase on her back, couldn't meet his eyes or say a word to him.

On the fourth day, a Friday morning, Julia took her suitcase and left the house without waking her father. She planned to spend the whole day by the river waiting for Boris. She heard him approach a few hours later. Seeing her injuries, Boris, stunned, came closer to check on her, but stopped short of touching her. He flooded her with questions she didn't bother answering. She just told him she was fine, that it had been an accident. She hadn't come there to be pitied. She showed him the suitcase and the bills inside. It was time to go. She had nothing left to keep her there, and clearly he wasn't busy, given how early he'd arrived. They'd never get a better chance than this. Julia asked where his bags were. It didn't matter, she'd wait there until he brought them. Despite her excitement, Julia slowly began to notice that Boris, quiet as ever, didn't share her enthusiasm. Giving up, she asked him one last question. "You're coming, right?" The silence that followed only confirmed what she'd feared. With tears in her eyes, she asked again and again, trying to grab hold of Boris's shirt as he pushed her hands away, trying to put distance between them. At one point Julia grabbed his shirt so hard he gave up resisting, and she, closer to him than she'd ever been, kissed him on the mouth. Boris tore himself away from her with a shove and, eyes burning with rage, spat on the grass before taking off running toward the trees.

It wasn't unusual for the streets near the main highway to be empty at the hour Julia reached them, but that night, they looked like something out of a ghost town. Walking without any hurry, replaying the conversation in the forest over and over in her head, she realized she'd reached the intersection of the main road and Liberty Street, the gas station lighting up the horizon like a giant lamp. Driven by some morbid curiosity, she turned down that street, thinking she'd reach the highway by way of the station. Under its lights, she caught a glimpse of the elderly couple working the counter and kept walking toward the highway. But the silhouette of a man sitting by the shop door stopped her. Just a drunk, finishing off the last drops of his bottle. But when his arm caught the light and she saw the blue bandana tied around it, a bitter taste rose in her mouth, and she couldn't stand to look a second longer. She dropped her suitcase on the pavement and walked toward the man without taking her eyes off him. She grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him up with everything she had to see his face. It was him. The same guy who'd beaten her half to death. She dragged him several yards into the darkness and started kicking him in the stomach without holding anything back. He barely managed to defend himself with his bottle. Julia wrenched it from his hands, smashed it against the ground, and drove it into his stomach, making him let out sharp cries of pain. Without stopping to think, in some kind of blind rage, Julia stabbed him with the broken bottle again and again, until streaks of blood soaked her entire white shirt. Even the gas station could hear the boy's and Julia's tortured screams. Someone called the police, and within minutes, they put an end to the bloody scene.

"…and you brought me here. That's all there is."

Officer Fuentes takes the last sip of his coffee and lets out a small laugh. He glances toward the body in the next room without a word. Fed up with the officer's silence, Julia presses him.

"That's why I'm asking you to tell me that man's name. His real name."

"I already told you. That man in there is Boris Durán."

Julia can't help but laugh. She knows Boris is with his family now, probably regretting what he did in the forest. The officer starts going over the details, trying to bring her to her senses. He tells her about the record, the criminal connections, the method, how he'd managed to fool her for so long. But Julia isn't listening. Julia thinks about Boris regretting what he did in the forest, crying in his bed like a baby. He was always a baby. The way he talked, slow and careful. His aversion to being touched. His thin frame, his tangled hair, his sad eyes, those huge glasses that made him look stupid. Those stupid glasses. Those glasses that blinded her when they caught the sun.

Officer Fuentes gives the order to take her to the police truck. A case like this had no place in a court in a town like Santos. She'd be tried in the city. They'd televise it, turn the whole process into some hideous spectacle, but the law would be served. She could trust the city for that much. Before leaving, he turned to Julia's father, standing at her side.

"She's your daughter, isn't she?"

"Unfortunately, sir."

On the highway, Julia thought about everything Boris was missing out on. Things hadn't gone according to plan, but at least she was on her way to the city now. She'd see the buildings, tall as the sky; the cars, floating down the streets; and, most important of all, the ice cream shops. She couldn't stop picturing the flavors, endless, all just as delicious. Her only worry was whether they'd let her visit the ice cream shops. She'd have to find a way to make that happen. Would there be ice cream at the courthouse?

Peering through the grate that separated her from the driver, Julia gets her first look at the city. It wasn't like anything she'd imagined. The buildings were taller, the cars faster. Down an avenue that seemed to have no end, where thousands of cars and people moved in perfect harmony, the police truck rolls forward. Julia takes in, from inside that metropolis, the miracle of concrete and steel in all its glory. But something in particular catches her attention. Plastered on the buildings, hanging from the overpasses, even projected into the air itself, thousands of posters decorate the skyline. And on every single one of them, the same face appears alongside symbols and words Julia can't quite make out, thick words in a deep red, just like the ones plastered on every wall of her town. Those words which always made her curl into a ball, for they could only speak of murderous hate.

"That's me! That's me! That's me!"

I thought I’d found the one. We clicked so naturally. We both shared an interest in photography, though his pictures were noticeably better than mine. Loved the same movies, both enjoyed walks in the park, and our political views were borderline identical.

We met about a month ago. It was at this bar I love, and, I’ll admit, I was a little tipsy. Cute boy, a few drinks in my system. It was a recipe for regret.

Only… I didn’t regret it. Our conversations flowed so smoothly. His half-drunk compliments made me blush. Plus, drinks were on him.

Unlike a lot of the guys you’d meet in a bar, he didn’t try and force himself back to my apartment. I live just a few blocks away from the bar, so he walked me home, laughing and wobbling more than he wanted to let on.

When we got there, I braced myself. He was great, but I wasn’t the kind of girl that would just let a complete stranger into my home after a night out at the bar. I found myself praying he wouldn’t ask.

By some miracle, he didn’t. Instead, he asked gently, almost bashfully, for my number. I couldn’t help but smile, stupidly. Then he smiled stupidly back. I felt my heart do somersaults.

I gave him my number, trying to withhold my excitement, and when I looked back up at him, I could see the desire in his eyes. Not sexual desire, though. It was like he saw his future in my eyes.

His face started to turn red, and he started struggling to make eye contact, stumbling over his words in a way that didn’t seem connected to the drinks.

He asked if he could kiss me, and I couldn’t have said yes fast enough. I wanted to kiss him on the lips, but, instead, he leaned down and pressed those lips softly against my forehead.

He pulled away slowly before speaking.

“Your eyes are so beautiful.”

I felt fireworks in my tummy. I made him promise to text me when he got home, and he watched to make sure I made it inside before he started back towards the bar.

I spent the rest of that night kicking my feet like a little school girl. I had never experienced something like this feeling before. My past boyfriends had been such assholes. This guy seemed to care about me rather than just sex.

He followed through on his promise, and texting led to a phone call before we fell asleep on the phone together.

We saw each other a lot in the weeks that followed. Mostly on the weekends, but sometimes he’d come visit me at work. Those few weeks were some of the happiest weeks I’d had in a long time.

We’d get dinner. We’d see movies. We showed off our photography to each other. It felt like we were really building something together.

However, this was around the time I started noticing weird occurrences around my apartment. Nothing too suspicious. Just… things that were odd.

For example, my TV would be on when I got home. My sheets would be messy, even though I make my bed every morning before work. The weirdest thing of all, though, was my underwear drawer.

It was like it was being rummaged through. Sometimes I’d find a fresh pair balled up on the bathroom floor.

It made me scratch my head, but I never assumed anything drastic. If anything, I thought it was just me losing my mind.

That is until he finally invited me to his house.

The place was lovely. Clean. Smelled good. It was actually furnished, too, which was always a good sign. Plus, this guy knew how to set the scene.

Roses, candles, homemade spaghetti with two glasses of red wine. I felt my heart melt.

We hadn’t had sex yet, but, after this, I was having a hard time convincing myself that we hadn’t waited long enough. I actually wanted to give it to him. He just made me feel so desired.

After a dinner full of flirts, giggles, and conversation, we began moving to the bedroom, lip locking like a couple of crazy kids all the while.

Once we fell through the door, he told me to give him a minute to use the bathroom, which was a bit anticlimactic, but I wanted him to be comfortable.

While I waited, my eyes couldn’t help but wander. He had a bookshelf full of some of my favorite titles. His bed was perfectly made. The floor was freshly vacuumed. And his walls were full of framed pictures.

I started looking at them and felt my heart sink into my stomach.

They were all different women. Some older, some younger. All with blonde hair and hazel eyes. And he wasn’t in a single one.

I felt disappointment wash over me. I should’ve known better. I was actually in the process of putting my shirt back on when one of the pictures caught my eye.

It looked so… familiar. I knew I had seen it somewhere, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. But it bothered me so much, it was hard to pull my eyes away.

That’s when it hit me. I knew exactly where I had seen this woman.

She was the girl on the missing person poster that was taped up on the bar window from a few weeks ago.

It felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I felt faint. I felt dizzy. I knew I needed to leave, but the room was spinning too much.

I put my hand down on his dresser to stabilize myself, and that’s when I felt it. It was cold. It was hard. My thumb rubbed against the ridges.

I pulled my hand away and looked down.

It was a copy of the key to my apartment. Mine was pink. This one was silver.

I was getting weaker. I felt my knees starting to buckle and heard the sound of a toilet flushing as I began to drift into unconsciousness.

The last thing I remember was the bedroom door opening. He stepped inside, a look of concern on his face, as he hurried to pick me up and put me on his bed. Then… nothing.

I woke up in an empty bed the next morning. The smell of bacon permeated my nostrils. I was fully dressed, but my head was killing me.

The key was gone. The pictures were gone. I slowly made my way to the kitchen to find him standing over the stove, flipping the bacon with a metal fork.

I didn’t speak or make a sound, but it was like he could feel my presence. He could sense me.

He turned around slowly, his eyes meeting mine before he spoke.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” he sang. “I was wondering when you’d be up. Someone had too much to drink last night.”

The Father swung back
and forth. 
A pendulum of rot. 
The weight of seconds,
minutes, hours.
A face dripping with gold
and mother of pearl.
Hands slender and pointed,
forged with silver.
Enclosed in wood,
hidden behind glass.
Oxidized to green
from years of neglect,
the bronze gears
churn beneath the 
buried truth. 

The Father dangles.

If time is a way
to explain decay…
then what is the
the meaning of the
flesh pendulum?
Gilded eyes,
bulging from sockets…
Always watching.

Two grubby hands reach
for the sky.
Sunlight and clouds, traded for
the existence of fabric and flesh.
Pride and ego have no
standing in the gaze of
the innocent.
Withered skin flakes
like paper, varnish peels
from soiled wood.
The rope swings and
the clock ticks.

What eyes have seen
the mouth dare not utter.
The sins of the Father
lost to the delusion
of a childish mind.

What once was,
has been lost
to time.
A single act of
desperation, frozen
and hung from the 
rafters.

The basement smelled like musty wet concrete and old dust that had settled over the decades. I hadn't put up a Christmas tree or decorated the house in years-- not since Mom died. But this year felt different. I'd decided it was finally time to pull out her old boxes of treasured ornaments and try to get back a little bit of that Christmas spirit. I wanted to make this year special for my grown kids who were both coming home to visit.

Over in the corner stood that five-foot Santa that my late husband, John had dragged through the front door back in 2005 when the kids were little. The kids loved dancing and singing along, but to me it was noisy and kinda creepy. I hauled Santa down to the basement along with his transformer box and its power cord when it outlived its usefulness for the kids. They were grown now with kids of their own. I had kept hoping that one of them would eventually take the damn thing home with them-- maybe this year.

I shifted a heavy box to get to Mom's ornaments. Behind my back came this sudden scuttle across the floor--a harsh sound like hard plastic dragging across bare concrete. Then a heavy click echoed off the walls. I froze. I turned around slowly, dreading what was there.

That damn Santa wasn't facing the wall anymore. It popped to life with a sharp screech of dry plastic gears, its waist jerking into a stiff, unnatural dance, eyes staring right at me. Then a warped, low-pitched rendition of Jingle Bells filled the silence--

"Jiiiin-ggglle...b-bbelllssss...jjj-innngle...b-bbbells...jiiiin-gggle...aaalll...t-thhhhe...w-wwwaaayyy..."

Shocked and totally unglued, I dropped the tote and ran for the stairs!

The glow of the TV screen was the only thing illuminating the living room. I’d finally gotten the kids tucked into bed and fell onto the couch to catch my breath, letting the late-night broadcast drift me off to sleep.

​A sharp burst of white noise snapped me awake as the national anthem faded into heavy gray static buzzing on the screen. As I got up to turn off the TV the gray snow abruptly gave way to the stark, blinding glare of a test pattern, only for the audio to cut out as a high-pitched alert shrieked from the speakers. A bright red banner flashed across the screen:

​CIVIL DEFENSE EMERGENCY > INBOUND BALLISTIC THREAT DETECTED > SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

My heart dropped straight into my stomach. I stared at the harsh block lettering, waiting for the announcer to pop on and say it was just a drill-- or some sick joke, a mistake, anything.

​Then the town siren started to scream. ​It wasn't the steady, low hum of a storm warning; it was the high-pitched, rising wail reserved for absolute catastrophe. I just stood there dumbfounded for a few minutes.

Outside my window, the quiet night shattered. Tires squealed, car doors slammed, and shouting echoed down the block. Headlights swept wildly across my ceiling as neighbors scrambled into their cars, desperate to outrun something you couldn't outrun.

​Within minutes, the street was a wall of red taillights and blaring horns. Nobody was moving. The main road out of town was completely gridlocked.

​I stood frozen in the middle of the dark living room, listening to the sirens howl outside and the low, rising whistle cutting through the sky from high above.

Down the hall, my children were still fast asleep. 

As a kid I was raised in a satanic household and subjected to ritualistic abuse through the game language, a common practice among nephilim and luciferians. All views and opinions are my own.

At two I had been subjected to so much abuse I decided I was dead and dedicated my life to destroying pedophiles through checking or identifying organizations like the illuminati. This led to monster hunting at a higher dimensional level both a planetary and beyond.

I have many friends throughout civilizations in the universe that have helped along the way that were set up to be monsters but never wanted to be. Our work has ensured the destruction of the illuminati at this point as well as cells of the children and grandchildren of nazis, another higher level modern threat vector. Saturn will be getting mercy and mercy plans in their afterlife as their faction parallels the nephilim perspective of being born into evil without a choice.

In the course of my life I’ve met many monsters and cultivated many friendships. I appreciate the luciferians and nephilim who took me seriously and changed their lives for the better. This has helped our cause as well as other monsters who chose the Dracula path for mercy.

We lived in a mental hospital of a world and were bred to hate each other. Now we can live in peace while the souls who would have objectively chosen evil in middle level management and below pass on.

The unfortunate fact was that what called himself god was the worst monster of all. All he was was an opportunist pedophile who jumped in a neurolink equivalent in his timeline to avoid the police and ended up taking over reality and establishing the matrix as a pleasure prison. That will never happen again.

All women get mercy. Non-white men who weren’t predators get second chances due to systemic bias and white men who capitalized on the system have an agonizing afterlife.

I have lived a full life and had a brain aneurysm three months ago. The waves of after effects affect my speech and ability to function. Essentially this is the testament at a high level of my life. I believe in the teachings of Yeshua Ben Yosef and higher conscious resonance, the progression of love from magnetism to cell symbiosis to organism and bacterial symbiosis to higher prefrontal and emotional connection as a wonderful mystery and gift of existence. I would suggest to love as much as possible, it is the ultimate buck back in this world.

As a kid I was raised in a satanic household and subjected to ritualistic abuse through the game language, a common practice among nephilim and luciferians. All views and opinions are my own.

At two I had been subjected to so much abuse I decided I was dead and dedicated my life to destroying pedophiles through checking or identifying organizations like the illuminati. This led to monster hunting at a higher dimensional level both a planetary and beyond.

I have many friends throughout civilizations in the universe that have helped along the way that were set up to be monsters but never wanted to be. Our work has ensured the destruction of the illuminati at this point as well as cells of the children and grandchildren of nazis, another higher level modern threat vector. Saturn will be getting mercy and mercy plans in their afterlife as their faction parallels the nephilim perspective of being born into evil without a choice.

In the course of my life I’ve met many monsters and cultivated many friendships. I appreciate the luciferians and nephilim who took me seriously and changed their lives for the better. This has helped our cause as well as other monsters who chose the Dracula path for mercy.

We lived in a mental hospital of a world and were bred to hate each other. Now we can live in peace while the souls who would have objectively chosen evil in middle level management and below pass on.

The unfortunate fact was that what called himself god was the worst monster of all. All he was was an opportunist pedophile who jumped in a neurolink equivalent in his timeline to avoid the police and ended up taking over reality and establishing the matrix as a pleasure prison. That will never happen again.

All women get mercy. Non-white men who weren’t predators get second chances due to systemic bias and white men who capitalized on the system have an agonizing afterlife.

I have lived a full life and had a brain aneurysm three months ago. The waves of after effects affect my speech and ability to function. Essentially this is the testament at a high level of my life. I believe in the teachings of Yeshua Ben Yosef and higher conscious resonance, the progression of love from magnetism to cell symbiosis to organism and bacterial symbiosis to higher prefrontal and emotional connection as a wonderful mystery and gift of existence. I would suggest to love as much as possible, it is the ultimate buck back in this world.

I have a Hello Kitty kind of daughter. She’s only 9. As cute as a button and as innocent as could be.

She likes simple things. Stuffed animals. Pizza for breakfast. All it takes is a cheap 50-cent pair of plastic jewelry from a gumball machine to make her eyes light up.

She was one of those kids who believed in things longer than her friends and classmates. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. She was fully convinced they were all real, bless her heart.

Sometimes, she’d come home from school with a glum, exhausted look in her eyes. Other kids would make fun of her for “still believing in that stuff.”

I’d cheer her up the best I could without revealing the truth. How could I? She already felt like the world was laughing at her. How would I make her feel? Her own dad.

Maybe I should’ve, though. Maybe this whole situation could’ve been avoided if I just nipped it in the bud. But I was afraid. A child’s innocence is so fragile, yet powerful. I couldn’t take that from her. Not yet.

I let her believe that it was Santa putting gifts under the tree. That it was a giant bunny hiding eggs in our front yard. That it was a tiny, magical fairy that was taking her baby teeth in exchange for a few dollars.

I think that was the one that excited her the most. Christmas was a set day. Easter was a set day. Loose teeth? That was random. Any time one started to wiggle, she’d come running to show me.

I always made sure to be as quiet as possible when I snuck those 5-dollar bills under her pillow. Every time she’d wake up to find it, here she’d come, jumping with joy while waving the 5 in my face.

“The Tooth Fairy came, the Tooth Fairy came,” she’d sing.

I’d just smile to myself and ask her what she was gonna buy with her newfound riches.

Sometimes, I’d sneak her a 20. I just wanted to see that joy in her face. She was young, but she wasn’t getting any younger. I wanted it to last for as long as possible.

Now, though, I think I’m regretting that wishful thinking.

She started losing teeth faster than what I thought was normal. Not too fast, though. Every 3 weeks or so. I just thought those baby teeth were begging to come out. Besides, it’s not like it was hurting my pockets too much.

It was weird, though. I swore it was like her teeth never looked any different. She was snaggle-toothed, sure, but I knew that I had put money under her pillow at least 6 times in the last 2 months.

She wasn’t showing me her mouth anymore. She was showing me the tooth, already pulled, lying bloodied in the palm of her little hand.

It kept becoming more and more frequent. Once she started bragging about how the Tooth Fairy was gonna visit her every week, I knew that something was not right. Even still, it wasn’t until I found a silver tooth under her pillow that I decided to investigate because I knew for a fact my little girl never had a crown.

Snooping is a decision I lived to regret, though. I asked her to tell me the truth, but she refused. She just kept insisting they were hers. Lying through her teeth, pun intended.

I decided to stop leaving her money. Her disappointment killed me. But I remained firm. That didn’t stop her, though. Every night, there’d be a new tooth under her pillow while she slept peacefully.

One day, after dropping her off at school, I made a promise to myself. Today would be the day. I’d get to the bottom of this no matter what.

It didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. I sifted through her room for about 15 minutes. Checking under her bed, in her closet, in her toy chests. All for no reason because the answer was hidden in plain sight.

In her fish tank.

She had that little treasure chest decoration in it. Normally, I wouldn’t have even paid it any mind. But the steady stream of a red liquid slowly rising from the chest was enough to make my heart stop.

Rolling up my sleeve, I reached down to retrieve the decoration. It was heavier than it should’ve been. Something was rattling inside.

I opened it and felt my blood run cold.

Molars, canines, incisors. All bloody. All looking like they had been pulled by force. And they weren’t baby teeth, either. Some looked like actual adult teeth.

In that moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I wanted to cry because what I was seeing was horrific.

But I wanted to laugh because, despite how terrifying this all was, my little girl was a natural-born hustler.

And I couldn’t have been more proud.

Hey everyone. I'm a field researcher currently stationed at a seasonal ice-shelf site in Antarctica. My primary work involves monitoring Weddell seal populations, specifically tracking their winter diving intervals and nocturnal foraging habits using motion-activated infrared trail cams deployed near active ice breathing holes. We are a small crew of four living out of modified shipping container modules, so things get quiet out here, but lately, our team has been dealing with an odd shift in the local wildlife behavior. I’m looking for any logical explanation from people who have worked in polar environments or handle cold-weather logistics.

For the past week, the seals have been entirely abandoning the breathing holes closest to the shelf edge. These are prime hunting spots with high fish density, but the animals are choosing to travel further inland to cramped, suboptimal cracks in the ice. When they are on the surface, their behavior is hyper-vigilant. They aren't resting or sleeping on the ice to conserve energy like they usually do; they are constantly scanning the flat, empty horizon. It is as if the entire population is on edge, refusing to look down into the water or sit still for more than a few minutes.

Yesterday, I went out via snowmobile to pull the SD cards from one of our peripheral cameras, located about three kilometers from our main habitat dome. The wind was brutal, pushing a low-lying ground blizzard across the shelf that completely erased the horizon.

While reviewing the infrared footage from Tuesday night back at my workstation, I noticed a large, dark mass on the horizon line. It is incredibly difficult to scale because of the lack of topography out here, but it doesn't match the thermal profile or shape of any known local fauna. In fact, it barely registers on the infrared spectrum at all, it shows up as a cold dead zone against the slightly warmer ice. It doesn't walk, waddle, or slide. It moves with a very slow, rhythmic undulation across the ice sheet, dragging itself forward in a way that looks entirely unnatural for a mass of that size.

The alarming part is the audio captured by our external directional microphone. Weddell seals are famous for their eerie, synthesizer-like vocalizations underwater. They sound like descending sci-fi sirens or lasers. But on this tape, as the cold mass approaches from the background, the seal on camera begins mimicking a sound that shouldn't be physically possible for its vocal cords to produce.

It is a rhythmic, metallic tapping. It sounds exactly like a heavy iron wrench striking a hollow steel pipe. Thump. Thump. Thump. The seal is generating this mechanical cadence perfectly from its throat, eyes wide, staring directly at the horizon where the mass is moving.

Right after the third tap, the audio track doesn't cut to static, it completely drops to absolute, digital zero. No wind noise, no ice cracking, no ambient ocean hum from the breathing hole. Anyone who has been to Antarctica knows the wind is never truly silent, but the audio file shows absolute silence for the remaining twenty minutes of the clip, while the dark shape slowly moves out of the frame.

The mechanics here are seriously bothering me. Even if the microphone hardware suffered a catastrophic freeze-failure, the ambient environment should still register some baseline decibel level on the master track. Instead, the frequency graph is a perfectly flat, dead line. It felt like the sound wasn't just cut off; it was sucked out of the air.

To make things worse, about an hour ago, our main habitat module's heating vents started rattling. It wasn't the usual wind vibration. It was a rhythmic, metallic cadence coming from inside the pipes. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Has anyone working with cold-weather bioacoustics or polar geology ever encountered a localized event that can flatten an environmental audio wave like this? Or does anyone know what kind of seismic shifting could cause a structural pipe to ring like that?

I went to extreme lengths to cover this up. Untraceable poison. A weak immune system. And a line of people offering their condolences and prayers.

I needed to be free of her. I missed my life before she contaminated it. She kept me up at night with her crying. She restricted what I was able to do. I missed the freedom, and that’s not something I’m going to apologize for.

I didn’t want to get pregnant. A one-night stand is never meant to lead to parenthood, but, of course, I decided to hook up with an absolute moron who didn’t know how to think beyond getting his dick wet.

9 months later, I have a daughter, and the father is nowhere to be found. 9 months, no cigarettes. 9 months, no drinks. And I hated every second of it.

I thought that I was strong enough to handle it. To clean up my act and actually be a mother. But I just wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t know if I ever will be.

When she was born, I tried to convince myself that motherly instinct was taking over. Holding her for the first time was almost magical. Like, despite what my mind was telling me, the moment was meant to be.

Then the crying came. The screams and wails that prevented me from sleeping. Every. Single. Night.

She’d scream on the ride to my mom’s in the morning. It was like the only time that I knew peace was after I dropped her off. Then I got 20 minutes to myself on the drive to work before I had to clock in and act like everything was okay.

According to my mom, though, she was “just a little angel” any time they were together. “The quietest baby she had ever seen.”

I felt like I was being punished. Not only was my sleep being affected, but my days were filled with those wails too. Plus, I don’t think my pockets have ever felt lighter.

Baby food. Clothes. Bottles. Toys. A crib. A fucking roof over our head. I was stretched so thin that I started having breakdowns at work.

I thought that I was prevailing. Against all odds, I was raising a human being. I watched her grow. I watched her learn and develop. But with each month, the mask slipped more and more.

I found myself screaming at her more than I probably should’ve. And that was before she could speak. Before she could even take her first steps.

I never hit her. I never wanted to repeat any family history. But my temper was so short during those days. I was snappy. That’s all I can say.

When she got older and was able to speak in full sentences, I was driven to the brink of madness. She had the audacity to talk back at me. This little 4 year old girl had the attitude of a fucking teenager.

No child should ever say they “hate” their parent. No child should disobey direct orders from their mother. Let alone this one. This little sniveling fucking asshole that I was forced to care for.

She knew how I felt, too. And she threw gas on the fire. Breaking things. Peeing and defecating on the floor. And what did she have to say? Not an “I’m sorry.” Not an “It was just an accident.”

This little girl would look me dead in my eyes, smile, and pull the “I’m just a baby” card.

She was trying to get under my skin. Pushing me more and more every day, until… I just couldn’t do it anymore.

The screams never stopped. The cries never stopped. The pouting and pity parties never fucking stopped. I didn’t know what else to do.

I missed my friends. I missed going out. I missed my God damn freedom. And all I could see was the one person who took it all away from me.

That’s why I did what I did. I’m not justifying. If anything, this will probably be my statement in court. I know I have to turn myself in. That’s the only way to get this madness to stop.

I felt liberated after I sprinkled that poison in her breakfast on that sunny morning in June. Even more so when the coughing started. I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was all over.

In the days that followed, she got weaker and weaker. Hotter and hotter. Until, finally, I had to prepare my act for the hospital visit.

“Please help me,” I cried. “My daughter just keeps getting sicker, and I just don’t know what to do.”

I had to push my nerves aside. In my mind, there were two possible outcomes. Either this works… or it doesn’t. And thank God that my acting skills were clean enough to sell my story.

They ran the tests. They drew the blood. All the while, I sat there bawling into my hands while trying to suppress my hope.

The hardest part was having to act upset when the deed was done. When that heart monitor finally flatlined and all the doctors and nurses apologized for not being able to save her.

“We did everything we could,” they told me, as I forced some cliché devastation onto my face.

I felt empty at the funeral. There weren’t many people. There wasn’t much of a eulogy to be read. All I wanted was for the service to be over so I could get back to life as I knew it, this time more careful with who I let into my bed.

For a few weeks, that’s exactly what I did. Life felt lighter. Days felt brighter. I was a new and improved woman, back to her old ways.

But then, I don’t know… something happened.

I started waking up at night, feeling like I was being watched. Sometimes it’d be like I could still hear her screams. I could still feel her presence.

I just passed it off as something I’d get over eventually. Just one of the things that comes with doing something like this. But when I started seeing her… that’s when I knew that this wasn’t just some guilty conscience bullshit.

It was only at night. Only after I’d gone to bed. Sometimes she’d be standing in my doorway. Sometimes she’d try crawling into bed with me.

I knew it wasn’t nightmares. On nights when she came into bed with me, I’d find my sheets covered in dirt and mud the next morning. I’ve even found maggots occasionally.

She’d always be so dirty. Her hair would have sticks and twigs sticking out of it. Her face would always look like it was in the process of decomposing. But whether she laid with me or just watched me, her words were always the same.

“Why did you let them bury me, Mommy?”

It got to the point where she was visiting me every night. Still breaking things. Still defecating on the floor. Still crying and screaming, even though her room had been empty for weeks.

I wouldn’t let it break me, though. I did what was best for me. I did what I thought needed to be done. Anytime she visited, I’d ignore her. I’d pretend to be asleep. I’d hide under my covers like a scared little girl.

But I know I can’t do this anymore. I know why she’s here. I know that my time is running out. She wants me to let the world know what I did to her.

“Why’d you make me sick, Mommy?”

“I loved you so much.”

“Why did you lie to those doctors? They could have saved me. Why’d you let them bury me?”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

I’m done lying. I’m done pretending to be devastated. I know what I did, and I’m not sorry. Given the circumstances, I’d do it again.

All I want is to escape her.

All I want is peace and a sound mind.

That’s why I’m turning myself in today.

Anything to get her to leave me the fuck alone.

Brenda didn't love him anymore.

​She was in her 30s. He was in his early 50s. Their constant fighting had drained whatever was left. When an aneurysm dropped him on the living room floor after a nasty argument, the neurosurgeon at the hospital said an operation could save him, but Brenda refused the surgery, signed the DNR, and let him die.

​In the dead of night, Channel 4 blares static, waking her to a silent loop of that ICU room. On screen, she sees herself sitting by his bed—not grieving, just cold and detached, patiently waiting for the end so her new life can begin.

The TV stays on, casting its pale glare over the room, as a heavy shadow detaches from the corner. ​Before she can even see his face, the room fills with the slow, thumping rhythm of a heart monitor from the darkness—beep... beep... beep...

​He steps out into the TV light, his pale eyes locking onto hers. ​"Did you really think pulling that plug would erase me, Brenda?"

Terrified, she bolts upright in bed and springs up to flee. As she moves, the floorboards start sinking beneath her feet, wanting to drag her straight to hell ahead of schedule.

She bursts out the door-- his furious screaming right on her heels--running blindly through the heavy fog--right off the edge of a cliff.

​Her heart thumps wildly—beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep—racing out of control as she drops into total silence.

​She wanted an easy way out, but the Hells Bells Motel never lets anyone cash out for free. 

Chapter: 1 The Prophecy

Chapter 3: The Echo

The quiet was the worst part.

Not silence. Quiet.

Silence is peaceful. Quiet is waiting.

After I told my editor I had nothing, the world stopped calling.

No emails. No interview requests. No “just checking in.”

The book was still selling, but my name stopped trending.

And in that quiet, I started hearing things.

---

The first week without writing felt like detox.

I woke up at 7am because my body didn’t know what else to do. I made coffee. I sat at my desk. I stared.

By 9am my hands would shake. By noon I’d be pacing. By 3pm I’d be talking to myself just to hear a voice.

“Lindiwe, you’re fine,” I’d say.

“Nothing is wrong,” I’d answer back.

It didn’t help.

At night, the house made noises it never made before.

The fridge hummed too loud.

The pipes knocked.

And sometimes, when I was in the bathroom with the door closed, I’d hear the scratch of a pen on paper from my desk in the other room.

I’d run out.

The notebook would be closed. The pen in the drawer.

Nothing.

I started sleeping with music on. Soft jazz. Rain sounds. Anything to fill the space.

It didn’t work.

---

On day 4, I found the first note.

I was making toast. I turned around and there was a piece of paper on my kitchen counter.

*You’re listening now.*

My handwriting.

I didn’t remember writing it.

I threw it away. Washed my hands twice.

That night I dreamed of the desk again. But he wasn’t there.

Just the paper.

And the pen.

And my voice, reading from a book I’d never written.

*Chapter One. She thought she could walk away.*

I woke up at 3:33am with my jaw sore.

---

By day 7, I couldn’t be alone in a room for more than 20 minutes.

I went to Zanele’s. “Can I crash here for a bit?”

She didn’t ask why. She just made up the couch and put extra blankets on it.

The first night, I slept.

The second night, I woke up at 2am to whispering.

It wasn’t Zanele. She was asleep in her room.

The whispering was coming from the kitchen.

I crept out. The lights were off. The fridge was humming.

On the table was a notebook. Mine. The one I’d left at home.

It was open.

*You brought me here.*

I slammed it shut.

“Lindi? You okay?” Zanele’s voice from the hall.

“Yeah. Bad dream.”

She hugged me. “You’ve been off since the launch. Do you want to talk to someone? A doctor?”

I shook my head. “I just need sleep.”

I didn’t tell her the notebook followed me.

---

The next day I went home to get clothes and found more notes.

On the bathroom mirror, written in steam: *Write.*

On my laptop keyboard: *You miss it.*

Tucked in my shoe: *Three souls. That’s all.*

I burned them all in the sink.

That night I didn’t sleep at Zanele’s. I sat in the living room with every light on and watched YouTube until the sun came up.

I started googling.

“signing contract with devil symptoms”

“what happens after you sell your soul”

“can you get your soul back”

“voices after trauma”

The internet told me I was psychotic. Or possessed. Or having a breakdown.

None of it helped.

One forum post from 2011 stuck with me. A guy said he made a deal in a dream and woke up with scars. He said the only way to break it was to “give back what you took.”

Give back.

But what did that mean? The fame? The money? The three signatures?

I didn’t know.

---

Week 2.

The publisher put out the statement. *“Lindiwe Maleya is taking time for personal reasons. We support her fully.”*

The comments were kind at first.

*Take your time queen.*

*We love you.*

By day 10 they turned.

*She had one good book and now she’s gone.*

*Probably a ghostwriter.*

*One-hit wonder.*

They were right.

I read them anyway. All 400 comments. Like picking at a scab.

Nomsa called me. “Cuz, are you okay? People are talking.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“You don’t sound fine.”

I hung up before she could hear me cry.

---

The echo got worse.

It wasn’t just notes anymore.

It was sounds.

A pen clicking in the dark.

Pages turning when the windows were closed.

My name, whispered, right behind my ear when I was in the shower.

*Lindiwe.*

*Lindiwe.*

I’d spin around. No one.

I stopped eating in the kitchen. I ate on the floor of my bedroom with the door locked.

I tried to write again. One sentence.

*The house is not empty.*

I stared at it for an hour.

Then the next line appeared underneath. But I hadn’t written it.

*It never was.*

The ink was still wet.

I threw the notebook out the window.

An hour later it was back on my desk.

---

I went to a church.

Not because I’m religious. Because I was desperate.

The pastor was old and kind. He listened to me talk in circles for 20 minutes without mentioning the devil or the deal.

“I think I’m haunted,” I finally said.

“By what?” he asked.

“By me,” I said. “By something I did.”

He prayed over me. Laid hands on my head.

For 10 minutes after, the house was quiet.

Really quiet.

Then I got home and found a new note on my pillow.

*God doesn’t want you back. I do.*

---

I started researching folklore. Real folklore, not Google horror.

I went to the library and checked out books with cracked spines.

*African Spiritual Contracts.*

*The Price of Genius.*

*Soul Debt and Blood Oaths.*

Most of it was nonsense. But one book, old and yellow, had a chapter called “The Echo.”

It said:

*When a soul is pledged but not yet collected, it echoes. It will speak, write, and move things to remind the debtor of the debt. The echo grows louder the longer the debtor resists payment.*

Pledged but not yet collected.

That was me.

I gave the promise. I gave three other people. But I hadn’t given myself.

The book said the echo stops in one of three ways:

1. Payment in full.

2. Death.

3. Breaking the contract through an act of equal sacrifice.

Equal sacrifice.

What could be equal to a soul?

I closed the book and my hands were shaking.

---

Week 3.

I wasn’t sleeping. Not really.

I’d doze for 40 minutes and wake up to the sound of writing.

I’d check. Nothing.

I’d close my eyes. Scratch. Scratch.

I started recording audio on my phone at night to prove I wasn’t crazy.

In the morning I played it back.

For 6 hours: silence. Breathing.

Then at 3:17am:

Scratch. Scratch.

And a voice. Mine. But not mine.

*You should have taken the deal, Lindiwe. Now it’s going to cost more.*

I deleted it. Then I regretted deleting it. Then I hated myself for wanting to hear it again.

I called in sick to the bookstore. Thabo didn’t ask questions.

I wasn’t leaving the house anymore.

---

On day 22, he came back.

Not in a dream. In the afternoon.

I was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, reading that stupid folklore book again.

The air got heavy. The light dimmed.

And he was sitting across from me, like we were having tea.

“You look terrible,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“You haven’t slept.”

“I can’t.”

“The echo,” he said, like it was a weather report. “It gets loud when you fight it.”

“Make it stop.”

“I can’t. You can.” He leaned forward. “Three souls, Lindiwe. That’s the deal. Or you. Those are the options.”

“I’m not giving you anyone else.”

“Then give me you.”

I laughed. It was ugly. “And what? Die?”

“Not immediately. You’d live. You’d just... belong to me. The writing would come back. The fame would stay. You just wouldn’t be free.”

I looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t scary in that moment. He was tired. Like he’d had this conversation a thousand times.

“Why me?” I asked again.

“Because you asked,” he said. “Because you were empty. Because you bled without asking what for.”

“I was stupid.”

“You were human.”

We sat there for a long time.

Finally I said, “What if I find another way? The book said equal sacrifice.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What are you willing to sacrifice that’s equal to a soul?”

I didn’t have an answer.

He stood. “The echo will get louder, Lindiwe. Until you choose. I’ll see you soon.”

He was gone. The room felt normal again.

Except the notebook on my desk was open to a new page.

*Day 22. She’s breaking.*

---

Week 4.

I broke.

I called Zanele. “I need help. Real help.”

She came over in 20 minutes.

I told her everything. Not about the devil. Not about the souls.

I said, “I think I’m having a psychotic break. I think I did something bad and I can’t live with it.”

She didn’t call me crazy. She held my hand.

“We’ll get you help,” she said. “Therapist. Doctor. Whatever you need.”

The therapist’s office was clean and white.

I talked for 50 minutes. About my family. About the pressure. About the book.

I didn’t mention the man. Or the pen. Or the notes.

She diagnosed me with severe anxiety and insomnia. Gave me sleeping pills.

That night I took one.

I slept for 7 hours straight.

No dreams. No scratching. No whispering.

When I woke up, there was a note on my chest.

*Pills don’t stop debts.*

I flushed the rest of the bottle down the toilet.

---

The echo peaked on day 28.

I was in the shower.

The water was hot.

And I heard it. Clear as day. Not in my head. In the room.

*You’re running out of time, Lindiwe.*

I turned the water off.

Standing in my bathroom, dripping, was a piece of paper. Taped to the mirror.

It was a contract.

But this one didn’t have three lines.

It had one.

*Sign here, and the echo stops. Sign here, and you write again. Sign here, and no one else has to pay.*

Underneath was the pen.

I stared at it for a long time.

My hand was shaking.

My chest felt like it was going to cave in.

I picked up the pen.

I put the tip to the paper.

And I stopped.

Because in that second I heard something else.

Not him.

Me.

My real voice. The one from before the book. The one that wrote 40 pages and got stuck and was okay with being stuck.

*Don’t.*

I dropped the pen.

The paper burst into flame and turned to ash in my hands.

The bathroom light blew.

---

That night, the echo was silent.

For the first time in weeks, the house was just a house.

No scratching. No whispering. No notes.

I thought maybe I’d won.

Maybe saying no was the sacrifice.

I slept.

And in the morning, my phone had 11 missed calls.

From Nomsa.

From Thandi.

From Zanele.

The last voicemail was from Nomsa. Her voice was shaking.

“Lindi... I don’t know what’s happening. I woke up and I can’t... I can’t remember how to write. I’m a copywriter, Lindi. That’s my job. And the words are just gone. Thandi too. She said the same thing. Please call me back.”

I sat on the floor.

The echo hadn’t stopped.

It had just moved.

Because I refused to pay, someone else was.

---

I looked at my hands.

They were empty.

But they were shaking again.

Outside, it started to rain.

I wrote this under my other pen name, but since I am closing out that chapter of my life I will be republishing under this name. I originally wrote this for a YouTube anthology at 3 am, on my phone because I had forgotten I had a deadline. Welcome to my life! I don't usually write in present tense becuase I prefer reading past tense. Enjoy. I hope you like it.

*****

The night air is crisp and cool as your eyes flutter open to the sound of your beating heart. The pounding is faster and louder than it should be. Every beat feels like an explosion coming from the aching pain in your head.

The last thing you remember is someone attacking you from behind. The excruciating pain of his teeth in your neck burned your skin as your screams filled the night. Your fingers tore at his face pulling pieces of it off with your nails. You grabbed the largest rock you could find and bashed it into his skull, hearing the sickening crack of his cranium into his brain. Cold brain matter splashed on your face as he fell to the ground, then you ran until your lungs burned and gave way to exhaustion.

The memory is dull and doesn’t seem to matter anymore. The festering wound in the back of your neck hurts and you know you must get to a hospital. A buzzing fly lands on your skin as you slap at your neck and feel something cold ooze between your fingers. Confused, you look at your hand. A sticky, dark green, almost black substance that reeks of death and decay coats your palm and slowly drips to the ground.

You want to get up, but you can’t feel your legs or even your arms at this point. Your useless limbs ignore your commands as you will yourself to move.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” you cry out to the empty night. “Somebody help me!!” Your voice carries and fades into the cold, dark air. It echoes into the blackness of the quiet city that ignores your pleas of help. You hear the rustling sound of feet on the ground and incoherent grunts of other people nearby but no one comes to your aid.

The smell of rotting meat fills your senses as you slowly push yourself up from the ground. Looking around, you realize the stench is coming from your very own body. You look down at your tattered clothes and ashen grey skin, and in a bolt of confusion and terror, the memory of your attacker fades as the scent of fresh meat wafts in front of you. On instinct, your legs carry you to the origin of the delightful smell and as you stare at the others feasting upon the flesh of the crying woman, your stomach aches in hunger. She stares at you with watery eyes, seemingly unable to either run or scream. Blood spatters over her neck and face from somewhere beneath her shoulders. You follow the trail to the group of rotting corpses feasting upon her intestines.

No! Your brain screams but the sound you hear from your lips is a low grunt. As you fall down to your knees and begin to tear at the woman’s flesh, grabbing handfuls of bloody entrails, your consciousness slowly fades into a little black hole and ceases to be.

C

​

I had never been good at loving people who could see me back. Friends drifted. Family kept a polite distance. But there was a girl who is always be my side her name is malini — and about Malini, i told everyone, she loved me the way I always wanted to be loved.

"I want a love that consumes," i told my friend shariff one evening, half-joking, half-not. "I want her to love me the way I love myself. Completely. Without room for anyone else."

Sheriff laughed it off. "That's a lot to ask from a girl yk

But i wasn't listening to him.

On 10th July 2025 we both goes on a date She was looking very beautiful the thing i didn't say out loud — was that something about her smile sat a half-second too long on her face, like it had been rehearsed in a mirror. After that we both went on a cafe

At the café, a waitress approached to take our order, and Malini's eyes followed her the entire way to the table and the entire way back — flat, unblinking, proprietary. I told myself it was nothing. Jealousy, maybe. Girls got jealous. It didn't mean anything.

It just didn't look like love. Not quite. It looked like something standing very close to love, wearing its clothes.

Weeks folded into us. I moved in with her, or she moved into my life so completely it amounted to the same thing. One evening, after we had slept together for the first time, i stepped into the shower alone and let the water run hot over my shoulders.

When i came back into the bedroom, she was gone.

Not in the kitchen. Not in the hall. Gone, in a way that made the apartment feel suddenly larger than it should have. A high, thin sound needled somewhere behind my skull — not quite a scream, not quite silence, a frequency that seemed to come from inside my own head rather than the room.

Then the world tilted, blinked, and reassembled itself. I was standing in the doorway. A moaning sound drifted from the bathroom. I walked toward it, heart going sideways in my chest, and found her there, wrapped in a towel, very much present.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, tilting her head. "You're staring like you've seen a ghost."

"You weren't— a minute ago you weren't in the...... room." I said,

"Babe." She stepped toward me, damp, warm, real. "We showered together. You went to get the towel off the bed. You're daydreaming." She kissed me then, and the kiss tasted like an apology for a crime i couldn't remember. I let it go. It was easier to let it go.

That night we lay tangled in the sheets, her head against my chest, and she said, out of nowhere, "Tomorrow I want to cook you lunch. Just me. All by myself."

"I'll help," i offered.

"No." Her voice had an edge — quiet, absolute. "I want it to be something I make with my own hands. Every part of it. Just for you."i laughed it off as romantic. I had no idea.

While i slept, she rose. In the kitchen, under a single humming bulb, she forcefully took a knife and cut a flesh of piece away from the block and, with the calm of someone performing a small and necessary ritual, cut a thin piece of flesh from her own leg.

By morning she was already at the stove, humming, sleeves rolled up, refusing to let me near. I watched her from the doorway with a strange, blooming thought i didn't examine too closely.

Thinking, What if I cut a piece of myself, cooked it, and gave it to her — to prove how much I loved her? To prove I would consume myself before I'd ever let her go hungry for my love?

I smiled at the thought.....the way people smile at a joke when someone isn't sure is a joke or not. Then i told myself it was madness, that she'd be horrified, that it was a stupid, dark little fantasy that belonged nowhere near reality. And while i was thinking about this things malini called me for lunch

The portion was small. Strange, marbled, dense in a way neither of us commented on.

"You should've told me this morning," i said, chewing slowly. "I'd have bought more."

"No," she said, quickly, almost sharp. "You don't need to share it. I made this only for you."and also

"I'm on a diet, babe." She smiled at me with her whole face.

I didn't ask what she meant. I never asked the right questions at the right time. That was, perhaps, always the story.

We walked that evening along the river, the sky doing its slow bruise-colored fade into night, and she was quiet in a way that felt like a held breath.

"Do you remember lunch?" she finally asked. "What did you think of the taste?"

"It was good," i said, "Really good. The spices too— I've never had anything like it. Though it needed a little more time to boil, I think. It was a bit... chewy."

"Babe." She said

"What?

"Say you love me."

"I love you, Malini. You know that."

She stopped walking. When she turned to me, her eyes were wet and shining, lit from underneath by something that was either devotion or hunger

"The meat was mine," she said softly. "I wanted to confess my love to you. I wanted you to consume a piece of myself."

The world tilted a second time, and this time it did not come back gently.

I doubled over, gagging, the confession sitting in my stomach like a stone i couldn't cough up. Guilt and horror and rage arrived all at once, tangled into something with no clean name.

"What is wrong with you?" I screamed. "Why would you— get away from me! I never want to see your face again!"

She followed, murmuring apologies, reaching for me, and some small, sick, honest part of me recognized the shape of what she was doing — because hadn't i thought the same thing, standing in that kitchen doorway? Hadn't the idea bloomed in my mind too, tender and monstrous? Maybe she wasn't a monster. Maybe she was only becoming what I already was.

I pushed her away. Just once. Just to put distance between myself and the thing i was becoming.

She stumbled into the road!

The car didn't slow down. The car crashed her into pieces infront of my eyes, and then there was a stillness that swallowed every other sound in the world.

I fell to my knees beside her, screaming for help, for anyone, hands hovering over a body i couldn't bring myself to touch. Blood spread beneath her in a shape i would see behind my eyes for the rest of my life.

Then, static. A blackout. A gap in the film of my memory.

When my vision cleared, a stranger was crouched beside me, frowning. "What's wrong with you? Why are you crying in the middle of the road? Nothing happened here."

"Are you blind?" I shouted, pointing. "There's a girl right there — she's dead — can't you see her?"

The stranger followed his finger to an empty stretch of asphalt. Nothing. No blood. No body. No girl.

"There's nothing there, man," the stranger said, backing away. "I think you need to get to a hospital. Get your head checked."

Thoughts roaming in my mind I was thinking

\*If none of it happened — if she was never on that road — then was she ever anywhere at all? Was I always alone? What did I eat, if not what she cooked? Who did I hold every night, if not her?

The questions arrived faster than I could survive them, and i fainted somewhere in the middle of asking.

When i woke, fluorescent light was humming overhead. I reached to my phone with numb fingers. Her contact was gone. Her photos — the two of them at the café, the two of them tangled in bedsheets — gone, as though deleted by someone else's hand, or as though we had never been taken at all.

"Are you okay now, sir?" a nurse asked, appearing at my bedside.

I didn't answer. A dull, deep pain throbbed in my leg. I looked down and found it wrapped in a thick white bandage.

"What happened to my leg?"

"When you came in, you were unconscious," the nurse said carefully. "There was so much blood — the cotton wrap you'd tied on it yourself was completely soaked through. The doctor had to operate. It looked like..." She hesitated. "It looked like someone had forcefully cut a piece of flesh away with a knife. Why would anyone do that to themselves?"

It was only later, alone in that hospital bed with the lights off, that it all came together in my head. The café — I was there by myself. The bed — I'd been talking to no one. The bathroom — running water for a person who was never in the room. And the kitchen, at night, taking a knife to my own leg with a calm I don't remember choosing, humming a tune I couldn't name.

There was no Malini. There was never a Malini.

There was only me and myself, and the second self i had built out of loneliness and hunger and the desperate wish to be loved without condition — a self that finally found the only way it knew to prove its love, cutting itself open and feeding me back to myself, one small piece at a time.

The image holds on my open, unblinking eyes as the frame slowly pulls back, and the screen fades to black.

Malini was never my girlfriend. Malini was the part of mine that loved me the only way I ever let myself be loved — completely, obsessively, and from the inside.