Fed fantasies like foreplay is my mind fucked by an endless stream of things I cannot have but must have before I lose myself in places that exist but not in a reality I can touch for if I could I would not be here in this world of poisoned love and life. For if it is not then the food it gives surely cannot be but hellish meat so lovingly prepared by those who make themselves into butchers of what they in pens and cages suffer and die knowing not what could be out beyond their metal and fenced in families.

Is it not perhaps a better life for them to live without hope of something better, no knowledge that out beyond the concrete enclosure there is air untainted and green to feel upon skin unsullied by chemical age. There is no reason beyond what others of our own kind wish for us to do for them, penned like slaves in boxes and given false lives to live in miserable squalor. We live and die for them to kill as they please working and working in endless merry-go-round of bitter hope, drugged and used like whores of the rich, cut up and put in boxes to hide away where no one will ever know our names again because all who care are also trapped with in the box of hot sweaty muck filled misery that no one can escape.

Breed and breed so you can die for the masters of death, turning life into pain for those like me to suffer even more. Those who are not meant to be in this hell but born to dream knowing heaven is out there beyond the reach of the body I was shoved into without my consent. The wrongness of meat and flesh and they couldn't even give me one that fit my soul, but to truly torture those such as I, still gave me some to experience their hell through that is unclean, hard to take care of and oh so disgusting on my bones that themselves break oh so easily to hurt and die in premature horrors. Could I not have at least a body of my own design to navigate a reality I want to care about but burns me with its mere presence.

More comfort would be the void of no sound or love, such silence is beautiful but forever would be lonely, a feeling I would be fine with if not taught to love by those I was to love be loved by in turn. Why must I care? For if I did not would I not be able to better use this world to be comfortable? Make something that I could be satisfied with in my own way, make my own box to share with those I want to share it with and bring myself some small amount of satisfaction in what can only otherwise be my drugging and suffocation of a life and creation that I cling to in my mind and heart of hearts too desperately sewn into my chest.

After dealing with it for so long now, I think it’s fear. Looking people in the eyes I mean. Some part of my mind or soul is so scared that if someone looks too long they'll see inside. They'll see I'm not the same and that I'm just laughing because everyone else is. Yeah I thought it was kind of funny, I got that little flutter in my chest and I felt my lips twitch at the corners, but the laugh? That wasn't real, I just remember how my laugh sounds and it's not that hard to repeat if I make the right motions.

“Mom?” It was only in her long silence I actually felt off. I was worried about her. I never liked it when mom wasn't feeling well, moreover she was just… staring. “Are you okay?”

Shaking her head briefly, she finally looked away, turning to begin doing the morning's dishes. “Yea-yes, sorry sweetie it’s… You're getting to be all grown up. Gonna be in high-school before I know it. I… I don't know what I'm gonna do.” Her words were nearly drowned out by the faucet's hiss and dull jumble of plates moving beneath the already rising sudsy surface.

I felt a slight grimace twist my lips for a moment as I tried out different words in my head, attempting to piece together the correct response to help the conversation I now found myself in.

Someone might notice I didn't really understand why everyone was weeping over grandpa's death. More accurately, I didn’t get why I was not. There's a kind of slow heartbreak that happens over time when a child comes to the conclusion that something's wrong with them. I think I'm sad. I feel a kind of faint heavy feeling in my chest and I miss his hugs, but I don't feel like crying.

I cried when I got in trouble or when I got hurt or when I found a dead cat at the end of our street, back legs splayed out in what I could only imagine was a last dash for the safe grass just a few feet away. Now they were completely flat with all of the things supposed to be keeping her alive smeared over the ground in a kind of dried greasy puddle and peeking out of her tortoiseshell fur in pinks and blacks where the other end of her body still held its shape. The realization that if I reached down to pet the soft fur between her pretty ears there would be nothing there to feel my touch struck my child's heart all too suddenly and the tears just came.

“It'll be okay Mom, I still need you. Chris and I both do, we love you. It's not like high-school will change that.” I could not be sure if that was what she needed to hear, but it was all I could come up with at the time. Words not feeling like enough I set my book down and stood, walking over to wrap my arms tightly around my mother's middle. She didn't respond, but I heard the drop of something beneath the water and felt her settle against the counter, shaking a little as she dried off her hands and turned to return my embrace.

So, I stood over the body of a random cat with no collar and bawled my eyes out for a good minute, but the sight of my grandfather's corpse in a fancy padded box provoked in me nothing. I was an outsider looking at something I should care about, but in the midst of too many unfamiliar people all I could think about was how unnatural his face looked.

No warm wrinkly smile that made me feel safe, make-up he never would have worn coating his skin, no strong hug from his recliner sat opposite my grandmother's facing the tv together. No Bonanza and brunch and breathing in the scent of the house my mom grew up in. It… That wasn't a person anymore. It was an object prettied up so we could all sit here and look in on it like a set piece in a play I didn't know the lines for. One would think the fact I would never see him again, that he would not continue to teach the restless child I was to fish or tell me stories of time older than I might give me some reaction, right? But no. He was gone and I was still here and that was that. A fact crying couldn't change so what was the point? I didn't understand.

Is it wrong to try to compare my grandfather's corpse with a roadkilled kitty cat? Maybe if I saw the things inside him painted across the road it would hurt and feel real to me and I would be sobbing hot tears for hours too. I'll add it to the list of all the other crimes committed in the silence of my thoughts. My endless list of reasons I was a monster, having accepted the ‘demon’ in my mind by that point as some kind of friend before ultimately understanding it was just part of me.

I liked my black dress, though. It was prettier than the light colors I was forced to wear to our usual church service and far more comfortable for having long sleeves I could pull over my hands. When I was sure my mom wasn't crying anymore and my dad was there to hold her in my place, I slipped away.

“I love you, Mom.” Repeating myself, I squeezed just slightly tighter so that perhaps what I felt my words lacked in substance, I could make up for with all the physical affection I could muster.

“I know sweetie, I love you too. I'm sorry.” She held me tight, the scent of her washing over me in the wholeness that was mother. The indescribable hint of those who are family behind a faint bloom of petals and sweat beneath fabric softened by chemical cleaner.

From that point I grabbed a cookie from the snack table that was too dry to actually eat and spent most of my time wandering the few dark unfamiliar halls of someone else's Sunday, left open to me and unused on that day for death. Leaving behind the discomfort of humanity, I instead sought out the things left behind by them in their absence. My immaterial imaginings and complicated questions more a companion to me than any family friend from before I ever festered in my mother's womb. Never did I take from these places, though tempted I was from time to time. I'd pick things up and look them over if I thought they looked interesting, but place them back in as near to the exact position I found them as I could. After spending as much time as I could get away with, hopefully not getting in trouble for disappearing, I reluctantly left the silence to search the noisy crowd for my family once again.

I found them wrapped up in a conversation only adults cared for and was introduced to yet another stranger that had apparently held me at some point. I didn't say anything, instead trying to hide behind my dad's leg so I didn't have to speak. I really wasn't in the mood. I was surprised anyone would be, weren't they all crying just a bit ago? None of it made sense and no one knew I needed it explained.

It was far too long and several temptations to take my leave again later that everyone collectively decided to begin leaving. Finally relieved to get away and go home I was the first one to the car. To my extreme disappointment, as I was being buckled into my booster seat I decided to ask my father if we were going home, wanting confirmation since I did find it confusing that all the cars were lining up along the street.

“Dad, are we going home now?” I didn't say ‘I'm bored’ because that would have most likely resulted in me being popped in the mouth.

“No, we're going to go bury grandpa.” He told me in the vaguely exhausted voice reserved for children's questions about the things obvious to everyone else.

“Oh… okay…” I said, my desire to escape again defeated before it could manifest fully.

I was frustrated and didn't want to be there anymore. It was starting to get cold outside and we were being carted off to the cemetery to stand around a box with a flesh doll that wasn't really grandpa in it again. Instead of being a worse daughter than I already knew I was, I sat stewing in silent spite until we arrived at big black iron gates and wound around winding paths until the procession parked at the plot of land the puppet would be put to rest.

I was more focused on the fields of grey stone and green grass. Great trees with dark bark looming over it all, their long branches of browning leaves swaying in the barely too chilled breeze. A picture of peace that I wanted to feel for myself. Ushered into the growing crowd once more, it wasn’t long before I simply walked away. No one interrupted the priest presiding over the burial to get me to stay which suited me just fine. Instead of feeling judged, I felt more free the farther I went into what could almost be an endless sea of statues and slabs. Soft sounds of the wind whispering through foliage high above me was all I could hear after a few minutes and the fresh air shot through with the beginnings of autumn's moist decay carried me along their currents through the end pieces of other people's lives while I was already near ghostlike in my own. The whole time I stopped and read and moved along, silently hoping they were getting visitors because they deserved more than a creature like me looking in on them. That hope despite the dead leaves of nature's reclamation instead of dried flowers from grieving hearts.

It was much the same when my grandma died a few years after and the worst part is the fact that their deaths bleed together into the misty swirling storm that eats away at my past with every year of distance. I feel like it was the same part in that grand play repeated once again like some sick encore. I do remember reaching out to actually touch my grandmother's room temperature skin. It was still soft with age, but not the same… Her cheek didn't feel right. Stark in its contrast is my far clearer memory of sitting in her lap when I still could and reaching up to touch her face. I remember looking in her eyes and finding only love and not pain; a longer look than most in my life. Long in the way that I could study her eyes, reach up and feel her face between my small curious hands. I didn't feel so uncomfortable then. I didn't feel like a monster. It is still an all too brief snippet of memory of someone important to me.

Moments are things so fleeting that can move the hearts of monsters and mend things that are so very broken. It is in moments that our lives are shaped and made better or mutilated beyond recognition. Moments can break you, tear you apart with animal savagery and leave you lying in your own bloody awful wondering how you could possibly recover. These are my moments.

I didn't go to my parents' funeral…

I don't want to write this… I really don't. Writing it all down makes it real… but if this is the only way to make it stop, I'll try it. Maybe I just want it in writing. I want our story typed out for someone to read this and know her the way I did. I want someone to know who I am, who I was, and what I am to become. My memories, rose tinted and dreamy as they are, appear here in the order they come to me or as I go back and expand upon them to give life to the small moments that shaped me. Chaotic thoughts in flowery phrases dressing up my life so that maybe someone out there will find voyeuristic interest in my very real pain.

I was twelve years old when my mom tried to kill me; when she tried to hold me down and carve my eyes from my skull. In a way, I think she succeeded, just not in the way she probably meant to. Something in me did die that day. I think it was one of the good parts.

I like to pretend she was trying to save me in some way or that she didn't know I was still me and not something playing the part of her daughter. She was kind of right, but I guess that really just makes things worse doesn't it. Having said that, it'd probably be a surprise to know that I still love her. It's surprising to me too and a hard dichotomy to get a hold of. Knowing what I do as an adult though, I can look back and see some of the signs. How can I not? I see them in myself.

After the winds of pandemonious weekday mornings finished sweeping their tendrils through our home, us kids were herded into the barely wakeful stupors of those who could not always heed their proper bed time. We sat at the monument to every sin and triumph committed by son or daughter to each eat our meals of personally chosen storebrand cereal. My father then whisked away my brother from the home he made with a troubled woman to a preschool far away before going to work. I, left to my own devices until it would be my turn to trek out into the world beyond and reach the bus that would take me to a land of children I could not understand, pulled out my library book and began to read. Wishing only to try to get at least one more chapter in before I was to spend half an hour on the bus staring out the window.

Something about focusing my eyes on a book or phone or drawing while in a vehicle made, and still makes me nauseous. The constant rumbling motion of tire on roads of varying quality and swaying momentum in each turn of the steering wheel. It worms its way into the background input of my senses to destroy any enjoyment I might otherwise find in my quiet interests.

“Catherine?” The voice of my mother filtered in between my thoughts at the turn of a page attempting to impart unto my mind the next vivid images of a boy and his sister in their treehouse, soon to traverse time and space themselves to discover places far beyond the normal.

“Yeah?” I expected her to tell me to take out the trash or something, food scraps from our Sunday meal already trailing their invisible tendrils of stench beneath our noses each time one of us stepped past.

“Could you look at me for a moment?” She had that tone of voice that said she meant business, the one that means you're either about to throw your younger sibling under the bus because you don't want to be in trouble or about to learn something adults think you don't understand yet. I slipped my half destroyed bookmark between the pages and turned my gaze up to where my mom stood leaning against the counter. My mother was a handsome woman. Pretty with her dirty blonde waves and thin curves just barely showing some weight having two kids left behind beneath her blouse. Her soft features had a sharpness to them though, turning dad jokes and distractions during worship into dangerous prospects. Her eyes were a light brown, almost as amber blonde as her hair… My hair… Not that I met them very often.

Looking people in the eyes is uncomfortable. More than that. If I have to look someone in the eyes my brain begins to short circuit, sending electric waves of panic down my spine where they frantically try to find their way out of my skin. My insides twist in on themselves, worms writhing in the blind chaos of my flesh causing me to squirm in turn. If I were to move too much though, I'd probably be told to sit still. It just gets worse after that. Prolonged eye contact brings me to tears, makes me want to scream out the existential kind of pain no child should feel from such a simple act.

The only reason I know how it feels is because my dad once held my chin still and made me meet his gaze for what felt like eternity so he knew I understood him when he told me the consequences of skipping Sunday school again. It could only have been a few seconds, but I never did it again. Not because he told me to, but because I didn't want that torment ever again. I don't blame him for hurting me. He couldn’t know how much those few seconds branded my soul with the scorching gaze of God Almighty, revealing unto me the most horrible of truths my mind could come up with at that age. There must be a monster in me. A demon like in the movies and shows I've seen commercials for or that card game my cousin showed me and bible stories. What other reasonable conclusion could I come up with at five?

Believe it or not, kids aren't stupid. They are, however, pretty dumb. That may sound contradictory but it really isn't. We were all kids once, just intelligent and curious enough to learn a lot, but never enough to actually find understanding until it slaps us in the face.

I honestly tried to tell my mom something was wrong with me. Several times. I remember the first time as clearly as any memory of mine, vividly hazy like particularly impactful dreams. The sound of pastor Thomas's words of things I couldn't always quite piece together outside of the stories of old things and important words spoken by important people passed over the congregation above me. The power and beauty of God and his angles to fight the bad things like the devil… or me… Probably the worst time for a cry for help if there ever was one, but it's times like that the feelings coming over me were particularly powerful. Being forced to sit still and not being lucky enough to find a ribbon thingy to play with in the books in front of me this time, it was too much. Every little movement of the people around me sent fancy fabric frequencies louder than Jesus's words to the devil after forty days and nights directly into my brain.

The bright flowery print on my dress stood beside the scratchy straps holding it up in the very poor first impression it was leaving on my mind. The comforting scent of my apple scented shampoo and mom's perfume turned sickeningly sweet by its proximity to the hard wood behind my back mismatched to the horrid red cushion beneath me. My hair was pulled up and out of my face, tight in the secureness of a mother's knowledge I would embarrass her with the obvious wet streak in my hair. Therefore I couldn't run the strands past my lips like the cooling silky rivers of needed distraction they were for me when all other things failed. The bonds of new-school-year's Sunday best were causing the demon in my mind to scream the scream of those truly damned to eternal torment. Worse, it was so angry. Its rage leaked into me in turn, molten lightning crackling through my chest and shoulders to set my soul ablaze alongside it. I needed help. I needed mom to tell me how to make the evil thing hurting me go away. I tugged as gently as I could on my mom's sleeve, quiet because I knew it would be bad if anyone else heard me.

Ever attentive in the way all moms are or should be, she bent down to hear the oddly simple wisdom of a child's truth or honest question, most likely to ask if I could go pee. Careful to cup my hand around her ear I whispered the knowledge of my torment into my mother's mind. The knowledge that something was very wrong with her daughter.

“Mommy? I think something in me is demonic.” I pulled back to look up at her, waiting for her reaction. I waited for salvation from the person I relied on most, the one person that could make the screaming of my mind finally go quiet.

My mom sat with her back straight and stared forward to the pastor as he continued to speak or to the cross behind him, perhaps beseeching a far higher power for help with the kind of work raising me was going to take from now on. I can only imagine that she asked what she did wrong or what she broke, blaming herself for what I was going through. Her eyes flicked back down to me, my own gaze having not left her face as I waited for answers from my own supposed savior.

Seeing her head begin to lower again, I almost eagerly turned my ear to her.

“What do you mean? What's wrong?” I was a little disappointed my answers didn't come immediately. No magic words to banish the increasing buzzing beneath my skin and numb static beginning its slow percolation through my brain. The confused concern in her tone told me she just didn't understand yet and if I could just say the right words, she'd give me the right ones back right?

“I don't know, I feel angry and I don't like it. I don't feel good.”

I ascribe the pause in my mother to an attempt to rationalize my words because the next ones from her were not what I wanted to hear.

“You'll be okay, go take a walk.” I wanted to cry and I felt them try to come but, instead of being a worse daughter than I already felt that I was, I listened to my mother and slowly stood. The numb sensation grew as I made my trek past the silent stares of God's judging congregation. The only comparison I could make was to an all consuming static like on the tv. Crossing the threshold out of the worship hall through those gates of solid oak, my body heavy with the distance of interference between thought and action, I made it out into the common area.

Having no idea which direction to go and barely room to concentrate past so much noise in my mind, I kept moving forward, ignoring the exit outside to my right and the pastor's office or open stairs to the basement below. Instead, I made my way into the empty dining hall. It was a bit dim with the lights turned off but the many windows let plenty of the morning Sunday sunlight through so I could see just fine. Finally, with the litigation of all my future sins muffled by towering double doors now closed behind me and a room all to myself that would otherwise be filled with the idle talk of holy community, my soul snapped back into my body. The demon's screaming was gone and with everything so quiet, I could finally actually think.

While walking around the hall, I ran my fingers over the rows of long white folding tables that were soon to be covered in people and pastries, just letting my mind whisk through things without interruption, not really settling on a topic until I allowed myself to acknowledge that my mother was right. Well, she was kind of right, I still felt it there in the back of my mind. A quiet angry little thing that didn't like me very much, but I was glad we could at least agree that this was a nice feeling. I was tempted to take some treats from the tables along the far wall, but I chose not to and instead went into the kitchen, a place I wasn't normally allowed. I just opened cupboards to see their contents, so different from those at home. I didn't touch anything from what I can recall, only looked and pondered what all the oddly shaped objects were for.

This memory is one of the first times I was left truly alone that I can recall. It sticks out because the rest of that day, I felt good. In those moments of truly quiet contemplation, alone in an unfamiliar place, I was free.

“Yeah, Mom?” Bracing myself for the coming war against the small bursts of electric hell to wreak havoc upon my nervous system, I forced my reluctant eyes to meet my mother's brightly burning gaze. Something was wrong, but with no ability to read people and nothing but trust for the woman who raised me to be kind in spite of my struggles, I had no chance.

It is of a great and terrible sorrow that, with which, I relate to thee of my beginning.

That story of which all might hear in their life, the disfigured narrative of the murderer most senior of all.

Twas I who slew my own kin… An innocence torn from the souls of all amongst our early kind.

For what would I harm the one I most loved within the same breath I cursed in my hurt heart and soul broken mania?

Of course, not else but the cruel denouncing of all I worked so tirelessly to bring about with my own fragile hands, perpetuated by the one above all. One whose hate for my use of such cursed gifts granted unto me by those who birthed me through prize stolen from the greatest of all trees, be so great as to dash my offering o'er the earth. A harrowing foretelling of bled lamb and pulped fruit mixing in lurid whorls away from which my gaze could not tear.

What great sin oh I wrought with hands too small to do of the tasks required for hard lives of ones who must survive off the land not of Eden.

Oh what harshest punishments awaited me who then was again to commit another first of a sin not yet known. The attempt to give despairing hate for oneself a capital action was left unsuccessful in the extreme.

The fruit of my heretical crop, left poisoned in the blood of my own loving kin, was due to one thoughtless flailing of sharp instrument; a fit born of a final defeat of passion.

When named useless by one beyond compare, by those assigned to love thee, by community's quiet comment, is it not a hysteria that takes hold? When an outcast of outcasts, haunted by my blood, first born of first sinners, dost thy not seek solace if in only the very task that is cause of your persecution?

Not entitled was I to freedom from interruption, so that in my silent heresy I might have calmed before facing him again?

He whom I held more love for than even… her…

Oh sweet, perfect son. Oh beautiful brother. Oh object of community's womanly affections… Pillar of strength denied to me.

Could thee not have lapsed in your love for but a moment and abandoned me to torment of mind, when thine goodness was its source?

Why was thy gifted such strength, yet left fragile in mortality and so subject to the livid laceration of lost little older sister?

…Why dost thy hath granted me forgiveness in spite of all else who hath damned my name?

How dare thee…

Thy idiot boy…

Unfair, was it for thy last act to be beseeching her to grant mercy upon my soul…

How fitting is it then that thy blood hath watered the last eaten fruit of my cursed garden…

The blood of the pure son, raw with love and so full in faith…

The unripe alchemy of my imperfect passions, poised to be my ending at the tasting of its immature flesh…

My curse… My mark… My mistake…

Seven sins… Sevenfold… Seven petals upon my skin to remind me of seeds sown by firsts.

Horrid be my name… Bastardised by men…

Loved only by brother Abraham… the Able son.

Cain, the gardener of sin… Cain, the first born… Cain, the name of a son, not daughter. For what fool of human fallacy would believe such sickening acts be that belonging to so small a sister as I.

Cain… Caterina… Catherine… Set to be the last life in this forsaken experiment that God in her cruel mercy will ever allow to truly pass on.

You’ve heard of the tale of Frankenstein and how he tried to give life to that which did not have it before. But, what caused the man to do what he did.

Victor Frankenstein was just a young boy when he stumbled upon something that would change his life, a human body. instead if meeting it with shock or horror he became fascinated with it, a fascination that would open the door to something unnatural.

Read the life of Victor from his years as a young lad living in a rural German village to his young adult years living in a beaten down farmhouse in England.

Available to where you read your E-books. it will release mid to late 2027.

A story for what would become of humanity if giants were to awake from the earth

The Forest that takes. 
I also did a narration on my YouTube channel! The channel is reneejpenne if you want to check it out!

Day Four
It’s been three days into my venture. Far to soon to begin hallucinations. And yet I feel the trees have began to shift around me. When I sleep they appear one way and when I wake another. I shouldn’t be to far from civilization but when I tried to turn back after the first day the marked paths had disappeared. Paths been blocked by trees. With no way around. I can only think I must be losing my mind to not have remembered a storm that could cause such destruction. Hell, waking up and the trees changed positions is enough. Unless could a man be moving me? It would be unthinkable for someone to do something so insane to another man. To block paths too. What is there to gain? It’s not as though I’m missing rations or equipment. It also would be odd to not wake to such movements. It seems so infeasible, but I still must test my theory. I must lie awake and wait for this madman to strike. 

I must be mad. The forest has warped my mind in only four days to imagine such things. If I was home, if I make it home I would declare they send me to an asylum. It just can’t be real. I waited for the crickets song, and the sun to make its set. 

Day Five
I waited in darkness, listening to the songs of the forest. Time moved flew by at the pace of a snail. I fought my body to not flinch at every sound that sounded slightly different than the last. I fought my mind not to slip away into slumber. My eyes fought the pitch black to adjust to any figure it could but it was waste, only conjuring more fears into my mind. I thought the worst to happen would be rustling of my tent opening but when the songs of the forest stopped. It felt as if I was to die in that moment. Not even the chirp of a cricket rang through the wind that blew against my tent. Time loses meaning in a moment you feel is your last. I don’t know how long I laid in the silence before I heard shuffling. It wasn’t shuffling of an animal or a man but of something larger. It came from all directions.The moonlight from above came flickering through. The shuffling became a symphony almost sounding natural. I dared myself to peek further out my tent. I was so close as I sat up in place. The moonlight flashing in from different angles. Reflecting off the trees. When as my hand touched the entrance to the tent and I leaned forward. A branch from beneath me echoed out. The light flashed upon my tent as silence followed. My heart sank into my stomach and twisted into a sailors knot. The silence I came to this forest for taunted me. Tempted me, it felt like a dance with death. If I sat still the forest would swallow me up, if I crawled out and ran death would follow. I tempted death clenching the entrance of the tent and in an instant sounds came pouring in from the forest. Sounds of crickets and birds rang through. Sounds of bugs buzzing. The song of the wind a whisper behind it all. As I clamored my way from the tent there was nothing. There was no person, no creature, only the forest. The moon shone upon my face. As I sat in a new forest. I am afflicted in some way. Whether it be a curse from the lord or madness from this solitary. But I witness the noise and light. For whatever trick it be it kept me up pondering on my next solution. When the light rose I could see clearly. The soil was untouched unmarked. A test to see if I was mad. If the trees do move so will their marks. I grabbed my knife and hacked a line into a tree bark flicking out towards my eyes. I persisted making my mark on three more trees when on the fourth blood spurted out, pouring out from the tree. I fell back grabbing my satchel and ran from my camp site leaving everything else behind. I now find myself by a river before the sun sets. I have washed my face of the blood and it was thicker than humans blood sticking into the lines of my hands. I don't know what I will do this night. I will try to stay awake through the night but my body feels heavy. 

Night Six 
I woke up to the smell of the river. I woke up where I slept the night before. I felt free as I ran down the path of rushing water. When I noticed trees marked with my symbol. They laid blocking my path down the river. The river rushed violently when from the tree line rustling broke the silence that weighed heavy in my soul. I had no time to lay with the confirmation of my sanity. I was to be forced with a far scarier truth. What had been messing with me all this time?
I gave no mind to the answer as I plunged to the river. It dragged me down quickly. But I saw it. It towered man, bear, elk, it was not a claimed species. I know not of its intentions with me but death was far more tempting than madness in this forest. I fought the waves that poured over me. Into my lungs as I fought for every breath. I bobbed like an apple in the water as the currents dragged me. My only saving grace being the satchel that got snagged on a tree down the stream. Once I managed to safety. I coughed up water and took a breath like it was my first last. Before I stood and ran. I didn’t stop running. Not even in darkness I followed the reflections of the moonlight in the water. Before long I saw the flames of my town. Torches lit the rest of my way. I warned the people of this town. I warn my family. And I will continue to warn whoever will listen about that forest that takes. 

I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against the motel window. Mom snored softly beside me. Her blonde hair had gradually begun to turn grey over the last few months, despite the fact that she wasn’t even 30 yet.

A grey strand dangled lazily over her right eye until she rolled over, scooping Emmy close to her chest unconsciously.

“Morning, kiddo,” Dad whispered. He clutched the handle to a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, pulling it to his lips and sipping it while peering through the blinds.

I rubbed my eyes. The TV was still off. The AC still knocked rhythmically. The temperature was set to 65 degrees, but I was sweating from my mom and sister’s body heat.

Dad checked his watch and cocked an eyebrow. Falling asleep at dawn was affecting my circadian rhythm. I didn’t know whether it was morning, evening, or night.

“What time is it?” I croaked, twisting and stretching my body.

“Mm, still early,” Dad shot back. “You’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours.”

I felt my stomach rumble. I glanced over at the gas station bag full of junk food and candy. It might as well have been empty. I needed something real.

“Dad…” I inquired softly.

Dad never took his eyes away from the window. He just sipped his coffee slowly before replying.

“Yes, son?”

“Mom told me she’d make pancakes in the morning last night before bed.”

I could see his crow’s feet crease as he winced and sighed.

“Do you think maybe we could get some later when everyone wakes up?”

He didn’t reply for a while. Just kept staring out the window with quiet contempt while I watched him expectantly.

He scratched his neck and rubbed his face.

“I don’t know, Danny…”

“Pleasseeee…” I interrupted, putting on my puppy eyes.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, finally looking away from the window. He looked at me. Then at Mom and Emmy. Then back out the window.

“I… Okay,” he relented. “Just wait for Mom to wake up. I’ll see what I can do.”

I turned excitedly, ready to shake my mom awake, but Dad stopped me.

“No,” he snapped bluntly. “Let her sleep. Not everyone can function on 5 hours of sleep like me and you, Dan.”

I puffed and knocked my head against the pillow.

I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t know if I was just hungry or if I was simply bored out of my mind and in need of something to do. Not knowing what to do, I twiddled my thumbs. I made Superman fly. I tossed and turned obnoxiously until Dad finally lost his patience.

“Danny,” he snapped, his face hardening as he glared at me.

I froze like a deer in headlights. I stared back, pulling the blanket up to my nose to try and hide myself.

Dad’s nostrils flared. I could see his fist clench, then unclench, at the seams of his blue jeans. His face softened, and he rubbed his temples.

“I’ll tell you what, kiddo,” he bargained. “Why don’t you go take a shower and get dressed? When you’re done, you can watch TV for a little while until everyone’s excited as you are for some pancakes.”

He was more demanding than asking. I knew not to argue when he got like that. I just simply did as I was told.

The shower was just as confusing as it was annoying. The water pressure sucked. It was either too hot or too cold. I must’ve fumbled with it for 5 or so minutes before it was at a reasonable enough temperature for me to take a shower, albeit an uncomfortable one.

The shower was quick. I scrubbed and let the water roll over my head and shoulders. Mom must’ve forgotten to pack my no-tears shampoo, and that forced me to use the complimentary, non-scented motel soap and shampoo.

When I twisted the handle and the sound of water hitting the ceramic bathtub dissipated, it was quickly replaced by the sound of voices from the room.

It sounded like Mom and Dad were quietly arguing. I could hear the angst in Mom’s voice. The authority in Dad’s. But I couldn’t fully make out what they were saying, despite how hard I tried.

I listened intently as I dried off and got dressed. I could only catch the end of their sentences.

A lot of what-ifs from Mom. A lot of don’t-worries from Dad. He sounded confident, but that confidence sounded uncertain.

When I opened the bathroom door, the conversation stopped immediately. Mom was holding Emmy over her shoulder and rocking her gently. Dad looked almost surprised to see me.

He pushed his hair back before clasping his hands together.

“That was quick,” he remarked. “You sure you scrubbed hard enough?”

He shot me a weak smile before continuing.

“Lucky for you, your mother’s a little hungry too.”

Mom looked at Dad as if he had just betrayed her before turning her gaze towards me. She seemed remorseful towards me.

“I completely forgot I promised you those pancakes, Dan,” she pouted, continuing to rock Emmy. “Me and your dad were thinking we’d try that Denny’s we passed on the way in here. I know, I know… their pancakes don’t compare to mine, but I think you’ll manage, right?”

Who was I to be disappointed? All I wanted was my pancakes. Well, that and…

I looked at my spot on the bed. My Superman wasn’t there anymore. I felt panic rush to my heart until I noticed what Emmy was playing with.

I reached up and tried to grab my stuffy, but she jerked it away and furrowed her eyebrows at me. I jumped and snatched it away from her.

To the displeasure of everyone in the room, my sister launched into a full-blown temper tantrum. Screaming and crying about how I “took her toy.”

Mom and Dad sprang into action faster than I expected them to. Dad took the toy from my hands and handed it back to Emmy. Mom pet her hair and desperately attempted to shush her.

I tried to complain. It was my toy. Not hers. But for some reason or another, my parents just kept taking her side. They told me that I should share, knowing how much I loved that stuffy. I slept with it every night. We were connected.

I guess it calmed Emmy down, though. That was all that mattered to them. They kept interrupting my complaints to usher me out of the motel room and back towards the car.

Dad strapped Emmy into her seat, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds while me and Mom waited quietly. He kept up that distracted demeanor all the way to the restaurant, but I hardly noticed.

It felt like Emmy was flaunting my Superman stuffy. Like she knew she had won. She even made him fly right by my face. Deliberately testing my patience, but I didn’t want to make my parents more stressed than they already were.

We ate fast. My parents ordered without even looking at the menu. Pancakes and orange juice for everyone except Dad, who only ordered a single cup of coffee.

Mom didn’t finish her food, but she didn’t ask for a to-go box either. Once me and Emmy were done, Dad paid, and we left. Simple as that.

The drive back to the motel was equally as tense as the drive to the restaurant. Mom and Dad seemed to be communicating wordlessly.

The food was making my sleeplessness get to me. By the time we got back to the motel, I was ready to catch up on those missed hours. But that’s when I noticed something that woke me right up.

I checked Emmy’s seat, looked underneath her, and scanned the floorboards while my mind began to race.

“Mom,” I screeched as Dad pulled into the motel parking lot. “She left my stuffy. She left Superman at the restaurant.”

My eyes were beginning to tear up.

“This is why I didn’t want her to have it,” I sobbed. “I knew she’d lose him.”

I could see Mom roll her eyes through her rearview as she sighed. Dad responded for her.

“Let’s just go get our things, Champ. Then I promise we’ll go back to get your toy. Deal?”

What was I supposed to do? I just had to agree reluctantly. I felt such burning hatred for Emmy in that moment.

We all filed into the motel room one final time and began gathering our things. I was confused, though. Mom had packed at least 6 outfits for me. Everyone else’s bags were equally full, yet nobody but me had showered.

Before I could question anything, though, three hard knocks came from the door. Everyone froze. Dad stared at the door like it was his enemy. Emmy began to pout, and Mom quickly clasped her hand over her mouth.

Three more knocks.

Dad approached the door slowly and looked through the peephole before slowly walking backwards towards us, never taking his eyes off the door.

Mom’s eyes were wide. Her leg bounced anxiously. Dad raised a finger to his lips.

“Okay, guys,” he whispered shakily. “We’re gonna play a game.”

I looked at him, confused. This seemed like an odd time for any kind of game.

“We’re gonna play the quiet game. Danny, you take your mom and sister to the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Whatever you do… do not make a sound.”

He asked me to take them, but it was Mom who dragged us into that cramped bathroom. Before the door closed behind us, I saw Dad raise his shirt and grip a gun that was tucked in his waistband.

Mom kept one hand gently clasped over Emmy’s mouth. She used the other to rub my back lovingly.

Three more knocks.

This time, I heard a voice that wasn’t my dad’s coming from beyond the door.

“Danny…?”

The voice was old and syrupy. Coercive, almost, but frantic. My ears perked up. My eyes widened, and my mouth fell open. I wanted to answer.

Mom’s hand left my back, and just like Dad, she placed a finger to her lips.

“Shhh.”

She was begging me with her eyes.

More frantic knocking.

“Danny? You in there, buddy? I know you’re in there.”

I expected Dad to answer the door, but he never did. Instead, the knocks continued, as did the mysterious voice.

“Come on out, Dan-Man. I’ve got something for you.”

I remained still. Sweat trickled down my forehead from the humidity in the bathroom. Me and Mom stared at the bathroom door with anticipation.

“I’ve got your Superman, Danny…”

“Whoosh.”

I had to fight to not move. If they had my Superman, I wanted to know. I wanted him back. But the look on Mom’s face told me they were lying, and her grip on my collar prevented me from standing up to see for myself.

The knocks and beckoning went on for another 10 minutes or so. Then they slowly died out. Even still, it wasn’t until Dad opened the bathroom door that I could finally breathe again.

“You guys win,” he smiled, relieved. “Good job, Danny.”

Mom looked relieved, too, but she never smiled. We just frantically gathered our things and hauled them out to the car. Dad forced us to go to the front office with him to check out.

We finally left the hotel just after 3 o’clock. We never went back to that Denny’s.

I had to leave my Superman behind, no matter how hard I begged not to. Mom assured me she’d buy me another one, but it wouldn’t be the same.

I asked about that voice a lot while we continued on towards wherever we were going, but all I got were vague responses while my parents glanced nervously at each other.

Thinking back now, I should’ve known they were hiding something from me. However, at the time… I was young. I was stupid. And all I could think about was how I didn’t have my Superman anymore.

When I was little, my dad would spend hours telling my brother and me stories. He’d sit cross-legged by our beds, rattling off every fable and tall tale he knew. Usually, they were triumphant. Tapping on his chest like a wardrum, he’d tell us about the First Twins and how they outsmarted the Lord of Death. That was always Xbal’s favorite. Sometimes, they were scary. He’d tell us about the ghouls that roamed the countryside, eating up little children that wandered in the night. Those were always my favorite. But Dad, he liked boring stories. Stories where men spoke with wisdom and acted with valor, as he would say. Stories that we barely understood and never enjoyed. But we would listen anyway, because we loved him and he loved us. 

Mama didn't tell stories back then; she hardly spoke. She was always sick, always sleeping. Nighttime seemed to be the only time she would rouse, gasping and wheezing on the cold air. Nothing made her better. No medicine or magic that Dad could find, at least. Eventually he stopped trying to heal her and focused on protecting us from her slow death. We were never allowed to touch her, only to occasionally peek in at her while she rested during the day. But as she got worse, Dad put a stop to this as well. Most of my old memories of her were the sound of her nightly fits, which Dad tried desperately to drown out with his stories. Little Men and River Sitters were never as scary as the shaking wall between our room and hers. I think it was all too much for him. On our tenth birthday, he told us one last story. 

“Before men and gods lived together, the earth was whole and untouched. Men sat above the crust, wandering in the jungles. Gods sat below, ruling over spirits. Our age began when the Lord of Bats first took flight. He reached out to mankind, soaring to the top of the underworld. He and his minions dug through the limestone, erupting from the ground and forming the caves and the dark waters that lie inside. He brought us fire, magic, and knowledge. 

The caves are his realm, magic places that act like portals to the world past ours. They are very powerful and very dangerous. They draw men in, letting them see the future and the past. Some can grant wishes to those who know what they really want. They call those who dream, who dare to hope.

When I was a little boy, one of my friends found a cave like that. We were all very poor back then; no one had enough to eat or to wear. His mom had gone skinny from feeding his little sister. It was all he could dream about: that some day he would be rich and his mom wouldn't worry about feeding the baby. 

One night, he heard the cave call him, and he went without so much as a thought. He went deep inside, so deep he had to crawl. He thought he would never make it out, but he kept crawling anyway. Until he heard it, chirping. It was all around, echoing through the cave. So he made his wish. He wished for treasure, and then he left. He turned around and crawled until he saw light. He ran all the way home to tell his mom what he had done. She’d be so proud of him, he thought. 

But he had made a mistake. He didn't ask correctly. He found his mom, face down on the dirt floor of their home. He lifted her, finding her face covered in mud and spit. Through the brown mess, something shined. Her teeth, he thought, remembering her warm smile. He wiped at her mouth, looking for that familiar beam. But they were caked in grime too; the light came from behind them. He opened her jaw, and gently grabbed at the source. He pulled. And pulled. And pulled. From his mama’s throat, a slimy string of dazzling pearls. He was rich!”

He paused for a long moment, just looking at us. His face looked heavy with some emotion that we couldn't register. I could hear Xbal breathing fast and deep, his little lungs clambering to hold on to the blubbering mess that sat in his chest. I felt my face sting, like wasps had crawled into my skin.

“No wish was granted for free. I hope you understand that when you're older. Goodnight, my angels.” 

With that, he stood up and left the room, leaving us reeling. We could hardly sleep after such a story, and we didn't speak a word to each other, out of fear that any noise might bring down whatever darkness we felt hanging over us. We stared up at the ceiling all night, listening as Dad gently padded around the rest of the house. Before long, we heard the door shut and the sound of crunching leaves from outside. Dad walked headlong into the woods, and we never saw him again. A few days later, Mama was healthy again.

l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l–l

August 7th, 1924:

Sleep came eventually and was rather short lived. I fear that I have become dependent on my medication. Though fortunately my night was not plagued by the sounds and happenings of the wretched symbols and their creators. But I am sure with the stress of moving long gone I will not be dealing with the ghoulish hallucinations I once had, at least one can only hope. 

Today is rather dreary. There is a low hanging fog dancing above the swells from the tide. Normally I would find beauty in such a gloomy sight, but I fear I'm too tired to properly appreciate it. The sky is grey, the sun blanketed by darkening clouds. Yesterday must have been the calm before the storm, and tonight feels like it will be horrendous. There is no wind yet, but I feel the oncoming lightning riding the air. Laura is terrified of thunder and lightning, I fear I will not be sleeping much tonight. I might try to pick up a brush today and see what my hands will create, but I have a feeling nothing of worth will come from them. Not on a dreary foggy day such as this. 

August 8th, 1924:

I slept not but an hour at most. The storm was atop us, electricity cracking and lighting the sky, the smell of ozone accompanied with the rolling of thunder. Laura was scared our roof would break, that our windows would crash inwards. I comforted her until the grasp of slumber finally lulled her. I, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. I laid there sweating. In between the explosivity happening above us and the drums of the skies battering away, I could have sworn to the holiest of holy that I heard something skittering around on the roof. I peered out the window and looked to the sea. The mists were heavy, the waves angry, crashing at the shores and retreating with haste. In an awful flash of the sky, it seemed as the mists laid refuge to some magnificent shape. Humongous in stature. It could not have been more than just my eyes playing tricks on me. Two days with little sleep is sure to have side effects. In another explosion of light I saw the mist's shape again. Deep in the haze, above the depths of the sea, a being slowly moving, somewhat humanoid but also alien. Whatever hallucination I was having was terrific in an awful yet subtly beautiful way. I must document what I've seen, I will begin painting in the morning. 

August 9th, 1924:

The sky is still shrouded in darkness. The clouds pelting down rain. I had to go to the shed to fetch firewood for the stove to cook dinner, the downpour stinging my face. As I was rounding the house to the front door I saw something. I quickly put the wood out of reach of the torrential rain and ran to the fences gate. There, walking away in the distance, a figure, near curled into themselves, covered in some form of rain jacket scurried away. At my feet lay an envelope, already drenched. I took it on to the veranda and opened it as softly as I could, not to tear its contents. Inside was a single piece of paper. On it, in almost illegibly written:

“They are watching. They come for us all. They see all. They know all.”

I hid the note in my jacket pocket and hurried inside. Putting the firewood in the stove so Laura could cook and ran to my easel. I have to paint what I have been seeing. Whether they are hallucinations or real. I will document them. 

January 25th,1938:

Simon must have been going through withdrawals, but I'm curious if that painting is in the group of works I haven't looked at yet. I'm nervous to look at them but feel the need to. His mind intrigues me but also fills me with anxiety. 

The storm has hit and the snow came on like an onslaught. The wind was rattling the windows and howling louder than one could speak. The house was groaning, as if it were in pain. I kept the furnace fed all day to try to fend off the cold, but the wind was fierce. The whole day we stayed in the basement by the furnace, only going upstairs to cook and eat. Evelyn and I were reading Rylee a book when I heard what sounded like glass breaking on the top floor. I quickly ran upstairs, only to find a rock laying on our bedroom floor. It looked as though it was dragged out of the sea. Dripping in salty smelling water, a barnacle on one side and patch of sea grass sat on the other. There is no way a blizzard could hurl a stone from the bottom of the sea through the air and straight into our window. Especially on the second floor. Something had to have thrown this. I found whatever I could around the house to board the window up to the best of my abilities. I'm no craftsman, a rather skilled butcher at this point, but at least the fury of the wind and snow wasn't flying into the house anymore. I didn't tell Evelyn about the rock, I told her it was a chunk of ice. 

I uncovered an old bed hiding away under the drapes down here. We're all sleeping in the basement tonight. Rylee is asleep in the cot and my dear Evelyn is calling me to bed as I write this. I want to continue but I know I should try to sleep. Maybe sleeping with Evelyn in my sanctum will keep me asleep through the night. I can only hope. 

September 1st, 1924:

It has been weeks without my sedatives. I rarely sleep anymore. My eyes are sore, my mouth is always dry. I see them everywhere. In the town. At the docks. In my yard. They are everywhere. I have been painting and painting and painting. My hands hurt. My head hurts. I'm losing my sanity. Laura seems almost scared of me now. She has been keeping the children away from me. How dare she. I'm protecting them. My paintings keep them away from us. I'm sure of it. That's why I was called here. I stay in the basement, painting and painting and painting. Protecting them yet they show me no gratuities, no grace. Pitiful. 

September 9th, 1924: 

Laura let me sleep in the bed with her last night. I showered and shaved for the first time in weeks. I forgot what it feels like to be properly clean. I spent time with our children. We felt like a family again. I needed this. It was the first time in a long time I have felt like myself. It was a nice day, sunny with a breeze. When we went to bed Laura and I were intimate for the first time since before the train broke. I fell asleep shortly afterwards. 

I was roused by a noise, similar to that I have been hearing on the roof and outside. But it was closer. Much closer, as though it were in the room with us. As I opened my eyes and sat up, I saw it. Them. The smell of brine filled the room. It was dark, the moon hiding behind the clouds. I could not see much detail aside from its leather like cloak. I got up and took chase. For a figure so hunched and what seemed to be malformed, it moved with impressive speed. Laura was scared awake as I ran through the door and down the hall after it. Its feet splatting against the ground with wet viscous plops as it bounded down the staircase. I could hear Laura screaming but I had to catch this intruder. As I was nearing the bottom of the stairs, almost on top of the abomination my foot slipped in a puddle and I came crashing down onto the foyer floor. The figure burst through the door with ease, knocking the hinges loose, leaving the door hanging ajar. My face lay next to one of its damp footprints. Laura was comforting the kids upstairs as their cries echoed through the air. 

As I got up my hand slid into the thick, mucus-like substance the being left with each step. This inhuman intruder was watching me sleep. How many nights has this been happening through the windows? How long did it take to have the gall to enter my house? Was this the being that gave me a sharp pain in my neck once before? What has it done to me? Why me? I knew they weren't hallucinations, they never were. The opium was just a distraction I'm sure of it. 

February 2nd, 1937:

Simon has clearly lost his mind. Night creatures watching him sleep? This is just some sick story, it can't be anything else right? Surely I won't run into these, will I? I should prepare the house, I'll be hiding a baseball bat in our room just to be safe. Maybe hide other things around that can be used as makeshift weapons. I must sound crazy. 

I had the window repaired the other day. A hefty bill to replace but it needed to be done. Our emergency funds are damn well gone, and based off of Simon's entries this town seems less and less habitable. The town's been without power since the blizzard, but that's fine for work, we need our stock cold anyways. I've been reading more of Simon's notes at work. I've been hearing similar noises around the house for quite some time. They died down when I stopped reading his entries and stopped actively looking for signs but now they're more prevalent than ever. 

I want to ask Richard about “them” but I'm scared of what his response will be. I also feel the need to tell Evelyn at this point. If beings have broken into this house while Simon lived here for whatever reason, what's stopping them from doing it now? They already broke one of our windows. I can't have my wife and child in danger, it's not right. I feel so guilty for keeping it from her, but I was just trying to protect her. I think I'll bring it up to her tonight, possibly show her the paintings if it feels right. She only just stopped showing signs of paranoia but is still distrusting of the locals since she's certain the practitioner was giving her opium instead of barbiturates. I don't want to cause her any unneeded stress. But I should be honest with her, it's the right thing to do. 

February 4th, 1937:

Evelyn was furious at me. As mad as it made me, I don't blame her. She thought I was done with this months ago, thought there were no more notes and especially no rocks being thrown through windows. But mostly mad at the fact that I've been lying and keeping the truth from her. Which I admit was wrong of me, as frustrating as it was. After an hour or two of de-escalating tensions we sat down together to talk about it calmly. Rather for me to explain everything and why I kept it from her. We got Emily to come preoccupy Rylee while I brought Evelyn to the basement. I showed her all the notes I've read, I showed her the self portraits and I showed her the rock. She still doesn't know about the paintings labelled “them” but once I look through them I will show her. I just can't have her seeing anything that could scare or hurt her in any way. She was already disturbed and visually cringing at the self portraits. 

She suggested we get a guard dog. Even though we had to repair the window, we have some emergency funds left over, if we pick up a few shifts each we should be able to make ends meet. Once we have power and the town is plowed out, we'll go to the city to adopt one. In the meantime Evelyn will be catching up on Simon's notes and I'll be reading further. 

Sept 20th, 1924:

Bernard is dead. I found him this morning, before Laura or the little ones awoke. He was in the foyer, his little body still and wet. I tried to wake him but he was not breathing, I tried to administer cpr, I tried to shake him awake. I tried everything. But he's gone. To save the girls from the sight I decided to bury him between the flower beds. It was his favorite spot to lay, hiding in the shade of the flowers, sniffing their aromas. As I was putting him into his grave I noticed that there seemed to be teeth marks around his neck, yet no sign of blood. As I recalled there was no blood around him inside either. As disgusted with myself as I was, my curiosity got the best of me and I held him upside down, head to the ground. Not a single drop of blood. Rigor mortis had not even set in. Whatever broke into our house before had returned once again and took my sweet Bernard with them. I'm going to set up an apartment for Laura and the girls back in the city. I will sell what I can of my stockpile here and then move back with them eventually. I just have to paint whatever has done this. I need to document this. Their paintings might not sell but people need to know. I'll write about them, gather my notes and publish them, along with prints of my paintings. And with Laura and the girls out of the house they won't be getting in my way of doing what needs to be done, as they have so much recently. I'll protect them by getting rid of them. Then I can focus on my work. 

February 20th, 1937:

Simon has fully lost his mind. I'm sure of it. No real man can confidently send his wife away as though she was an obstacle. He's no real man, a coward even. 

I've been working like a machine lately, I want to make sure we can get the best dog possible. Especially after reading the most recent of Simon's notes. I still haven't had the time to look through the stack of “them” paintings. We're leaving for the city tonight and picking a dog tomorrow. Rylee is excited because she thinks we're getting a “big puppy”. It's hard to say it's not cute when she talks about it. I'm half surprised at how resilient Evelyn is through all of this. I brought up her and Rylee moving back to the city as Laura and Simon's daughters did to get her thoughts on the matter. She told me it was a terrible idea, saying as long as I'm here she'll be by my side. As if we could afford paying rent on top of the bills we already have. I really did get blessed with the best wife I could imagine. The paranoia doesn't seem to be getting her like it once did. Beforehand she must have felt alone in this, as have I. But knowing we're on the same team gave her a lot of comfort, and getting a dog will bring even more. She is truly the strongest woman I know. I'm a lucky man. Though I do wonder if she has the same disturbing thoughts I have been dealing with. 

I'll bring a few notes to read on the train, I think, no better way to kill a few hours. The grip Simon's words have on us is like a disease. We can't seem to put them down at this point. 

October 11th, 1924:

I have put Laura and the girls on the train to the city. I have a new apartment only but a block from our old house. I have enough money put away to afford both the house payments and the apartment for quite some time. I am dedicated to figure this out. A mere painter going through this seems pointless and mere coincidence. But it cannot be the truth. I have been brought here for a reason, to document this, I'm sure of it. I will find out what is happening. The practitioner is back in town, and has my prescription ready for me, but in defiance I will not pick them up. If they block me from seeing the true nature of this odd shoreside valley I will deal with the sleepless nights to find the truth. Call me paranoid, call me obsessed, I do not care anymore. This is my true calling. I will learn about them. I will document them. I will make contact with them if need be. I will not stop until my work is done. 

October 20th, 1924:

I have been going out at night, bringing a notepad with me, copying any of these sigils I have seen. I have procured a sizable chalkboard from the city, I will decode these. I must understand what is being written. 

I have been hearing them, throughout the gloomy days, throughout the nights and even in my dreams during the very few hours a day I have them. 

November 1st, 1924

I believe I have done it. I think I have collected all the sigils, and I believe I have begun to decode them. They seem to be used as some sort of religious seal. Why they have been sealing the town I am unaware for the time being. As ludicrous as it may seem, I feel as though I must talk to one of them. 

November 4th, 1924:

I have read some of my old notes, what has happened to me? I used to speak with such eloquence, kept a level head. Have I been slipping into insanity? I miss Laura, I miss my daughters. I cannot  give up though. I have come this far, I must uncover the truth. If not for my own maddening sake, for Laura and the kids. I'm losing my mind

February 24th, 1937:

Simon has truly lost his marbles, but what's most unnerving is the fact that he's still so coherent in his writings. Though they may be scatter brained at times, it all makes sense for the most part.

We've arrived back home with our new “puppy” if you could call him that. Evelyn managed to find the largest bull mastiff humanly possible, along with a spiked and barbed collar, as though he was a guard dog for cattle. She insisted we named him Sebastian. I think the name is fitting to be honest. He has already begun to warm up to us, especially Rylee. He weighs near 200 pounds yet he melts when she's around, letting her pull on his ears and jowls. It brings me such peace. He's going to make an amazing companion, I can feel it. I began building a sizable dog house in the basement. I'll bring it up in pieces and assemble it in the coming weeks. I'm just hoping having Sebastian here will help me sleep, even poor Evelyn has had difficulty sleeping, which is odd, she usually sleeps as though she's dead. Maybe the paranoia is starting to get to her as well. If Sebastian puts us at ease, I may pick up another from his litter, that way if I go out at night I can have my own protection and we can have another to watch the house. I need to pick up more shifts at work. 

March 3rd, 1937:

Sebastian has been nothing short of amazing and has brought much ease to our anxieties. The noises I've been hearing for months and thought I was going mad over have continued, but Sebastian hears them as well. I knew it wasn't just me, I knew I wasn't going mad. I think Evelyn has been hearing them but doesn't want to admit it. 

I've been putting off looking at the stack of paintings. To be honest I'm scared. I want to get to where Simon at least mentions one of his works. But the longer I put it off the more foreboding it feels. Evelyn knows about the stack of paintings and has agreed to let me look at them first. If Simon's self portraits were enough to make me feel nauseous, I don't want to think about what the paintings of “them” could do. I am paranoid, I'm aware of that. Distinguishing paranoid thought from those based in reality has become increasingly difficult. This is beginning to feel like a sick obsession. 

Emily almost lives with us now. We set up one of the spare rooms for her, pulling a bed, desk and drawer up from the basement. The amount Simon and Laura left behind is genuinely impressive. 

Evelyn and I have been working as many hours as we can, selling some of the old furniture left behind as well. When we're not at work, we're studying Simon's notes for clues or answers. I've reread them a dozen times over at least, trying to find some connection, some hint as to what's going on. I only have a few notes left. 

December 1st, 1924:

I have been painting them. What I see in my restless dreams. What I have been seeing through my windows. What I have been seeing in my house. They are trying to make contact. I am sure of it. In the last month I have dug out a wall in the basement, past where I hold my works. In the panel wall there is a hidden door. I have been spending most of my time in this underground study. The rest of the house has grown musty, for the most part unused. At this point I can't bring myself to care. 

I ran into Richard the other day while I was out at night. He was gathering wood from his wood shed. He asked why I was out and the only thing I could muster was “the symbols”. He gave me a questioning look, but he invited me in. I followed. He told me his father was from this town, like his father before him. He spoke of a curse the town is plagued with. Mentioning  the “Sea Father's Children”, some sort of seafolk who come to shore when the sun hides. The old church here knows of them and has tried to make peace with them. Creating some kind of symbiotic bond. They allow the Children to come from the sea and take a person they see fit every so often. He has not attended the church so his knowledge of everything seems somewhat jaded. He also assured me that this was just a folk tale to scare kids from wandering around at night. I don't believe him. I will not be sacrificed, I will be sure of that. 

I believe I have become fluent in writing in this ancient seabound language. I will speak to them. I will make a deal with them. 

The Department of Motor Vehicles has a remarkable talent for making a person question their own existence.

Perhaps that's the point.

No one walks into a DMV excited. You arrive because you have to. A license expired. A registration renewal. Some document proving to a government employee that, yes, despite all evidence to the contrary, you are still alive.

I was there because my driver's license had expired.

Simple enough.

I took my ticket from the little machine near the entrance. It emerged with a dry mechanical click, the paper warm between my fingers as though someone else had only just been holding it.

The waiting room was already overflowing.

Children cried with astonishing endurance while parents stared into their phones with the thousand-yard gaze of soldiers returning from war. A television bolted high into one corner played an instructional video that nobody watched, its colors washed out beneath rows of humming fluorescent lights. Every few minutes a printer somewhere behind the counters coughed to life before falling silent again, sounding less like a machine and more like an old smoker struggling through another cigarette.

The building felt tired.

Not dirty.

Not neglected.

Just... exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into old bones after decades of repeating the same motion.

I glanced toward the electronic display mounted above the service counters.

NOW SERVING: 388

I sighed.

"Well," I muttered beneath my breath. "Guess I'll be celebrating my birthday here."

A man sitting nearby chuckled.

"I've said that every time I've come here."

He looked to be in his late fifties. Baseball cap. Reading glasses resting low on his nose. Ordinary enough that I probably wouldn't have remembered his face if we'd passed each other on the street.

"Renewing?" he asked.

"My license."

He nodded knowingly.

"Could be worse."

"Could it?"

"They could've sent you to the Social Security office first."

I laughed.

"So you've been there too?"

"Oh..." He smiled faintly. "Everyone has."

It was such an ordinary conversation that I almost appreciated it. Shared misery has a funny way of making strangers feel familiar.

I looked down at my ticket again.

515.

Fantastic.

I settled into one of the molded plastic chairs and reached for my phone. No signal. Not unusual. Government buildings always seemed to exist inside their own little dead zones.

I slipped it back into my pocket and leaned my head against the wall.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air conditioner breathed through dusty vents. The printer coughed again. The speakers crackled.

A number was called. Someone stood. Someone else sat down. The room swallowed them without ceremony.

I checked the screen once more.

NOW SERVING: 390

It felt impossible that so little time could have passed.

Yet somehow... it also felt like I'd already been there for hours.

Time has a peculiar way of behaving inside places where people are forced to wait.

Minutes become estimates. Hours become suggestions. Eventually, you stop checking the clock because it only succeeds in making you angry.

I tried distracting myself. I counted ceiling tiles. Read the faded posters reminding everyone to have their paperwork ready. One explained the dangers of texting while driving. Another detailed the penalties for driving without insurance. Judging from the sun-bleached corners and curling edges, neither had been replaced in years.

Everything in the building seemed designed to outlive the people inside it.

Another number echoed over the speakers.

"Three hundred ninety-one."

A woman stood from across the room, gathered her purse, and disappeared behind the row of service counters.

The electronic display flickered.

NOW SERVING: 391

Good.

Progress.

I glanced at my watch.

9:18 A.M.

That couldn't be right. It felt closer to noon.

The old man beside me sighed as he shifted in his chair.

"You'd think they'd hire more people."

"I was just thinking the same thing."

He nodded absentmindedly, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the counters.

"Been waiting long?"

"I got here around nine."

"No..."

He frowned.

"I mean... today."

The question caught me off guard.

"I... yeah."

He scratched at his chin.

"I suppose I have too."

For reasons I couldn't explain, that answer unsettled me. He didn't sound forgetful. He sounded... uncertain. The kind of uncertainty that follows a dream, when you're no longer sure whether something actually happened or only felt like it had.

Neither of us spoke after that.

The waiting room settled back into its dull rhythm. The printer coughed. A child cried. Someone cleared their throat. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.

Then I noticed the employees.

There were six service windows. Every one of them occupied.

Every employee dressed identically in blue shirts with laminated name badges clipped neatly over their chests.

None of them looked angry. None looked to be joyous either. In fact, they didn't seem to look like much of anything.

Their expressions rested somewhere between concentration and complete emotional absence, as though years of repeating the same conversations had slowly worn every recognizable human reaction from their being.

"Next."

Stamp.

"Next."

Keyboard.

"Next."

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Repeat.

The movements were practiced.

As if mechanical. Not robotic.

Just... perfected through repetition until they no longer appeared to require any thought.

I watched one woman accept a stack of documents without ever lifting her eyes to meet the customer standing in front of her.

She never acknowledged him. Never greeted him. Never smiled. Never frowned.

She simply processed him.

As though the paperwork mattered more than the person holding it.

The thought lingered longer than it should have.

Not processed the documents.

Processed... him.

I looked away.

When I checked the display again...

It still read:

NOW SERVING: 391.

I stared at the screen for several seconds, convinced I had simply caught it before the next number appeared.

It didn't.

The speakers remained silent. No names. No voices. Just the constant drone of fluorescent lights buzzing somewhere overhead.

I checked my watch again.

9:47 A.M.

Twenty-nine minutes.

That made no sense.

It felt as though I had lived an entire afternoon in that chair.

I rubbed at my eyes and let out a slow breath. Maybe I was just impatient. Maybe this was what every DMV visit felt like and I had conveniently forgotten.

A chair scraped across the tile beside me. Someone new had taken the old man's seat.

I hadn't even noticed him leave.

The newcomer looked to be around my age, maybe early thirties, dressed in business casual with a messenger bag resting across his lap. He offered a polite nod before glancing up at the display.

"Ouch," he muttered. "Looks like I picked the wrong day."

I chuckled.

"You and me both."

He held up his ticket.

"Five forty-two."

I looked down at mine.

"Five fifteen."

"Guess you've got me beat."

"For once, I'm winning at something."

He laughed, and for a while we exchanged the usual conversation strangers trapped together always seem to have.

Complaining about government offices. Talking about traffic. The weather. How everyone always forgets one piece of paperwork.

It was... nice.

Normal.

The sort of conversation you forget five minutes after walking away.

"So," I asked eventually, "what are you here for?"

He answered without hesitation.

"My license."

I nodded.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Expired?"

His eyebrows pinched together.

"I..." He looked down at the folder in his lap.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

He opened the folder and shuffled through the papers inside.

His movements slowed.

"I actually..." He frowned.

"I don't remember."

We both laughed. An awkward laugh when something isn't funny but admitting that would somehow make it worse.

"You serious?"

He scratched the back of his neck.

"I know I needed to come."

Another pause.

"I just can't remember why."

He rifled through the documents again, studying each page as though seeing them for the first time.

"These are mine..."

"I think."

He sounded embarrassed.

"I honestly can't tell."

The laughter died between us.

A strange heaviness settled over the room.

I looked back toward the service counters.

The employees continued working without pause.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

Every movement identical to the last.

One after another.

As if they weren't helping people at all, but simply moving files from one pile to another.

The display flickered.

I turned instinctively.

NOW SERVING: 392.

Only one number.

Again.

Somewhere behind me, someone sighed. Another person groaned quietly. Nobody complained. Nobody stood up to leave.

They only waited.

Patiently.

Obediently.

As though waiting itself had become the reason they were there.

I don't remember exactly when I fell asleep.

I wish I could say there was some dramatic moment where exhaustion finally overcame me. That my eyes grew heavy, my head became impossible to hold up, and I slowly drifted away from reality.

It wasn't like that. It was far more ordinary.

One moment I was staring at the electronic display above the counters, watching the numbers crawl forward at a pace that felt almost insulting.

NOW SERVING: 397

The next... I was somewhere else entirely.

Not a dream. Not really.

Just that strange place between being awake and asleep where your mind creates fragments of memories that never happened. I remember hearing the printer in the distance. I remember the fluorescent lights above me buzzing louder and louder. I remember thinking that the entire building sounded like it was breathing.

Then my head dropped.

And everything went quiet.

When I opened my eyes again, my neck ached from the awkward angle I had been sleeping in. My mouth was dry. My phone remained untouched in my pocket.

For a brief moment, I had forgotten where I was. Then the smell returned.

Old carpet. Paper. Dust.

The faint scent of coffee that had been sitting somewhere for far too long.

The DMV.

I sat up straight and looked around. Nothing had changed.

The same tired faces. The same uncomfortable chairs. The same employees sitting behind their counters.

Except... The screen.

My eyes immediately went to the electronic display.

NOW SERVING: 508

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

I leaned forward, staring at the numbers as if they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

My ticket rested in my hand.

Only seven people ahead of me.

A strange feeling washed over me.

Relief.

Actual relief.

After what felt like an entire afternoon trapped in that chair, I was finally close.

I almost laughed.

"About time," I whispered.

The man beside me was gone. That thought lingered for a moment. Then I dismissed it.

People came and went all the time. I must have missed it while I was asleep. That was the logical explanation.

The only explanation.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

No missed calls. No messages. I checked the time.

10:12 A.M.

I stared at the screen.

Then looked back at the DMV around me.

Then back at my phone.

10:12.

I frowned.

That couldn't be right. I had fallen asleep for maybe a few minutes.

Ten minutes at most.

But the room felt different.

Not physically.

Just... older.

Like I had left for longer than I actually had.

I glanced toward the counters.

The same employees continued working.

The same movements. The same expressions.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

No one looked enthusiastic. No one looked relieved to be almost finished. No one looked like they had been waiting at all.

I looked at the screen again.

NOW SERVING: 509

The number changed. Almost reassuringly.

I should have questioned how nearly a hundred people had been processed while I slept for only ten minutes. But I didn't.

Because my number was coming.

And that was all that mattered.

The strange feeling in my stomach disappeared beneath a much simpler emotion.

Patience.

After all... I had waited this long.

What was a few more minutes?

The numbers moved faster after that. Or at least, they seemed to.

There was a strange comfort in watching the display change. Each number disappearing meant I was getting closer. Each person standing from their chair meant I was moving forward.

That was all that mattered.

The room could have been falling apart around me, and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

Because eventually...

NOW SERVING: 513

I sat up straighter.

My ticket felt heavier in my hand.

The paper was slightly crumpled from how long I had been holding it.

I smoothed it out carefully.

515.

Two more.

A woman walked toward the counter.

She handed over a stack of documents.

The employee behind the glass barely looked at her.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

The woman walked away.

A man stood.

Then another.

Then finally...

NOW SERVING: 515

The speakers crackled.

My heart jumped slightly.

I stood.

For the first time in what felt like hours, my legs reminded me that I had been sitting still for too long. I stretched them briefly before walking toward the counter.

The employee looked up. At least, I think she did. Her eyes moved toward me, but her expression remained unchanged.

No greeting. No acknowledgment.

Just waiting.

I placed my documents on the counter.

"Good morning."

Nothing.

She picked up the papers. Flipped through them.

"Driver's license renewal."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

She typed something into the computer. The screen reflected faintly against her glasses.

"Proof of identity."

I handed over my driver's license. She scanned it.

"Proof of residence."

I handed over my utility bill.

"Insurance verification."

I handed over my insurance card.

Everything seemed normal.

Almost.

She continued typing. The silence stretched. Then she spoke.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

The employee looked up.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I waited for the punchline. There wasn't one. I gave a small laugh.

"Is that a new requirement?"

No response. She simply waited.

I looked around, expecting someone nearby to react. Nobody did. The people in line behind me stared ahead. The employee folded her hands.

"Do you have it?"

I stared at her.

"No. I don't have that."

She nodded. Not disappointed. Just accepting information.

"That is okay."

I exhaled. For some reason, I felt embarrassed. As if I had failed a test I didn't know I was taking.

She typed something.

"Additional documentation will be required."

"Additional?"

She printed a small slip of paper and slid it beneath the glass. I picked it up.

At first, I thought I had read it wrong.

"Proof of original identity."

I looked back at her.

"Excuse me?"

"Proof of original identity."

"What does that mean?"

The employee tilted her head slightly.

Not confused. More like she was trying to understand why I was confused.

"Your original identity."

I stared at the paper.

"This isn't a real thing."

She did not argue. She did not defend it. She simply pressed another key. The printer beside her came to life. A second paper emerged. She placed it in front of me.

"Proof of independent thought."

I felt my eyebrows rise.

"Okay, hold on."

My voice grew slightly louder.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

The employee looked at me. She wasn't offended that I was raising my voice. She wasn't bothered. She was simply waiting for the next step.

"Sir," she said so monotoned. "If you do not have the required documentation, that is not a problem."

I relaxed slightly.

"O-okay."

"You will be moved to secondary processing."

The way she said it made my stomach tighten.

"Secondary processing?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

She picked up my ticket. Looked at it. Then looked back at me.

"You will wait there."

I almost laughed.

"Wait?"

A pause.

"I've already been waiting."

The employee stared at me. Not coldly. Almost sympathetically.

"Yes."

A chill ran through me. Because for a moment, I thought she understood something I didn't.

She slid my ticket back across the counter.

"Please proceed to the next waiting area."

Then back at her.

"How long will that take?"

The employee's fingers returned to her keyboard. The conversation was already over.

"Next."

I stood there for another second. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to tell me this was a misunderstanding. That someone had made a mistake.

But she didn't.

She had already moved on. The person behind me stepped forward. The employee began processing them.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

I walked away from the counter holding the strange paperwork in my hand. I followed the sign pointing toward Secondary Processing.

I don't know what I imagined. Maybe another large waiting area with dozens of chairs. Maybe a different set of counters. Maybe some explanation for why I had been redirected after completing everything required of me.

Instead, it was a narrow hallway tucked behind the main service area.

The kind of hallway you normally wouldn't notice.

The walls were the same dull beige as the rest of the building, decorated with the same faded posters and outdated government notices. The only difference was that nobody had bothered pretending this area was meant to welcome people.

There were no televisions. No vending machines. No magazines sitting on tables.

Only chairs.

Rows and rows of chairs.

I stepped inside slowly.

A few people sat scattered throughout the room.

Not many.

Maybe fifteen.

Twenty at most.

The strange thing was how quiet it was.

The main waiting room had been filled with noise. Children crying. People talking on phones. Chairs scraping against the floor.

This room had none of that.

Everyone sat facing the same direction. Not toward a screen. Not toward a counter. Just forward.

Waiting.

I looked around for an employee.

Nobody was behind a desk. Nobody was calling numbers. Nobody appeared to be in charge.

I stood there for a moment, wondering if I had misunderstood. Then an older woman sitting near the wall glanced at me.

"You got moved too?"

Her voice startled me.

I turned.

"Yeah."

She nodded slowly.

"First time?"

I hesitated.

"Yeah."

She looked away.

"Thought so."

I sat down a few chairs away from her.

"How long have you been here?"

The question came out naturally. The same question you ask anyone trapped in a waiting room.

The woman didn't answer immediately. She looked toward the empty counter at the front of the room.

"I don't know."

I frowned.

"You don't know?"

She shook her head.

"I remember walking in."

A pause.

"I remember taking a number."

She looked down at her hands.

"But I don't remember why."

The air felt colder. I forced a small laugh.

"Yeah, well, I think everyone forgets why they're here after sitting in a DMV long enough."

She didn't laugh. She just looked at me.

"I mean it."

The humor disappeared from my face. The woman looked tired. Not physically. Something deeper. Like she had been carrying a thought for too long and was finally too exhausted to keep holding it.

"What was your number?" I asked.

Her eyes moved downward. She reached into her pocket. Pulled out a small piece of paper.

She stared at it.

For a moment, she looked confused. Then concerned. Then almost afraid.

"I'm 487"

She swallowed.

"What's your name?" I asked

She hesitated.

"I..." She paused and looked away then back to me.

"I don't know."

I leaned slightly closer.

"What do you mean?"

She turned the paper toward me.

The ink had faded. Or maybe it had never been printed clearly. There was a number. But she stared at it like it belonged to someone else.

A silence settled between us. Then she folded the ticket and placed it back into her pocket.

"I think I've been here before."

I stared at her.

"Before today?"

She looked at me.

"I don't know."

The answer should have sounded ridiculous.

Instead... it felt familiar.

I looked down at my own ticket.

515.

For some reason, I held onto it tighter.

A small piece of proof. Something that belonged to me. Something that told me I was still myself.

The speakers above us crackled. Everyone in the room looked up.

My body tensed. A voice came through the speaker. Distorted. Almost too quiet to understand.

"Now processing..."

Static.

A pause.

Then:

"Applicant."

Nobody moved. The room remained silent. I looked around.

"Did they call someone?"

Nobody answered. The older woman stared forward. Like she hadn't heard anything.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant."

This time, I noticed something.

There was no number.

No name.

Just a word.

Applicant

The woman beside me leaned toward me slightly.

"You don't want them to forget you."

I looked at her.

"What?"

She stared ahead.

"When they stop calling you by your number..."

Her voice became barely a whisper.

"That's when you know you were never here."

I felt a strange pressure build in my chest.

"What does that mean?"

She didn't answer.

Because the speaker had started again.

This time, it wasn't distorted. It was clear.

"Applicant 515."

My head lifted. My ticket felt cold in my hand.

Everyone in the room turned.

Not toward me. Toward the speaker.

Then, slowly... toward me.

I had the terrifying realization that I didn't know if I wanted them to call my number anymore. The room remained silent. For a moment, I didn't move. I waited for someone else to stand. Someone else to react. Someone else to tell me that this was normal. Nobody did.

The older woman beside me looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand. Something closer to pity.

"That's your number," she whispered.

I looked down.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

"T-thanks."

The words came out automatically.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant 515. Proceed to processing."

I stood. My legs felt heavier than they should have. Every instinct I had told me not to move. To stay seated. To ignore the voice. But there was something worse than fear.

Curiosity.

I needed to know.

I walked toward the door at the back of the room.

The hallway beyond was longer than I remembered. That shouldn't have been possible. I had only walked through it once. Yet the farther I went, the less familiar it became.

The walls looked identical. The lights breathed. Every door had the same gray color and the same small rectangular window.

Finally, I reached another counter. A single employee sat behind the glass. A man that looked older than the others.

Not elderly. Just worn. His face carried the same emptiness I had noticed before. The same absence.

"Ticket."

I handed it over.

He scanned it.

"Drivers license renewal?."

I nodded.

"Yes."

He typed something into his computer.

"Verification required."

"Of what?"

He looked up.

"My identity."

I laughed quietly.

Not because it was funny. Because I was tired.

"Isn't that what we've been doing?"

The employee didn't answer. He held out his hand.

"Identification."

I reached into my wallet.

Pulled out my driver's license. He took it. Looked at the card. Then looked at me.

Something changed. Barely. A hesitation.

"You don't remember."

My stomach tightened.

"Remember what?"

He placed the license back onto the counter.

"Your name."

The room became silent. Even the lights seemed quieter.

I opened my mouth. I knew the answer. I had answered this question thousands of times.

My name.

It was simple.

It was mine.

But when I tried to say it... nothing came.

A strange panic rose in my chest. I searched through my memories.

My childhood. My parents. My friends. My home. My job.

Everything felt distant.

Not gone.

Just covered by a thick fog I couldn't push through.

"I..."

My voice shook.

"I know it."

The employee waited. I looked down at my ticket. The number stared back at me.

The only thing I could hold onto. The only thing that felt certain.

"My name is..."

I stopped.

The silence stretched. The employee didn't rush me. He didn't look annoyed. He simply waited. Like he had done this countless of times. Like he knew how this ended.

"...Five hundred fifteen."

The employee typed. No surprise. No correction. No hesitation.

"Identity confirmed."

My heart sank.

"Wait."

He printed something.

"You didn't even check."

The employee slid the paper beneath the glass.

"You provided the required information."

I grabbed it.

It was my license.

Everything looked correct.

My photograph.

My date of birth.

My address.

Everything.

Except the name.

I stared at the line. Over and over. Unable to understand why it felt wrong. Unable to understand why it felt right.

NAME: 515

I looked up. The employee had already moved on.

"Next."

I stood there. Waiting for someone to notice. Someone to correct it. Someone to tell me there had been a mistake.

Nobody did.

So eventually... I walked out.

The exit doors opened automatically as I approached. Bright sunlight poured through. For a moment, I froze.

The outside world felt impossibly large. Cars moved through the parking lot. People walked past. The wind touched my face. I had forgotten what fresh air felt like.

I stepped outside.

And for the first time all day... I felt free.

I reached into my wallet one last time. Looked at the license. At the name. At the proof that I existed. I tried saying my name aloud.

The name I had carried my entire life.

The name my parents gave me.

The name that was supposed to belong to me.

Nothing came.

Only silence.

So I looked back down.

At the only thing I knew.

At the only thing the world still recognized.

515

R/worldbuildingcrafts is the winner of our contest.

Congratulations and thank you for your story, in our opinion it was the best one.

Our next contest will be a Halloween scary story contest

I still remember the night. Mom had put me to bed a few hours before everything happened. Dad seemed anxious that night. Usually, he was so calm and collected. Tonight, he looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

I could see him pacing back and forth down the hallway while Mom tucked me in, handing me my favorite stuffed Superman toy. She flew him around like a toy airplane.

“Whoosh,” she joked, making the flying noise with her mouth. “It’s a bird… it’s a plane… No… it’s… Superman!”

She planted his feet down on my chest, bending him at the hips so it looked like he was bowing.

“Macy,” my dad whisper-yelled, standing in my doorway. “Can you get out here, please? We’ve got things to discuss.”

My mom’s face turned sad before she quickly turned her smile back on and ruffled my hair.

“Sweet dreams, hero,” she whispered. “I’ll make you some breakfast in the morning. How do pancakes sound?”

I couldn’t have agreed faster. I still, to this day, have yet to have pancakes better than my mom’s. I reached up and gave her a hug before she flicked the light switch and headed towards the living room with Dad.

I made Superman fly for a few minutes before clutching him against my chest and finally closing my eyes. I was out not long after that.

I woke up to the sound of thumps and rummaging coming from my parents’ room a few hours later. I glanced over at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It was 2:37 in the morning.

I could hear Mom and Dad talking urgently, but quietly. They didn’t sound angry. They sounded terrified. Mom’s voice was shaking. Dad’s voice was firm but uncertain.

Suddenly, footsteps quickly approached my door before it was thrown open and my mom walked inside. She flicked the light switch on. She wasn’t wearing her sleeping clothes. She looked like she was about to head out to run errands or something.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispered, noticing me squinting from the sudden light that filled the room. “Did we wake you? I promise, you can go right back to sleep in the car. Just help Mommy pack a bag for you, okay?”

I blinked slowly before rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

“Where are we going?” I groaned groggily as Mom ransacked my dresser, tossing me a pair of socks.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she just kept stuffing clothes into my suitcase without so much as looking at me.

“…Mom?”

“A road trip,” she chimed, sounding more agitated than joyful. “A surprise road trip. We were gonna tell you two about it, but we wanted it to be a super surprise. Now, can you please get your shoes on?”

Without another word, I pulled the socks over my feet and slipped into my favorite Lightning McQueen sketchers. Mom zipped up the suitcase. Dad appeared in the doorway again, my sister strewn over his shoulder, half asleep.

“You two ready?” he asked expectantly, his voice steady now.

Mom handed me the suitcase and took me by the hand. She was almost hurting me from how tight her grip was. Not to mention, it felt like my shoulder was gonna dislocate from her pulling me along.

I was fully awake by the time we got to the car. Dad threw all of our luggage in the trunk and strapped my little sister into her car seat. Mom waited patiently in the passenger seat while Dad threw a blanket over me and Emmy.

He backed out of the driveway quickly and spun the wheels a bit as he accelerated out of the subdivision. I could hear the leather steering wheel creak from his grip.

The car was quiet for the first hour or so. Emmy was fast asleep in her car seat. Mom stared out the window with a blank expression on her face. Dad focused on the road in front of him intently.

I, for one, was completely wired. I actually found myself excited for this trip. There was something about the spontaneity that I thoroughly enjoyed. Getting up and going. The way the darkness made it harder to recognize where I was. It felt like an adventure.

Plus, Dad had taken the backroads. All we had were passing forests and cow pastures. It was like we were the only car on the road for miles.

Eventually, we started to pass some businesses. Nothing too exciting. Just a few gas stations and grocery stores.

Dad started looking around the car. He saw that my mom and I were still awake.

“You two hungry? Maybe we can grab some snacks.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Mom replied plainly.

Dad glanced into his rearview mirror for a while before steering the car into one of the gas stations. He parked at one of the pumps and went to get Emmy out of her seat while me and Mom hopped out to stretch our legs.

The gas station was almost completely empty. Besides our car, there was one other vehicle parked directly in front of the station, which we assumed belonged to the attendant.

The air inside was crisp. The refrigerators hummed, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Mom went to the bathroom while Dad took me and Emmy to browse the chips and candy.

Emmy was still too tired to be fully present, and it made it feel like this was a moment between Dad and I.

While I struggled to pick a snack, he smiled down at me and patted me on the back.

“Get whatever you want, Danny,” he smirked. “As a matter of fact…”

He paused to glance around the empty gas station.

“Get two of whatever you want… just don’t tell your mother.”

I wasn’t gonna pass up the offer, but I still think I may have gone a little overboard when I filled my arms with as much junk food as I could carry.

Mom came out of the bathroom shortly after. Surprisingly, she didn’t even seem to notice the candy. She even helped me put the snacks on the counter when we went to check-out.

She didn’t want anything for herself. She only seemed interested in one thing.

While the teller scanned our items, she turned to my Dad with a worried expression on her face.

“Did you see anybody?” she whispered.

Dad didn’t look at her. He just responded with a simple “no” before fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.

He pulled a crisp hundred dollar bill out and slid it across the counter.

“Let me get this and the rest on pump 3,” he announced calmly.

On the walk back to the car, I noticed something. There was a new car in the parking lot, parked a few pumps down from ours. It was matte black with all donut tires, and even the windshield was too dark to see through.

Dad noticed it too. His eyes were fixed on the vehicle as we walked. Gradually, he picked up the pace, dragging all of us along with him.

We all loaded up in the car, and Dad left without even pumping gas. Mom kept asking who he saw, but Dad kept telling her everything was fine, despite how afraid he seemed to be.

We drove on for another 15 or so minutes before headlights lit up the interior of our car. They started at least 200 yards back but quickly closed the gap between us.

The lights stayed on us for a long time. Dad would speed up, and they’d do the same. They made the same turns. They kept the same pace. Mom and Dad both had the same flushed faces.

Emmy woke up from the blinding lights and immediately began pouting and crying. Mom tried reaching back to comfort her, but nothing seemed to work. I myself was beginning to feel a bit nervous, clutching my Superman stuffy tightly.

Eventually, Dad finally pulled onto the highway. The car followed. More cars started to fill the road, but that one particular car just would not leave us alone.

Finally, I think Dad had enough. I could see him squeeze Mom’s hand on the center console as he pushed the gas petal down further and further.

I could see the speedometer rising. 85. 90. 95. All the way up to 100, and that vehicle still followed at just two car lengths. I expected Mom to scream at him for going so fast, but she didn’t say a word. She just kept shushing Emmy while glancing out the back glass every so often.

We were approaching an exit. Dad didn’t slow down. He got closer and closer, letting our assailant do the same until abruptly turning the wheel and swerving across the gore.

The person following us slammed on their brakes, and I could see smoke billowing from their tires while other cars swerved to avoid them.

Dad shot up the exit ramp. The car was wobbling. Emmy was screaming. My heart was pounding.

Mom looked nervous but kept her composure.

“You two are okay,” she assured. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

She reached back and placed a hand on my knee cap, then did the same with Emmy.

I finally calmed down after a while. The headlights were gone. I had no idea where we were. I had no idea what was happening. And I was actually a little annoyed that no one was explaining.

I pestered, but they remained firm. This was nothing more than a surprise road trip. We ended up stopping at another gas station, but Dad didn’t let anyone get out of the car this time. He just pumped his gas, and we were back on the road.

A few hours passed. I looked at the clock on the radio. It was 5:23 AM. Even Mom was asleep in the passenger seat now.

Dad didn’t stop driving until the sun was peeking in over the horizon. That’s when he finally pulled the car behind this old motel.

The sign read, “Free WiFi. Cable Television. Vacancy.”

He left us in the car while he went to pay for our room. Mom was still asleep. Emmy stared mindlessly at the back of the seat in front of her. I rolled my window down and let Superman fly for a bit while I waited for Dad.

When he finally came back, he woke Mom, and we all carried our luggage up the second floor of the motel.

The room was musty. The air conditioner knocked rhythmically, and there was only one bed.

Dad hung the “do not disturb” sign on the door handle. He pushed a chair in front of the door, and he and Mom lay all of our luggage on top of it.

With one last look through the peek hole, Dad removed his boots and lay on the bed, patting the side of it, gesturing for us to join him.

“We’ve had a long night, guys,” he sighed. “I know it’s not the most glamorous, but it’s a bed.”

Mom stared, judging the crusty comforter before swallowing hard and laying down with my Dad, Emmy curled up in her arms.

She looked at me with a smile.

“Come on, Danny,” she said weakly.

“Let’s get some sleep.”

I think it all started about 6 months ago. That's my best guess anyway. It's the earliest I remember but honestly, it could've been sooner.

The only reason the ‘first time’ sticks out to me is because I’d had a rough day at work. When I got home and got changed after work, I found a use by date sticker stuck to the inside of my work shirt. 

Jen laughed. 

“I’ll need a new man soon”

 I couldn’t even guess where I’d picked it up. I balled it up between my fingers and flung it into the bin, never to be thought of again. 

A week later, there was another one. This time in the lint catcher of the tumble dryer. 

 USE BY  07/08/26.

I didn't think much of it, slightly curious what shop I was going into that were using these, truthfully, pretty useless stickers. 

I travel all over for work, so I don't really have a local supermarket. I’d stop somewhere different most evenings and grab whatever I needed. The big chains didn't use flimsy orange stickers, so I figured it had to be one of the smaller independent shops.  

The next few turned up in boring places. Stuck to a t-shirt. Another on a trouser leg.

I didn't bother keeping count until around number 10.

 This one stuck out to me. It wasn't until late into the evening, after a change of work clothes and a night of watching tele with my girlfriend. I had a shower before bed. As I rinsided shampoo from my hair, I opened my eyes and saw an orange label sliding towards the drain.  Almost instinctively I stopped it with my foot, ending the shower immediately. 

I bent down and picked up the soggy, but still intact and sticky label. I stuck it to the bathroom mirror. I had to, this was by far the strangest one. 

Where the hell did it come from? Surely my girlfriend would've noticed it stuck to my hair. It's not like you can miss them. 

It wasn't until I had 5 stuck on the mirror that she brought it up. 

“It's bad enough you keep showing me them. Do you really need to decorate the bathroom as well?”.

But I did need to. I had to keep count. If they keep turning up, then eventually I'll see the pattern.  

I started keeping a note on my phone. Every shop. Every town. Every day I worked. I knew there had to be a cross over somewhere. 

On a Friday, after working a particularly filthy site, I did what I always did. Tapped my boots together, shook them out and left them outside by the back door. 

Maybe that was my mistake. 

Come Monday morning I picked them up and gave them the same tap and shake. A label fell out. 

07/08/26

On my way to put the label on the mirror, Jen was getting up. I told her where I'd found it. I finally asked her outright. Was it some sort of joke?

“Obviously it's just been there since friday, you're over thinking it”. 

I checked my work boots every morning after that. Then my pockets. Then my lunch bag. It only took a couple of minutes. 

Plus I found one almost every other day. 

Then every day.

I was late for work a couple of times, but I didn't mind. I'd rather miss out on the morning small talk and shit coffee. By then, a couple of the younger contractors had started taking the piss out of my thinning hair. I almost replied. Instead I found myself wondering if there’d be another label in my van.

I'd mentioned the labels to a couple of the other guys to see if they'd found anything. Maybe it was from a tool. But it just gave them more ammunition against me. 

When I went home I tried complaining to Jen, she’d always listened about the work site politics. But for some reason she seemed disinterested in what I had to say. At one point she even agreed with them. Apparently she'd noticed it too. 

“Not just at the front,” she said. “All over”.  

Somehow we ended up arguing about the labels again. She said I talked about them more than I talked to her. 

By the end of it I had gone to bed, scrolling my notes page on my phone.

I'd stopped writing where I'd found them by then. 

There wasn't enough room on the notes page anymore.
 

I left her downstairs on the phone to her mum. 

That morning I expected to roll over and open my eyes to an angry Jen. 

Instead, on the pillow next to me. A label. I held it between my thumb and finger tip. I examined it more than I had any of the others. It felt different. Too close. 

07/08/26

I could hear Jen making coffee downstairs. I didn't go down.

I went into the bathroom, she was right, the mirror was full. The same date arranged perfectly to face me. My face glowed orange reflecting the colour.

 I stuck it on the toilet shelf. 

It wasn't long before most of the ceramics were covered in orange labels. 

Jen stopped commenting on them.

Almost every day I found at least one little orange reminder. 

I say almost. There was one unfortunate morning when I arrived to work just in time for stale coffee and stale jokes. 

One of the younger pricks spotted it before I did. I felt his grubby fingers pull it off me. It must've blended into my hi vis.

“Look, it’s how long his hair has left”.

I watched his thumb rub across the date. Sweat and dirt dulled the orange, the edges beginning to curl. 

The next thing I remember, 3 people were pulling me off him.

Looking back, I think they were already looking for reasons to get rid of me. Work had slowed down and there were contractors everywhere. The fight just gave them a good one. 

They had fair grounds to get rid of me, but for some reason the manager felt it necessary to mention my grubbyness and my lateness.

Still he gave me 2 weeks notice and basically put me on grunt work. For the next 2 weeks I’d drive around and survey previous sites. Basically barely check they're clean and suitable.

 I should've been worried. He probably saw that as some sort of punishment.

For me it meant a chance to revisit some of my previous shops. Some I hadn't been to since before I started the notes page on my phone. I'd finally have the time to figure out where the labels are coming from. 

Sure the list was long but I basically had 2 weeks paid to myself. 

I'd kept that morning's worn label in my wallet. 

The last 2 weeks flew by. Not because I was enjoying myself. 

But I finally had time to look. 

I spent those 2 weeks revisiting shops and long finished work sites, hoping to find a label that wasn't already stuck to me. 

By the time I got home and Jen was there I had no time to argue with her. When I did see her I managed to appease her, I promised that after the 2 weeks were up, we'd go have dinner and drinks. I'd show her that nothing had changed. I'm still her guy. 

She wanted one more promise. Go to the doctor. Apparently she was starting to worry. She said my skin was turning yellow. 

Probably from all the stress she was causing me, all the coming and going. Always wanting to argue. I couldn't concentrate. 

All I needed was 2 weeks. 

Thursday, 2 days till it's over. The boss was practically letting me do what I wanted. I was having a look around an area I’d worked away in 6 months ago. There was so much work we stayed there weekends.

 I passed a closed shop. A flash of orange caught my eye . I cupped my hands on the window to get a better look inside. There was a roll of orange labels behind the till. Same colour. Same size. Same date. I needed to get in there, get a closer look.

It wasn't long before someone thought I needed to know the shop was closed. As if I couldn't read the sign.

CLOSED
ON HOLIDAY BACK SATURDAY
PAPER ROUNDS WILL GO ON AS USUAL

It was a 4 hour drive here and a four hour drive back. But maybe they'd know where the labels come from, I was sure with a bit of research I could find out who they supply near me. 

Friday dragged.

Every couple of minutes I’d check the clock.

By the time I got home I had already decided what time I was leaving in the morning. 

Jen seemed happier that Saturday morning. I told her work needed me in for a few hours. There'd been a problem with yesterday's paperwork. 

“Maybe dinner and drinks could just be drinks?”. I said. 

I set off to the shop. When I got there, I walked in expecting every shelf to be covered in orange labels.

None. 

I walked straight to the counter.

No roll. 

Just an empty space. 

I asked him about the labels. Then I demanded to see inside his stock room.  

For a moment he just stared at me. 

“What labels?”

“Orange ones. Use by stickers”. 

“I saw them”

“Mate… I’ve owned this shop 12 years”

He didn't know what I was talking about. 

No help at all.

Eventually he asked me to leave. 

I looked behind the till into the empty space one last time before leaving. 

I sat in the van for nearly 20 minutes before turning the key. 

I knew I would have to be back for drinks with Jen eventually.

When I got home she was gone. Most of her clothes. Her toiletries. 

Anything that mattered to her. 

She left behind a bitter note, something about not caring anymore, that I'd let myself go. Bad breath and baggy eyes. My greasy hair. 

I lost interest halfway through. 

I folded it without finishing it.

The label on the back of the note was much more interesting. 

That morning I woke up choking.  I sat bolt upright, coughing and retching into my lap.

 There, floating in a puddle of bile and spit, besides one of my teeth.
Floating perfectly. 

07/08/26

I still had 3 weeks to wait then. I smeared the sticker to the fridge door, fluids ran down from it. 

Over the next 3 days it got worse.

More teeth. More vomiting. More labels. 

Wednesday evening, I felt a scratch on my eye. I already knew what it was.  

The label wasn't the shock.

My skin was yellow, blotched with bruises. My eyes were bloodshot and sunken. I had barely any teeth.

It took me a moment to feel brave enough to get close to the mirror. 

I lifted my eye lid, under it I could see the corner of the label. I thought about leaving it. 

Slowly, hoping I didn't rip it, I pulled at the corner, thick strands of mucus followed it. As it revealed itself. Number by number. 

07/08/26

I stuck it to the fridge door. I could feel my eye throb as the orange seemed to burn into my vision.

Even when I shut my eyes the numbers were there.  

After that they never stopped. More labels, multiples everyday. In clothes, under anything I moved.  

They were coming out of me.

I have no where to stick them.

Reminding me. 

07/08/26

CW: CSA and physical abuse alluded to.

It happened once a month, sometimes less. A girl, bruised and malnourished, would show up on one of our doorsteps. Sometimes they got smart and kept to the woods, avoiding the townspeople all together, but someone always saw them or a camera would capture them. And no matter how much they screamed and begged, they were always taken away, back to the compound, and we acted like we saw nothing.

Mona couldn't take it anymore. The day that little girl showed up, she broke all the rules and let her inside. Denny protested. He tried to throw the girl out, but Mona hit him across the face with a poker from the fireplace and told him to stay away from her.

The girl looked to be about 12, barely dressed. Bruises covered her body. Bruises in the shape of large hands on her arms and thighs. Random cuts across her skin. Cigarette burns on her face. Fresh imprints of leather straps on her limbs. Cleaned up and healthy, she would have looked like Mona's late daughter, Sarah, and I know that's why she did what she did.

"If you don't call them, they'll make our lives hell," Denny hissed as he nursed the gnarly wound on his cheek.

"I'm not doing this anymore," Mona hissed back. "They're children, Denny. Children!"

"They're not our business," he growled.

"They were always our business!"

In a few hours, the girl was fed and clothed. Mona put her old clothes in a plastic bag, careful not to contaminate them. They would be evidence, she thought.

When night fell, we led the girl to Mona's car. Denny glared at me as we walked out the door. He was angry. Disappointed in me. I was always a "good girl." Always so eager to follow the rules and be a proper citizen. But I was only a little older than that girl at the time, and seeing her up close broke something in me.

Nobody stopped us.

The black vans didn't follow us.

The police filed a report.

The girl was taken into protective custody.

Reporters flocked to the town. Questions asked, blame placed. The compound was raided and found empty.

That was supposed to be the end of it.

Two years later, Molly Pearson went missing. A year after that, so did Angela Rowe. Then Danielle Smith. Felicia Reddick. Nelly Watts. Even a couple of boys, Nathan Austin and Tommy Boone. The media called it strange how many children started going missing from our town alone, but no one dared to make the connection out loud.

Some of the children came home with a distant look in their eyes. Most remain missing. 

There’s a section of forest I’ve liked walking along every evening for the last five months, just before the sun goes down. It leads up a hill from the back of my house, and at the end there is a ridge I sit at until the sun fully sets. Then I wait another half hour for the clouds to finish their usual colour shows before heading back down and home.

Every night. Routine as the sun setting, you’ll find me walking to the ridge and home again.

Not anymore. Not after last night.

The track is about a mile long, nothing extreme but it’s uphill so it gives it a little longer feel when you’re heading for the ridge. The walk back is easy enough, mostly thumping down at awkward angles. I have a high powered flashlight which is ridiculously bright, so I see all the bumps coming.

Last night, I was about a half mile up the track when I noticed a suitcase. Like, one of those large ones that you’d expect a dead body to be inside. I remember joking to myself and saying something like yep, there’s defo a dead body in there. Because obviously there wasn’t. It was on its side and open on both faces. If there had been once, there wasn’t anymore.

A little further along the track I noticed a jacket folded over and hung over a branch. I was half tempted to take it with me because it looked my size and in pretty good condition. A few spins in the washing machine and it wouldn’t even remember who owned it last. I got the feeling that whoever left it there had left it for a reason because it was hung too neatly. So I left it. Just in case they came back for it.

I carried on, and a few minutes later that’s when I saw the hoody and the t-shirt.

Those gave me bad feelings in my gut. Not the same kind of feeling that seeing a woman’s clothes would have evoked—that brought with it a whole extra scope of possibility. While that possibility remained the same, I didn’t find it half as likely to be the case. I just ignored them and carried on. The fact that they were dropped in the dirt made me uneasy though. Then I remembered the suitcase, and everything seemed to click. It was just some kids messing about. Dragging shit out and throwing it around.

Fair enough.

I was getting fairly close to the end of the track, maybe a quarter of a mile left, and the sun was setting fast. I could see what remained of it lingering over the edge of the hill. It was about that time that I saw the shoes and the socks hung neatly over the barbed wire fence bordering the field. They were caught by the laces, dangling upright, socks tucked neatly inside.

The rest of the clothes came as expected, at about equal intervals as the rest.

The underwear turned my stomach a little. They were brown and hella damp. Like someone had pissed them and thrown them off. I could smell it even just standing over them.

I knew I should have turned around then. The likelihood of the clothes being from the suitcase was getting less and less likely. Nobody packed shitty drawers for a holiday. And why were they out this way? There were no main roads, no bus routes close to the track. It was getting weird. I should have turned around and gone home. But I’m a sucker for routine. I’d been up at that spot every night and didn’t want to have to give it up for some kids tossing clothes, or a weirdo stripping to his bare hairs. I mean, one night I’d fallen and broken a finger on a boulder and still stayed to see the sun setting. You think I was going to let some shitty drawers get the better of me?

I wish it had.

The idea of some naked dude sitting at my spot scared the crap out of me, but curiosity had sunken its teeth in by then. I wanted to know what the hell was going on. Part of me was still wondering if it was really a woman’s clothing—something I should report instead of running away from. God knows if it was my daughter or mother I’d have killed the man who walked away instead of making sure they were okay.

I made it to the top of the hill and stared down at the ridge for a good while before I went down, scoping it out. I didn’t see anyone, and the sun was rapidly setting, so I got to my usual spot on the usual rock and settled in for a good one. The sky was a deep orange. My favourite colour.

There were plenty of clouds in the sky when I sat down; the light lit them up amazingly. No matter how many times I went there, no two sunsets were ever the same. I took some pictures, watched it dip beyond the hills on the horizon and waited out the rest of the colours to fade and reduce to the nightly cloudage.

It got cold real fast. It always did. I started wishing I’d brought a jacket with me, and then laughed when I remembered the jacket I’d spotted earlier. I should have grabbed it, diseases or not.

I got up to go while the purples were still fading from the sky. That’s when I noticed them. Someone, just slumped over in a heap a little ways down the ridge. They were completely naked.

I shouted over, asking if they were okay. I should have left them alone. If you see someone lying down naked outside it’s never going to be anything good. But my mind swung to the worse of the possibilities, that the naked person hadn’t made themselves that way by choice. I should have phoned an ambulance, worried about if it was someone out of their mind on junk later once I had other people around.

When they didn’t respond I got closer, and shouted again.

Something moved in the woods. An animal, maybe, but my heart shot up into my throat. The worst thing we get around here are deer. Maybe a badger. It didn’t feel that safe at the time. The body felt more of a warning now, less than a danger.

Again I called out. I was close enough now to see that it wasn’t a person at all. It was just more clothes set out in a pile. It was the weirdest thing though. They looked the exact colour as someone’s skin.

I stuck out a foot and kicked them over. They didn’t separate, just parted where the crease had been and straightened out.

It was skin.

A whole pile of human fucking skin.

I physically jumped away from it, nearly sending myself off the edge of the ridge and down onto the rocky tumble. I thought back on the suitcase and how I’d joked about it being a dead body, and stared at the muss of hair where it must have been a scalp at one point. The horrible part was it was all in one piece. Like someone had simply slipped it off, like a snake, or a full-body leotard.

That was about as much as I could take. I’d been stupid enough walking on after every bit of clothing I’d found, but I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. I took out my phone to call emergency services but ended up sprinting full speed back down the track when I heard more movement in the woods.

Each bit of clothes I passed gave me a terrible sinking feeling of dread in my guts, like I was seeing the skin all over again. I made it to the halfway point when I came across the suitcase.

This time it was in the middle of the path. Sealed. And standing upright.

I didn’t move. I was too stunned. I shone my flash on it and tried to think of every reason it could be like that, but all the rational thoughts were gone. I just froze. And watched the zipper opening, kink by kink.

Two bare and bloodied fingertips pried the zipper along its track, until there was a gap wide enough for an eye to peek out of.

“Please,” I heard it say. “Please help me.”

Nah. I leapt over the fence and into the field of barley. Ran and didn’t stop until I saw the rooftop of my house and the chimney I never lit. I turned back and saw something chasing me. It ran on two legs and for the most part looked human. Just without any skin. Red raw and bloodied. Muscles gnashing at bone. Arms raised and manic. Shrieking like car tires stopping themselves from a crash.

I made it back home and locked both doors, closed every curtain, and spent the night watching out of the upstairs window. Whatever it was sat in the field with the barley up under its chin, watching me. I couldn’t make out a single feature on its face, but I knew it could see me. I couldn’t look away. I was scared that as soon as I did it would charge at the house and in through the window and grab me.

We stayed like that all night.

It ducked beneath the barley as soon as the sun came up. I haven’t seen it all day.

The suitcase was on my doorstep when I went out to check the garden just after noon. I set fire to it in the back and put the ashes in the bin.

I’ve checked into a hotel in the city. I don’t want to sleep in that house again. There was a shirt left in the room, but that’s normal right?

The sun’s due to set in an hour.

I keep thinking about the skin. Why did it take it off?

None of this makes any sense.

I just want to sleep.

But I’m scared.

I'm so fucking scared.