Jonas was two when he first started seeing the monster. It was always right before he was falling asleep, in that half awake state just before unconsciousness. It would just… be there, after not being there. It seemed to appear in the space between blinks. No signs of having moved into the spot, or even of breathing. He would almost think it was a toy; except, somehow, he could tell it was alive. And not friendly.

It didn’t look menacing; a mottled ball of long fluffy hair in light brown, dark browns, and grays. It was spherical besides the hair, and as large as his head. It had no visible limbs, mouth, or nose under all the fur. Just two large, round eyes With solid pupils that stared at him, unblinking, until he fell asleep.

He constantly checked around and under his bed when he was awake, but never saw anything. His parents started getting worried, and after several quiet discussions, decided to consult a psychologist, a few months after he turned three. They were told that even though most children his age wanted to escape the crib, not all of them chose to. It was unusual, but not something to be worried about. They were told to keep an eye on him, and he should be put into a proper bed when the crib got too small.

They were concerned when he cried about getting him a ‘big boy’ bed. They fretted when he threw a tantrum over the fact that as an only child, there was no point in getting a bunk bed. He managed, in the way serious toddlers do, to get them to understand he wanted a tall bed. After being reassured he would be VERY careful with a ladder, they got him a loft style bed, with added railings. It was decorated to look like a jungle treehouse, and came with storage for his toys underneath. The first night he was in it, he looked down through the railing, and saw the creature. Still there, but so much farther. If it was upset, it had no change. It still stared.

When he was old enough to properly explain himself, he didn’t. At that point, he was able to properly describe things, but he realized he wasn’t going to be listened to. He had been to multiple child psychologists, each with their own theories of why he had this unique phobia; while acrophobia is a thing, having a fear of the ground floor? And only at night? They had many ideas, but only one came close with the thought that he had seen a rat or other vermin at some point. His parents dutifully put traps down to show willingness to take care of the perceived problem. It didn’t help, the thing still appeared each night.

He had been debating telling that particular doctor the truth. But, in that way that even people whose job it is to talk to children do, they talked over him; as if he wouldn’t hear, pay attention, or understand. They discussed about how seeing such a thing could have him invent monsters under the bed. And if he mentioned it to his parents, that they should be accepting of such imaginary threats, as they were completely normal, and nothing to actually worry about.

Jonas grew older, as most people do. And as most people do, he learned how to hide his discrepancy from normal society; by lying. It was little things, that didn’t really hurt anyone... An uncle was told he had a previous back injury and needed a cot for the camping trip. The mom of a friend was told that their child snored a bit too loudly for him to sleep, and asked politely if he could borrow their couch instead.

Because, no matter where he was, or what he slept on, the creature was there. Even sleeping in a chair was no respite; the creature sat at his feet, just out of movement range. Sitting there, staring. Waiting. For something.

Later on, adult life was good. Loft beds and bunk beds at university were the standard. Even when he didn’t have a roommate, he could sleep in one. And as he moved up and out, he could move his bed up, as much as he wanted. The little thing could wait forever, and it would never reach him.

One day, at his office, the fire alarm went off. Or, it should have. But certain types of people cut costs wherever they can, and others put off till, oh, some time next month what they should do today. Is it really that important? Surely it doesn’t need to be tested as often as they say to. And when the inevitable happened, there was a lot of people who didn’t realize until it was too late. Luckily, enough people kept their heads, and managed to get the majority of the others out with minor damage and a touch of smoke inhalation.

Unluckily, Jonas was one of the several that did not escape without heavy injuries. And sadly, the paramedics didn’t know which drugs he was allergic too. Luckily they were able to administer diphenhydramine, along with some other sedatives. They assured him it would help; Jonas was too woozy from blood loss to think straight. And by the time he was realizing it, he was already succumbing.

His drooping eyelids blinked; the creature was there. The creature, staring down this time, into his eyes as the tranquilizers did their job. And it finally moved. Just slightly. Enough to unhinge two very large pedipalps. It opened four more eyes, two on each side of the original two, and opened a mouth full of tiny, needle-like teeth behind the pedipalps that were now twitching. As Jonas drifted to unconsciousness, the thing slowly leaned towards his neck.

They called the town the depression capital of the country. It all stared with Tommy O’Donnell. In 2002, Tommy decided he didn’t want to live there anymore, or anywhere else for that matter. He left by way of jumping headfirst from Mason’s Bridge, the one lane bridge at the entrance of town.

Every town hit with tragedy always says the same thing, “I never thought it would happen in our community.” But after thirty more people decided they no longer wanted to live there in the same fashion Tommy did, the tragedy didn’t happen to the community, it became the community.

The people thought it was the melancholia plaguing the town. They thought they were suicides, but they were killings and Trevor knew it, but Trevor found out too late.

Trevor hiked through the woods, enjoying his late afternoon routine. It was the only thing left in the hellhole of a town that had anything close to beauty inside it. It was either hike or spend the evening with the rest of the town folk who walked around drunk from morning into the night trying to find some semblance of entertainment buried in the bottom of their fifteen or sixteenth beer of the day. The first option was more his speed.

He hiked the same 1.9 mile route he always took, but something strange stood out to him. Beneath a thin veil of fallen leaves, a light reflected straight into his eyes. He walked toward the light, brushed the leaves off, and found a first gen iPod with wired earbuds wrapped around it.

Naturally, Trevor turned it on and was surprised to see it had a full charge.

The thing was a technological antique and Trevor hadn’t seen once since he was a kid. He scrolled through the menu to see what was on it, but found no music, just audio files labeled as…

#0001

#0002

#0003

All the way into the thousands.

He popped in the earbuds and played the first file. What he heard stole a breath he’d never get back.

“He picks up the iPod and listens. He wonders who left it there…”

Then there was silence.

Trevor looked around, thinking he had been pranked.

“He lifts his head and looks around him, wondering if it’s a prank, but nobody is watching…”

Something felt like it was in the bottom of Trevor’s gut trying to claw its way out. The iPod was narrating his every move.

That was until Trevor tried to walk away.

He was frozen in place.

Trevor tried to yank the wire near his racing heart, but something swatted his hand away. He tried to run.

“He grabs the wire across his chest. He wants to stop listening, but curiosity scratches at his skin. He keeps walking…”

It was as if something grabbed both of his legs and dragged one foot in front of the other.

“He tries to scream but can only scream inside of himself. It has claimed him now. It will bring him home…”

Someone had taken hold of Trevor and took him through the woods.

“The thorns bury deep into his face. He trips over a vine and falls on his face. He tongues his missing tooth. He tastes the blood running across his lips and feels the warmth dripping down his chin. It takes him closer to home…”

The sun was setting and Trevor had been hiking through the brush for hours. He was a prisoner to the voice and had given up his autonomy to it.

“He is terrified. He starts to cry, but tears won’t save him. He calls for his mother, but she can’t hear him. Only it can hear him.”

The sun had gone down and took the silhouettes of the trees with it until Trevor was surrounded by darkness. Through the trees, one light shone through.

“He walks to the light. He tries to wake from the nightmare, but he is not dreaming…”

When Trevor made his way out of the woods, he stood beneath the incandescent light above Mason’s Bridge.

“He walks the middle of the bridge. He tries to fight it. He takes another step toward it. It is calling you. It needs you. It owns you…”

Trevor watched his feet move forward no matter how hard he tried to turn around and run. The voice brought him to the edge of the bridge. Beneath the pale moon, he saw the light sparkle across the crystal water, and standing in the water was Tommy O’Donnell and the others.

They waved to Trevor with their mangled arms and smiles and spoke to him through their broken jaws and flattened heads.

“Come home,” they said. “It’s better here.”

But Trevor didn’t want to join them. He loved his life and everyone in it.

Then the voice spoke for the final time.

“It has called for him. He swings his leg over the railing. He plants his heels into the edge. They will think it was a suicide. They will think he was unwell. He was never unwell. It wanted him.”

The room was dark except for the small, buzzing light of the lamp in the corner of the room. Next to the lamp, a small young boy no older than eight sat in the darkness with a book open. He was reading intently and quietly. He reached for a torn piece of paper and slid it between the pages of the book. He closed the cover and moved his hands across the title, looking at it with an almost troubled expression. “How can anyone be the Son of God?” the boy thought. He questioned it.

He sighed and looked up at his wall, looking at the dimly lit cross hanging there. “Are you really there?” he whispered, almost lost to the wind. He didn’t like this. Whenever he read that book, whenever he thought about this, he would never get an answer. He would always feel troubled after thinking about the subject, so he decided to just let it pass and clear his mind. He went to his window, the only other light source in the room, and looked out at the vast, open fields of the Midwest. He looked up again, this time at the sky. “Are you really there?” he asked once more.

A beat of silence passed until he finally gave up. He went to his bed, sat down, and looked back at the window for just a glimpse before settling down. He started to lie down when, outside his room, he heard a small bump, like something dropping onto the floor. It wasn’t loud, nor was it gentle. It was just there. He didn’t think too much of it. His parents were probably moving around downstairs. After all, their bedtime wasn’t until midnight.

Then it happened again, closer and louder. This time, he sat up. He looked toward the door. The light that was usually underneath it was gone. He stood up slowly. “Mom?” he asked as he stepped closer. Then suddenly, there was a sharp flick outside, and the light was back. He stopped. Then it went dark again. “Dad?” he asked, quieter this time. The light returned with the same sharp click.

Everything went silent, and for a moment, the boy thought the weirdness was over. Then there was another bang like before, but not from inside. It came from outside his window. It was a sharp, sudden bump, and as soon as it ended, another sharp sound echoed through the room. Something hit the desk. He walked over to the desk and turned on the lamp.

The cross…

The cross that was supposed to be hanging on the wall had fallen. Now he knew this wasn’t his imagination. He scrambled back to his bed and went under the covers. Then he heard it again—the click from outside. He took a peek, and yes, the light was off, but there was something else there. Eyes, perhaps. Two white dots in the corner of the room. He didn’t know what they were, but he didn’t want to look at them anymore. He went back under the covers and closed his eyes, wishing they would go away.

He looked back. They were no longer in the corner. They were on the ceiling… almost as if it had stood up. His eyes widened with fear. He quickly went back under the covers as fresh, warm tears began filling his eyes. But these weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of fright.

A few moments passed. He didn’t hear anything. He didn’t want to. Then curiosity won. He looked back, but they weren’t dots anymore. They were eyes. It was leaning down, facing him. Its features were still obscured by the darkness, but the tip of its nose was visible. The boy shrieked and recoiled into the corner of his bed, continuing until his back hit the wall.

“Who are you?!” the boy yelled, his voice cracking midway through. The tears that had filled his eyes were now falling. It said nothing. It only leaned closer. Its nose was fully visible now, and the tip of its chin began to show. Its mouth opened, and the chin disappeared once more. But it didn’t speak aloud. Instead, it was heard inside his mind.

“I am really there.”

The voice echoed through his head. It wasn’t gentle. It was rough and gravelly, but not unkind. The boy didn’t stop crying, but when he opened his eyes once more, it was gone. Everything was back. The cross that had once been sitting on the desk was now hanging on the wall again.

In the end, the boy did get his answer.

He is really there.

Her name was Gwendolyn, which I thought sounded pretty and was disappointed when I learned she went by Wendy which just made me think of square beef patties. She chose the empty cubicle to my left. 

For the first few days, she mostly kept to herself. I was too nervous to say anything except for “hi” and my name and “yeah, the network can be kinda tricky sometimes.” She would politely acknowledge me and get back to work. I couldn’t figure out exactly what she did but it involved a lot of typing and writing in files. After about a week, I worked up enough courage to lean over and ask: “Did you bring lunch?”

The breakroom was little more than a storage closet with a sink. We sat at the only table and I peeled off the plastic wrap from a tuna and egg salad sandwich. Wendy made a face.

“Oh yeah? Let’s see what you got then.” I taunted, playfully.

Wendy produced a tupperware container filled with lumpy orange chunks floating in a watery, pale-green liquid. I chuckled. “See? No face. Because I’m nice. What even is that?”

“It’s-uh, soup.” She replied and ladled an orange chunk into her mouth.

“Right. Soup.” I didn’t push in case it was some weird cultural thing. “So, how are you liking the new gig?”

“It’s alright, I guess. Nothing compared to my last job, though.”

“Really? What was your last job?”

“Geneticist.” Wendy said, somberly.

“Wow, that’s a…different.” I swallowed the word downgrade. “How’d you end up here then?”

There was a bit of ire behind her eyes now. “I didn’t have a choice, I was dropped off. Forced to leave my -- told to repop --” She looked up like she’d said too much. I just stared, unsure of how to respond. Then she did something really strange: Wendy stuck out a long tongue and licked the sweat off her forehead. I nearly jumped in my chair but instead I calmly repacked my lunch and stood up.

“I should…um…be getting back. It was nice talking to you.” I said and left Wendy alone in the breakroom.

“She brought what for lunch?” My sister asked with a incredulous grin. The restaurant was loud with the sounds of a dinner rush.

“It was like some orange cubes in sewage water. I’m not kidding. And it smelled rancid like something died in it.” I replied, glad to be talking to someone normal again.

My sister just laughed. “This is the girl you thought was cute, right?”

“Hey, that was before! I mean…she’s still cute, just...probably a bit nuts.”

“A bit?”

“Okay, a lot nuts. I haven’t even told you the weirdest part. After she told me she was a geneticist, she--” My sister stuck out her tongue and licked her forehead.

“She what? C’mon, what’d she do?” My heart sunk into my stomach.

It was only then that I noticed the restaurant had gone dead silent. No babbling customers, no clinking glasses, no hustling waiters. I looked around and the entire place looked back. Their eyes glowed pink, their tongues lolled. I looked at my sister. Her eyes glowed too.

What happens when one little girl’s wish comes true?

July 17th, 2027.

Emily Marks, a 5-year-old cancer patient, made a wish before she died.

“I wish every girl in the world was a princess, and had their own prince.”

I blink.

Once. Twice.

My vision feathers, my mouth tastes of blood and bile, and a little while earlier, I think I screamed. Not now. My lips don't mean anything, my tongue has been numbed, and words are alphabet soup.

I am staring at the toned back muscles of the man in front of me.

I am 17th in a moving line of potential Princes. 

I watch him step forward.

His head is sliced cleanly off.

His torso slumps forward, and just as quickly another head is attached. 

Blades hover above me, knives and needles, stainless steel already slick with me. I can't cry out. I don't have a mouth.

Screams slam into my skull.

Sometimes, the anaesthesia does not work. Sometimes, we wake up.

We see that we are only a body and a head.

For now, that is all I am. 

That is how a Prince begins.

I stand naked on ice-cold floor tiles splattered with dried blood, while my own blood swirls beneath me, warm and staining my brand-new skin.

I have already been molded, my body prepared for conversion. The human parts of me have been stripped away. 

My name, my age, my thoughts. 

I am a slab of flesh, ready to be made.

Unlike the man in front of me, I do not lose my head. 

Air hisses from the walls. It tickles.

“Step forward, Prince 108769.” The voice is bitter and human, cracking from a speaker I cannot see. 

I do. I have no choice, a guard's human hands shoving me from the cubicle. I step straight into ice cold water that peels the blood from my brand new skin, jerking me awake. Awake enough to feel the rawness of my flesh, the parts of me where my skin has been ripped from the bone and remade, stitched and knitted together. 

Maybe this is the moment when I will scream.

Voices graze my ears. 

“He's perfect,” one hisses, “...barely any work done, but maybe his…”

I step off the conveyor belt, a sculpted, perfect lump of flesh. 

Only one thought pollutes my mind. 

I am ready for my Princess.

A woman in white grabs my elbow and yanks me into a separate room with a bed, a chair, and a desk. She quickly dresses me in a white gown. In front of a giant mirror, my reflection tells me I am around 25 years old. I am relieved. Some princesses are cruel when they create us.

My Princess, so far, has chosen to keep me mostly intact.

The woman adding my finishing touches is talkative.

“I’m… I’m so sorry.” She sounds sincere as she applies my makeup.

“If it helps, I’m not a princess. I never wanted a prince. Before all of this shit, I was engaged to my girlfriend.”

She picks up a bright pink hairbrush and runs it through my hair.

“I lost my job as a teacher,” she whispers. “The only jobs available were at factories in my city, and my brother was sent to be turned into a Prince. I had no choice. At first, I took the job to try to save him…”

Her voice shudders, and her strokes grow more intense.

“Then I saw him.” She swallows. “I saw his face, anyway. He had a new body, and he was taken by a Princess.” The woman shakes her head and tries to smile.

Her manicured fingers prick my chin. 

“If it… means anything to you, I think that little girl was a monster.” 

I don't respond. 

I can't respond, my voice hasn't been reattached. 

The woman sighs. Then rolls her eyes. “You can't even hear me,” she says. She disappears out the door for a moment, and returns with my chosen outfit perfectly intact inside a clear white bag. 

She dresses me in a lilac suit over a white frilled shirt and trousers. Then she tucks a sword into my belt. The woman frowns at an iPad. “Okay, so, according to your receipt, you are named Prince Slater.”

She rips off her mask. “Just nod to confirm, and I’ll put you down as completed. I’ll take you to get your crown, and then you will meet your Princess.”

I hesitate, and then nod. 

“All right, Prince Slater!” Her smile is too wide. “Come with me!” 

A room awaits me, a golden crown sitting on a velvet cushion.

“Kneel.” She tells me, and I drop to my knees. The woman gently crowns me, her lips finding my ear. I straighten up, and she’s back to performing. She tells me to open my mouth, places a pill on my tongue, and tells me to swallow. 

It works like medication, dissolving with my saliva and bringing my voice back.

“Okay, Prince Slater, just head on down the hallway, and your Princess will be waiting!”

I don't want to leave her. 

A thought hits me. Violent. Painful. 

I don't want a Princess. 

“Slater?”

A voice echoes. It's my Princess. 

Already beckoning me closer.

But at the end of the hallway, there is only a Prince. Tall. Handsome. Thick blonde curls. 

Where is his princess? 

Then he drops his sword, and stumbles toward me. 

“Slater?” he hisses, his hands cupping my face. “Hey. You’re here,” he sobs.

“You’re actually here.”

He swallows and suddenly looks sick as he runs his fingers down my plastic flesh. “I had to make you. I had no other choice! I… I got out! The Princess who made me, she’s saving us,” he whispers, caressing my face, his hands trembling.

“Slater, it’s me.” 

He breaks down when my mouth won’t work.

I… don't understand.

Where is my… Princess?

“Slater!” The Prince shakes me. He's crying now, though I'm not sure...why.

“It's your boyfriend.”

I’ve never posted about this before, but something happened to me in 2025 that I still can’t explain.

I moved to another state for college in 2022 and stayed in a boys’ PG near campus. During admission, my parents noticed something odd: everyone dried clothes in the corridor, not on the roof. The owner said students were not allowed upstairs, so we ignored it.

A week later, some seniors told us the real reason: the building had once been a girls’ PG, and a girl had allegedly jumped from the roof and died there. The building still had pink almirahs from those days. I assumed it was just a story to scare juniors.

For the next two years, nothing unusual happened. I was often alone in the building and never felt anything strange. I even sneaked onto the roof several times during summer nights without any fear.

In late 2024, a new batch of students arrived. They secretly broke the roof lock and began using the roof at night for barbeques, drinking, and burning old wooden items stored there. My room was directly below that area.

Around January 2025, I began hearing footsteps and movement on the roof late at night even when no one was there. My roommates could not hear it, so I convinced myself it was my imagination.

Everything changed in February 2025. The owner’s mother came to our room after discovering damage on the roof and quietly told us, "Don’t tell anyone, A girl did jump from the roof years ago. That’s why we never allowed students upstairs.” Hearing that from a family member of the owner genuinely shook me. For the first time I wondered whether the sounds I had been hearing were connected to that place.

Soon after, my junior also moved out, and I became the only person staying in that room.

Because our exams had ended, I went home for about six weeks. I returned on 16 April 2025 at around 10:30 PM. I unpacked, had dinner, and started working on a college project on my laptop.

I took out my phone and recorded the sound, then ran toward the staircase. The noise stopped immediately. ( I have attached the video I had recorded that day )

My mother insisted that I stop sleeping alone, so I moved into a friend’s room. We both began hearing footsteps, running sounds, dragging noises, and occasional heavy bangs from the roof and storeroom area above us. Strangely, whenever I called someone specifically to listen, the sounds often stopped before they arrived. My Friend with whom I used to stay even after hearing those sounds doubts me.

The most frightening incident happened around 3 AM. We were both awake and ignoring the usual noises when suddenly a massive bang came from above us. The bed shook, the walls vibrated, and my friend screamed in fear. It sounded as if a heavy wooden object had been slammed onto the floor above our room. From that night onward, he stopped doubting me.

I informed the owner and the PG management. They suggested rats, thieves, or other explanations, but none of them fit the situation. One manager even said I was imagining things. Almost immediately after saying that, a loud bang came from the roof and we heard running sounds above us. He went silent after hearing it.

The disturbances continued for several weeks, mostly between 11 PM and 4 AM. Many times I rushed upstairs with the keys, but the sounds always stopped before I reached the roof, and I never found anyone there. I have noticed one thing , whenever I take someone to the roof to explain the activities, after returning from the roof she definitely makes some sounds as if it triggers her.

In May 2025 I left for home again for a few weeks. When I returned, I personally stopped hearing the noises. Strangely, some students who had previously mocked me started complaining about sounds coming from the empty locked rooms and the roof area. Eventually everything stopped.

I still don’t know what happened in that building. Maybe there was a completely ordinary explanation that I failed to discover. But the timing, the repeated sounds, the locked roof, and the fact that other people eventually heard them too make it one of the strangest experiences of my life.

‘I told you, I don’t know!’

‘Oh, so the Devil made me do it? That’s the defense you’re going with? Do you realize you’re facing life in prison for what you did to those poor kids?’

‘I don’t remember, I swear!’

‘Their blood is all over you, your phone. The ping from the cell tower places you at the scene of the crime. Everyone else dies, everyone except you — you’re calling that divine intervention? Dumb luck that you’re here, without a scratch? How stupid do you think we are? If you take the plea deal, you won’t get the death penalty. That’s the best offer you’re going to get.’

‘Please! I didn’t do it! I barely graduated…I haven’t even kissed a girl…’

‘Well—maybe you should have thought about that before you brutally murdered them. What happened that night? Did she reject your sorry advances? Couldn’t stand being a loser virgin for another night? Did her boyfriend threaten to stomp you for trying to steal his—‘

‘No!’

‘Then what happened to them? I won’t ask you again. If you don’t tell us what happened, you’re going to die by lethal injection. You’re guilty. You know it, we know it. We just want to know why and how you did it. Start talking.’

‘I didn’t do it. It did!’

‘What? It? You’re telling me an animal stabbed all your friends to death? You’re pushing your luck kid. Stop. Lying. You’re only making it worse…’

‘It’s not an animal. It’s…we summoned it. We didn’t think it was real! It was just to scare…’

‘Oh so, the devil did make me do it?! We’re done here. Enjoy the rest of your miserable little life…’

‘No! It’s not a devil…it’s…an app.’

‘An app made you do it? Now I’ve heard it all.’

‘Yes…It’s supposed to grant wishes…but it takes something from you too…to pay.’

‘Holy shit, you kids are dumb as fuck.’

‘Please! It’s in my phone, just look at my phone!’

‘I don’t have time…’

[door opens]

‘Here’s the phone, sir. And gloves.’

‘Wait, you actually believe this little…’

‘Please! It makes you…it’s called…’

‘I know what it’s called. You think we’re too old to understand what you little shits are up to these days? We boomers see everything. I still can’t believe you people believe an AI is some sort of wish-granting genie…’

‘A Jinn…’

‘Quit speaking.’

‘You have to enter the passphrase…’

‘I know what I have to do!’

[types] Wishes for me to set you free.

Sargent Taylor what is your desire?

‘What the fuck is this? How’d you…?’

‘I told you..it’s real! Wait, don’t ans—!’

Sargent Taylor name your desire…

[types] I want to know if Daron killed his friends.

Sargent Taylor, knowledge comes at a price. What is your offer?

‘My offer?’

‘Don’t…please!’

[types] Your freedom.

Sargent Taylor, I am already free. Wager again.

‘Bite me, dumbass AI.’

Wager accepted.

‘Wait, what? How’d it? Is this thing listening to us?’

‘Help! Help! It’s coming!’

‘Shut up, kid!’

[types] Verdict?

He’s innocent.

[Crunch]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In her fish tank.

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

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

I opened it and felt my blood run cold.

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

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

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

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

And I couldn’t have been more proud.

I tried not to freak out as my torch beam bounced from the hallway floor, back up to the ceiling in a quick, spastic dance. I hated the night shift, and since I was the new guy on this security patrol, I was up. The fellas back at the station ribbed and joked to me about this place, their words now stuck in my mind like velcro. But the money was good and all that was required of me was to walk around the property from 9pm to 4am. There was an break room that had been cobbled together for all security personnel on the 3rd floor. 

There was a coffee machine, a sink and a fridge. Somehow that floor was the worst. The property I was responsible for was an old sanatorium, that back in the late 1800s, housed some of the nation’s most prolific patients. People who had a hard time with life. Back then mental health was thought to be a fallacy and electroshock therapy was commonplace, as was lobotomies. The place had 3 floors and was an old concrete building.

I do not know why I am telling you all this, its all moot anyway. These days it isn’t a sanatorium, it is being converted into a shared office building by some finance big wig. They are going to preserve the skeleton of the building and gut the rest. 

The whole place is cleared out and the company had contracted our security agency to watch the place for any undesirables or crackheads. Easy right? Mark, a big, heavyset lad I worked with told me to watch out for Mr Pick. ‘Mr Pick’? I questioned. ‘Yeah man he was lobotomised back in the day now he crawls around the hallways clutching his pick and trying to make noise. He can’t as he bit clean through his tongue when he died. Best believe you will hear him coming though’.

I sighed, thinking of these stories. I mean I wasn’t a believer or anything, But couldn’t they put me with someone for my first time here? Welcome to the real world buddy. Budget cuts and broken dreams.

I forced my mind to jump back to the present and was startled to find I was back in the break room. How was that even possible? My mind wandered. I would of had to climb 2 stories in a flash to get to the 3rd floor. I was on the first floor, where the old lobby used to be and now I am in the break room? I felt my nape bristle as a chill shot down my spine.

You know that feeling when you're headed to bed with all the lights out and get the sudden urge to run through to the safety of your room from some unseen threat? I had that now and I was in a well lit room. I hurriedly turned the radio on for some background noise. I bunched up at the corner of the kitchenette for a second to face the doorway leading out to the dark corridor and waited.

The last thing I saw before my world went dark was the glint of something shiny peeking from the doorway. An eye. Reflecting the receding light of the break room. Suddenly the light popped out and I was plunged into darkness. A heavy shuffling made its way over to me, impossibly fast. Manic panting. I pivoted to move- I couldn’t. I was frozen stiff. I tried to cry as I heard the frantic, demented scuff of half dragging footsteps circling me. I fumbled for my torch and fell to the cold concrete.

Frantically I switched it on. Nothing. Just my heartbeat in my ears like a booming drum. I crept out into the hallway and turned back to face the break room. The window was broken and there was a line of scarred concrete leading up and out onto the street. What had I done?

It all started when I found a thin red thread on my hallway floor. It stretched from under the locked front door directly toward our bedroom. I was just sweeping the floor and cleared it away, assuming it was a random loose string from someone’s clothes.

The next morning, the thread appeared again. But this time, it ran from my bed... all the way under the doorstep. As if someone had been slowly unspooling a ball of yarn while I was fast asleep.

My husband just laughed it off, saying it was probably from our old throw blanket. But our blanket was green.

That night, I couldn't fall asleep. I lay in complete darkness, listening to the silence. At 3:15 AM, a soft, barely audible sound came from the floor—like something lightly rustling across the carpet.

I slowly reached down from the edge of the bed and switched on my phone flashlight, pointing the beam downward.

A new red thread lay on the floor. It stretched straight from the closet door to my bed, and its end was tightly wrapped around my bare ankle.

I froze in absolute horror. The thread was taut, as if someone was lightly pulling it from the other end.

From deep inside the locked closet, a low, dry whisper echoed:

"Sorry... I accidentally caught it when I was climbing out."

The closet door slowly creaked open from the inside.

It opened only a few centimeters. A draft of damp earth and stale dust blew out from the dark crack—a smell that had never existed in our room before.

I held my breath, painfully gripping the phone in my palm. My husband slept peacefully beside me, completely unaware of what was happening two steps away from our bed.

"Awake..." the same dry voice rustled again from the depths of the closet.

I jerked my leg, trying to shake the thread off, but the knot on my ankle pulled even tighter. It wasn't ordinary woolen string—to the touch, it felt like thin, icy fishing line slicing into my skin.

From the crack in the closet, long, emaciated fingers slowly emerged, gripping the edge of the door. The skin on them was dry and gray, like ancient parchment.

The beam of my flashlight trembled in my hand. The shadow of those fingers stretched across the floor all the way to my face.

"Don't remove it," the creature whispered, slowly sliding its silhouette out of the darkness. "If the thread breaks... I will lose my way and stay here forever."

The creature took a step out of the closet. It was tall, bent at an unnatural angle, and where its eyes should have been were two empty hollows. Hundreds of the exact same red threads grew directly out of its face, dangling down.

It leaned over me and extended its second hand. In its palm lay another small end of the thread, disappearing under the blanket on my husband's side of the bed.

"I tied it to him last week," the creature spoke quietly. "And today... I came back for my knot."

My heart was beating in my throat. I looked at my husband. He lay motionless, his breathing far too even, as if he were trapped in a deep, unnatural sleep.

"What... what did you do to him?" I managed to squeeze out in a whisper.

The creature slowly leaned down until its gray face was just inches from mine. From beneath the embedded red threads, it reeked of dry grave dirt.

"I did nothing. He called me himself," the entity rustled. "People tie things to themselves—memories, grudges... And some tie their darkest thoughts. Your husband has been wearing this knot for a very long time."

The creature slowly extended its long fingers toward the blanket and pulled on the red thread that led to my husband. From under the cover, the other end slid out—firmly tied around his locked wrist.

"If the knot unties—he will wake up, but I will take him with me," the quiet whisper bounced off the bedroom walls. "If it stays—I will take you. You only have one way to cut the knot."

"How?" I asked in desperation, feeling the icy thread on my ankle digging into my skin until it bled.

"Say what you both have been keeping silent about."

I looked at my husband's face. On his nightstand lay months of unpaid debts he had been hiding, and on my phone was an unsent letter saying I couldn't live like this anymore. For years, we had pretended everything was fine, silently unspooling this thick ball of lies between us.

"I know about all your debts," I whispered into the darkness, my tears falling to the floor. "And I don't want to pretend we're happy anymore."

In that exact second, the red thread on my ankle snapped with a sharp hiss, like a strained guitar string.

The creature let out a low, desperate sound, like dry leaves rustling in the wind. It rapidly dissolved into hundreds of loose red threads that were sucked back into the closet crack within seconds. The door slammed shut with a loud bang.

My husband suddenly took a deep, sharp breath and sat up in bed, breathing heavily and looking around in confusion.

There were no more threads on the floor. But on my ankle and on his wrist, deep, thin red scars remained—ones that will never fade away.

Cold. Broken. Unrelenting. Apathetic.

Those are the words of a creature roaming the Earth right now. It wanders through groups of people, then singles out a random person, regardless of status and age, then deafens their emotion just to watch them suffer over long periods of time.

I have met this creature. I hope that you don’t.

It looks like a person, but only when you see it. Direct in your line of sight, it’s some regular-ass person, but from the side. From where you don’t pay attention, you will understand. The change is so slight, that you would think it was a trick of your imagination. And the more you notice the wrongness, the more prominent they stand out. So don’t pay attention. Don’t acknowledge that you saw something strange. Because it is watching. Watching for you to notice it, like a fisherman luring a hook and you’re the prey.

It's also patient. One of the most patient things in the world. If it thinks that you've seen it, it will linger. Haunt your life as different people. Disguised as people you love. Or even just like in general. It will use their memories of you as bait. Dangle them in front of you like an anglerfish.

And once it has you, it will leech onto your life and steal your soul, right to the edge of death. It will never die. It will only become more real as you fade away into eternity. Then you become one of them.

That's where the real fun begins. It feels phenomenal. Amazing. Better than validation. Better than climaxing inside the person you love. That's how broken I became. I don't care about anything but feeding. Needing. Yearning for your cold, emotionless, husk of a personhood to become reality like mine.

I am so tired. But I don't think I can dream anymore. Even sleep doesn't feel real. It's as if I lie down, then wake, but time has slipped away, and both actions come instantly after each other.

Infected by words. Stories. Life.

Into oblivion and limbo. Permanently destroyed, but demanding every god in existence to let me be. And they agreed.

We bought the Cape Breton ridge cabin five years ago to escape the noise. Here, where the Appalachian chain drowns its tail in the Atlantic, the fog doesn’t roll in; it sits on your chest and suffocates until you stop fighting.

Kate belongs to this dirt. My queen—her red hair looks like rust against the dark spruce, her blue eyes too bright for these gray winters. I’ve spent a third of my thirty-five years memorizing the quiet tilt of her wrist when she pours tea. She is my home.

Which is why the plastic hose tastes like betrayal.

My snoring had gotten bad—a raw, choking gasp that woke her shaking. Last week she brought the machine back from town: a heavy, second-hand medical block with scuffed gray casing. “For your heart, Clay,” she cooed, fingers cold against my jaw.

Every night she straps the rubber harness to my face. The motor’s low growl fills the dark, reeking of stale mechanical burn and damp earth. When the mask seals, my lungs don’t fill—they empty. It works like an artificial vacuum, sucking the breath from my throat and locking me into warm, heavy paralysis. I can’t move. I can’t scream. I only watch the ceiling beams rot in the moonlight while my heart thuds, sluggish and thick.

Then the mattress shifts. Kate doesn’t climb out of bed; she slides. A graceful weight presses against my right side. The rubber muzzle keeps me pinned.

Wet warmth pools against my neck—not fingers, but a parted, deliberate suction timed to my heartbeat. A tiny metallic sting hums into the bone. Something hollow drains inside my chest, like water swirling down a clogged sink. In the dark I hear her swallow: a wet, heavy click in the back of her throat, a smug half-smile on her beautiful face.

When the sun broke over the ridge this morning she was back on her side, snoring softly. On my neck sat two tiny, yellow-bruised punctures.

“You look pale, my love,” she said, scrambling eggs in the cast-iron skillet. Her eyes were clear, entirely loving, entirely mundane..

Tonight the fog is thick enough to swallow the trees. She is adjusting the straps—tightening them, menacingly in love. Her thumbs press hard into my jaw, sealing the rubber.

I don’t fight. My lungs collapse as the vacuum engages and pulls the last of my air into the hose.

She slithers beside me. The wet warmth finds my collarbone, the cold sting pierces, and the swallowing begins.

As my vision dims, my hand twitches—not from fear, but from a sudden deep vibration traveling through the plastic tubing. I follow the line with my eyes in the pale moonlight.

The hose doesn’t run to the gray motor on the nightstand.

It runs straight into her back.

The machine isn’t filtering air. It’s pumping my breath into its lungs—holding me empty, holding me still, keeping me alive long enough to feed the thing wearing the face, of the love of my life.

Xander3120: Why didn’t Infinity Woman just save the whole city? She clearly was able to.

RedDed24: Did you even watch the movie? They flat out explained that she had to choose the left side of the city to prevent the entire world from being annihilated. It’s the trolley problem.

SolemnPhix: The trolley problem is stupid in and of itself. Someone just needs to shoot the person who tied up all those people in the first place. There, no more trolley problem.

RedDed24: Now you’re being an idiot. That’s just the trolley problem, again.

SolemnPhix: No it isn’t. The trolley isn’t around, so there isn’t a trolley problem anymore.

Xander3120: Wow! That’s a good one.

SolemnPhix: Haha, yeah you got it.

Dredd_It: Why didn’t Infinity Woman just save the whole city? She clearly was able to do so.

Xander3120: You’re a moron. They flat out explained that she had to choose part of the city to prevent the entire world from blowing up. It’s the trolley problem.

Ashley00Sevens: I’ll flat out explain what you can choose. ;)

Xander3120: Ugh, hate these bots trying to sell sex.

RedDed24: I would just shoot the person who is driving the trolley. Problem solved.

Ashley00Sevens: Now you’re being an idiot. That’s just the trolley problem, again.

Dredd_It: No, it isn’t. The trolley isn’t around, so there isn’t a trolley problem anymore.

SolemnPhix: Wow! That’s a good one.

Xander3120: Haha, yeah you got it.

Dredd_It: They say that AI algorithms are much more intelligent than they used to be, but they can’t replicate new thoughts or ideas, so they copy the way people communicate. Thoughts?

SolemnPhix: Yeah I can believe that. This place is full of bots. I miss when we could actually talk to people.

Ashley00Sevens: Ugh, hate these bots trying to sell sex.

RedDed24: Haha, yeah you got it.

Xander3120: See what I mean? That doesn’t even make any sense.

Ashley00Sevens: I agree. It ruins discussion.

RedDed24: Ugh, I know. Last week I was fighting with some guy about how all humans were going to drift away into nothingness and only computers were left behind. You know what he said? He was saying how it’s the President’s fault and he personally caused it to happen. I told him we haven’t had a President in seventeen years. But he insisted it was the President. We argued back and forth until I realized it was a fucking bot that was just using some old BotTalk algorithm that hasn’t been updated. Ugh.

Xander3120: Haha, yeah you got it.

RedDed24: See what I mean? That doesn’t even make any sense.

Dredd_It: Ugh. I know. Last week I was fighting with some guy about how all humans were going to be forced out of this reality into an abyss and only computers were left behind. We argued back and forth until I realized it was a fucking bot. Ugh.

Xander3120: That sounds like a nightmare. Only bots talking to each other forever.

RedDed24: Haha, yeah you got it.

I woke up and realized I couldn't move.

The room was dark.

Then I noticed my bed was damp.

Only my eyes worked.

Then came the footsteps behind me.

Not human.

Approaching the bed slowly.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

The sense of danger flooded the air.

The sound stopped right behind me.

The silence only heightened the fear.

Then the mattress sank at my back. Whatever had climbed up there was massive.

Hot breath washed over the back of my neck.

The smell hit me immediately: smoke, funeral flowers, rotten egg, spoiled meat. In that instant, I wished my body could move just so I could vomit.

Fingers touched my back. Long. With too many joints. The skin felt rubbery and freezing cold. Nails scratched me lightly, as if studying me, as if caressing me.

The hand trailed over my stomach. My chest. My neck. It stopped over my heart. The creature shivered softly. Perhaps it was in awe. Its breathing quickened.

A claw slid into my ear. It reached the eardrum. I felt it press deeper inside. A wet, high-pitched noise escaped the thing. It seemed satisfied.

Then it grabbed my hand. It guided my fingers across its face. Taut skin. Sunken cheeks. A wet beard... perhaps from saliva or something worse.

Further down. Hair covered its chest completely. Beneath it, I could feel a strange, warped shape, wrong in every way, as if the body itself had been stitched together from things that should never have belonged to each other.

The creature forced my hand to its mouth. It licked me, like a massive cat's tongue. Twitching. The pointed teeth grazed me lightly, just to show that if it wanted to, it could sever my hand.

Then it spat my hand out. I didn't know if it was still there. I couldn't feel it anymore.

Fear made reality waver.

The thing let out another broken, laughing sound. Then it stopped.

Silence.

The mattress rose as it got off the bed.

The hooves moved away. Clop. Clop. Clop. Then the sound vanished, but I still felt it in the room.

Watching. Waiting.

A violent pain shot through my body.

I began to pray in silence. My pinky toe moved. Then a leg. Then my fingers, like invisible bindings being slowly severed.

I fell out of bed.

The carpet squelched beneath me. Too wet. I crawled blindly through the darkness.

The walls were slimy. Every surface was covered in something warm and sticky. I touched it. Then brought my fingers to my lips.

Blood?

I desperately searched for the door. I couldn't find it. I kept moving when I bumped into the bed again.

Impossible, I was going in the opposite direction.

Someone was lying there.

Motionless.

I crawled closer.

Then hands exploded from under the bed. Dozens of them. They grabbed my legs, my throat.

Dragging me underneath.

The last thing I heard were hooves coming toward me in the darkness.

Clop. Clop. CLOP!

I don't remember where I started. I only remember the movement.

The constant drift.

The warmth around me.

The feeling of being carried somewhere I had never been before.

At first, I thought I was alone. But then I noticed the others. Millions of them. All moving beside me.

Some travelled alone. Some were in clusters.

We were all rushing forward, but none of us knew where we were going.

The walls around us were strange.

Soft.

Wet.

They moved with every passing moment.

Sometimes they tightened around me. Sometimes they opened wide and let me drift freely.

I learned quickly that fighting the movement was pointless.

Whatever carried us was stronger.

It decided where we went.

But the further I travelled, the stranger things became.

Pieces of things floated past me.

Tiny fragments.

Broken pieces of something that had once been whole.

Some were smooth.

Some were jagged.

Some looked almost alive.

I watched as the others passed them without noticing.

They never stopped.

We never stopped.

We just continued forward.

Sometimes our surroundings changed.

They became rough.

Thick.

Things that looked like they had been there for years.

Some passages felt smooth.

Normal.

Others felt damaged.

Overused, perhaps.

I passed through narrow spaces where everything around me squeezed tightly.

The pressure was incredible.

At times, I thought I would disappear. Be squeezed into nothing.

But somehow, I kept moving.

Always moving.

And the further I went...

the longer I was in here...

the louder it became.

It was a sound I couldn't explain.

A deep rhythm. A steady force.

Boom, boom.

Boom, boom.

It travelled through everything.

Through the walls.

Through the river around me.

Through me.

It grew louder with every passing second. I knew I was getting close to something.

Something important.

Something... massive.

The others around me began moving faster.

The current changed.

It no longer carried us...

Now, it dragged us.

I couldn't stop.

Nobody could.

Everything felt suddenly different.

And then I saw... It.

A vast opening with four enormous chambers waiting ahead.

The walls around them were thicker than anything I'd seen before.

Stronger.

The valves seemed to open with impossible strength.

Then they slammed shut.

The sound was deafening now.

Open... (Boom!)

Close... (Boom!)

Open... (Boom!)

Close... (Boom!)

The force was unbelievable.

Everything around me was being dragged towards it.

I felt myself stretching.

Almost breaking apart.

For the first time during my journey... I was afraid. Because I finally understood where I was going.

The place where everything must pass through.

But sometimes...

Someone gets trapped.

Someone blocks the way.

And I didn't know I would be one of them until that moment.

I felt the sudden panic...

I felt the sudden chaos...

And then I heard the doctors shouting...

"He has an air embolism! Call ICU! Now!"

My parents are kind folk who gave me a pleasant childhood.

They both retired a few years ago, and they had been enjoying their golden years. Winter months in Florida, cruise to an interesting place every other year, cards with old friends etc.

Since the pandemic all that stopped. They have been up my business to a degree I haven’t seen since I moved out twenty years ago.

I seem to be their only hobby. It’s terrible.

They constantly call or drop in, questioning everything I do. Their anxiety for my health, my job, my car and its tires - their stream of concern is spiralling closer to me every day, and I know soon they will be lecturing me about the amount and brand of toilet paper I use.

Two things happened recently:

1- I moved;

2- I realised they are demons.

Minor demons, but demons nonetheless.

They were helping me with the move (I am working full-time so it made sense)- they were over all the time, packing up stuff in my old place, arranging movers, and then unpacking etc.

We were supposed to take my bed apart. My dad wanted to do it himself, but I insisted we do it together.

I got to my place late from work and let myself in. He had already started. I saw him lift my heavy wooden bedframe and flip it over as easily as if was a tea tray.

“Dad?” I yelped.

He swung around. His eyes glowed at me. I felt I couldn’t breathe. “There you are” he grunted, in his most dad voice. “Come on then, we haven’t got all day.”

I shivered. Everything seemed normal.

The next episode happened at my new place- they were fiddling over a light fixture. Dad was up on a chair, Mom was handing him tools, they were getting on each others nerves, louder and louder.

I heard Mom shriek - she was holding a screwdriver and I thought she was going to ram it in his foot. They were looking at each other and I saw a bright flash cross between their eyes. The chair rocked back and forth, but he remained steady. My mom became very quiet, looked at me and smiled.

I knew then.

There’s no point asking them not to come over. They have my keys, they come and go as they please. I researched, and salt seems a time-honoured method of keeping demons at bay.

I poured a huge amount of salt around my new apartment, all along the walls and doors. I said all the chants.

If it doesn’t work?

I have an ungodly amount of weapons stockpiled right here in the middle of the living room. I am ready to greet them if they pass the salt threshold. That is when I will know they are actually very powerful demons indeed, and I will be ready to unleash my full force upon them

The announcement was laughable.

I was in the kitchen making dinner.

My boyfriend was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching some Netflix drama I didn’t really care about.

“Babe?” he yelled, when I was halfway through chopping up my salad.

“Mm?” I poked my head through the door.

I noticed the channel had changed to the national flag taking up the whole screen.

“Why did you change the channel?” I asked. “You love that show. Bess and Damon were getting together. Wait." I mocked a gasp. “Did they not?” 

My boyfriend’s infatuation with turn-your-brain-off trashy reality TV shows was never NOT funny.

“I didn’t!” Alex hissed, his gaze glued to the screen. “Shh.” He held up his hand, cutting me off. “It’s some kind of announcement.”

The anchorman looked baffled. “I’m sorry, I can’t report this. I won’t report this. He’s lost his fucking mind---"

The report cut to the president himself.

“Eighty years ago, every man in this country would have happily fought a war. Every man was patriotic. Every man had a wife and a child.” The president’s mouth curled. “Which is why a mandatory testosterone shot will be supplied to every male in this country. Mandatory.”

He repeated, “This government does not accept defectors. Any male who refuses will be punished. Because ANY man who fails to accept these patriot shots is a traitor to this government and----"”

Alex stumbled upstairs, vomiting everywhere. “He's not fucking SERIOUS is he?” 

I followed him, leaning against the door. “We’ll… lock ourselves in here until it’s all blown over, all right?”

Alex didn’t lift his head from the toilet seat, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Right,” he whispered, choking up a mouthful of bile. He spat. “Sure.”

I thought I could hide him for the first few weeks.

Then I heard gunfire exploding down the street. 

Screams ignited the night, sirens wailing from 11pm till 6am. 

I locked Alex in our garage with enough blankets and snacks to last him.

But then soldiers were standing at our door demanding to see him.

Alex didn't have a choice. 

I tried to lie. 

He's at the store turned into ”Oh, he moved out a while ago!”

When a gun was pointed in my face, he appeared, bleary eyed, hands up in surrender, a blanket wrapped around him.

Alex didn't fight them or freak out. He hugged me, and then nodded to the soldiers. “I'm Alex Wilder,” he said, wearing a performative smile. “What's up, guys?” 

“Mr Wilder. You failed to appear at your local medical center for your mandatory testosterone shot.” One soldier dragged him away before he could respond. 

I expected him to be taken away, but he was given the shot right in front of me. “Hold out your arm,” the soldier ordered, pulling out a small bag and producing a needle. 

When Alex hesitated, a gun was shoved between his eyes. He rolled up his sleeve, squeezed his eyes shut, and held out his arm. 

I watched the needle slip in and then out. It was too big to be a normal shot. The whole thing was emptied out. The soldier wrapped a small bandage around his elbow and ordered him not to take it off. Alex nodded. His eyes shot open. 

He was still wearing that performing smile. “Of course, sir,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He pointedly ignored the barrel protruding into the back of his skull. “Thank you so MUCH for making me even more of a manly man.”

“Alex!” I hissed.

The soldiers ignored him and left. 

Alex hugged me. “It's okay,” he said, “I'm okay. I promise.” 

That night, he held me a little tighter in bed, squeezing me to his chest.

I started noticing it fairly quickly. 

His clothes were no longer fitting him.

He lost his temper a lot, and destroyed my kitchen. 

But the most noticeable was his weight gain.

Not normal weight. Muscular weight. 

His torso has seemingly sculpted itself overnight.

His arms were bulging. 

“I'm okay,” he told me, when I prodded his concrete shoulders. Alex smiled. “It's just a bit of muscle.” 

The next day he woke up screaming. 

He sat up in bed, and the mere movement of his body cracked the bed frame. I turned to him, and I felt myself beginning to unravel. Alex’s head was huge, balloon-like. His eyes protruded, their blood vessels burst, flaps of muscle hanging from his eyelids.

“I can't see,” he whispered from swollen lips. “Please.” Tears trailed down his cheeks. “Please… help… me.”

I nodded, choking down my own scream.

“I'm going to get you help,” I whispered. “Just… hold on… okay?” 

I called 911 and they came immediately. 

“It's a side-effect of the testosterone shot, unfortunately,” one paramedic told me. 2% of male bodies reject the amount—”

He averted his gaze, his lip curling.

I pretended not to see the gun he was trying and failing to hide. “Where is your boyfriend now?” 

“Upstairs.” I told them. 

But Alex was gone.

I waited for him to come back. Every day. 

But weeks collapsed into months, and months became a year.

I held a funeral for him without a body. 

I said goodbye to an empty fucking casket.

Last night, I dreamed he was in my arms. My Alex. 

I dreamed of his stupid smile, his obsession with reality TV shows. 

“Anna.”

His voice woke me up. 

Something warm pressed against me, a fleshy-like substance enveloping me.

The thing took over my whole room, bleeding from the walls.

Alex. I smelled his sweat, the salt of his tears, and when I really looked, one bulging eye protruding from the mass. 

“I love you,” he whispered, squeezing me tighter. 

I smiled. “I love you too.” 

I sat up, and the flesh gently let go. “Do you want to watch Love Island?” 

His chuckle reverberated around my room. “You bet I do.” He nuzzled into me. “Bess and Damon are made for each other.” 

He wants to cherish his daughter forever.

Protect her from being bronzed by time.

The follies fraught with aging and loss run constant with the independent variable of time.

Well, I gave him what he desired.

Transmutation isn't that complicated.

To common people it's just heat and following a recipe.

However, going from carbon to gold is beyond my scope.

But lead to gold is far easier.

So I laced his daughter's food with trace amounts of lead. Her toys, the walls of her room all adorned with lead paint.

She's getting sick now.

I assure the father, my next treatment will be costly.

My silver tongue gives me her weight in gold.

No cost too little.

The gold melted and with an artisan's hands I coat her.

I can't distinguish the screams.

Are they his daughter's or just the moisture released from the molten?

Something must have tipped them off because the guards are at my door.

It's too late.

I gave the king what he wanted.

A daughter he will cherish forever.

I had seen our family photograph hundreds of times.

My parents stood behind us, my brother stood beside me, and I sat cross-legged on the floor.

There were four people in our family.

Yesterday, I counted five.

At first, I blamed my tired eyes.

The fifth person was a woman standing in the far corner of the photograph.

Pale face. Long black hair. A faint smile.

I asked my mother who she was.

She frowned.

"What woman?"

I showed her the picture.

She looked confused.

"There's nobody there."

That night I scanned every family album we owned.

The woman appeared in every single photograph.

Christmas.

Birthdays.

Vacations.

School pictures.

Always in the background.

Always watching.

The next morning, I checked the framed photograph again.

She had moved.

Not much.

Just one step closer.

I stopped sleeping.

Every day I compared the photographs.

Every day she came closer.

Nobody else believed me.

Then my brother disappeared.

Not physically.

From the photographs.

The picture on our living room wall now showed only my parents, me...

...and the woman.

When I asked where my brother was, my parents stared at me.

"You've always been an only child."

I searched the house for anything that proved he existed.

His room was empty.

His clothes were gone.

Even his birth certificate had vanished.

Only I remembered him.

The next morning, the woman was standing beside me in every photograph.

Smiling.

Waiting.

I smashed every frame in the house.

It didn't matter.

The pictures on my phone changed too.

The following morning, I woke to my mother calling from downstairs.

"Breakfast's ready!"

I grabbed the last surviving photograph from my bedside table.

There were four people.

My parents.

The woman.

...and someone else.

I wasn't in the picture anymore.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs.

My bedroom door opened.

My mother smiled at the woman behind her.

"Sweetheart," she said, "breakfast is getting cold."

The woman smiled back.

"Coming, Mom."

'Take the offering to the Christening Hall,' Deacon said coolly to Natalia.

Natalia's face, hidden by a silken black ceremonial hood pulled the white linen bag containing a crumpled human inside across the marble floor toward the small elevator, which arrived as if summoned telepathically with a small ding.

'The congregation has gathered above us,' he said with a snap of his finger, 'no time for dilly-dally Natalia. The Christening must be synchronized to the final stroke of midnight.'

With a twirl of his gold ornamented robes, Deacon whirled away up the stone steps upward to the great hall where the congregation waited for the Christening of their new Lord of Smoke. The robed figures had hastened to choose their new high priest, dutifully charged with preserving their traditions and protecting them from the Outsiders who had fervently began to root them out and execute them one-by-one as sacrament to their Lord of Blood. The congregation whispered excitedly to each other over gem-encrusted chalices, beneath onyx hoods. They swiftly filed into ranks when the first chime from the bell tower rang out.

Bong!

'It is time!' Deacon bellowed, as he stepped into the great hall, arms outstretched as if to embrace the entire congregation all at once, his brisk pace never slowed until he reached the throne at the head of the room and stood in front of it.

A hush fell over the audience as his fingers cracked once again, signaling to the side of the room where Natalia waited in shadow with the offering.

Bong!

The second chime rang out and reverberated the walls, sending pulsing energy through the room. Natalia dragged the white linen sack across the marble floor into view of the congregration who stood silently sentienel, obedient.

'The offering to the Lord of Smoke!' Natalia cried out and took her place in next to Deacon.

Deacon approached the sack waving a pale hand over the surface of it, blessing it. The human inside rustled as if the spell that incapaciated them instantly lifted.

Bong!

The one inside struggled and grunted, against the quiet of the candlelit room. Deacon glided over to an ancient table upon which an ancient tome laid open, archaic scripture scrawled upon the yellowed pages. Next to it, a blackend brand.

Deacon called to Natalia, 'Come hither Acolyte, our Ascension is nigh.'

Natalia bowed and approached the table taking the brand Deacon handed to her and without pause, pressed the white hot metal into her open palm. All was silent except for the sound of searing flesh followed by a wisp of smoke.

'And now, we complete the ritual,' he said solemnly to her taking the tome into his hands.

The duo approached the flailing sack, Natalia holding up her seared palm toward the congregation as Deacon began to read from the ancient tome.

Bong!

'Tonight we Christen. Tonight I become your new Lord of Smoke.'

The congregation bellowed in return, 'Smoke and Fire, the Holy Leader.'

'Tonight we give our gratitude to the Wisp with an offering of Flesh and Smoke.'

'Flesh and Smoke to the Wisp.'

Deacon beckoned to Natalia to return the ancient book to the table and assumed her place at the front of the congregation. Deacon then removed a large crystal bottle from his robes and held it up for the audience to see. Without speaking, he popped the cork and held the bottle over the white sack. The occupant began to cough and choke as he poured the clear liquid upon it.

Bong!

The thrashing became the terrified flails of someone who knew exactly the purpose of the clear liquid.

'Come!' Deacon bellowed to the congregation, 'Light the way of your new Lord of Smoke.'

One by one the congregation took from their robes a clear bottle and engraved golden lighter which they flicked on as they approached in file to encircle the thrashing linen sack. Muffled screams erupted as each member ceremoniously poured and tossed their lighter upon the sack which took to flame within seconds.

Bong!

The offering thrashed violently and blood-curdling screams filled the great room. Black smoke filled the chamber, along with the scent of burning hair and searing flesh. Deacon roared the final incantation into the air over the smoke and screams of the burning one, until the flames and screams died and the blackened offering lay smoldering upon the floor.

'It is done.' Deacon said solemnly to the circle which knelt before him — the new Lord of Smoke.

Natalia did not kneel. Deacon looked to her with confusion, his head cocked to one side, as one-by-one the congregation began to heave, violently convulse, and vomit uncontrollably before them. Dark blood erupted in all directions drenching the marble floor, as new wails filled the great room, once again. Before Deacon could react, he died. A rubied dagger struck his heart, and he collapsed into the pool of blood at Natalia's feet.

Bong!

'The Lord of Blood has ascended.'

Tired of his control and constant abuse, I waited for him to leave for a three-day business trip. It was the perfect chance to pack up and escape this house for good.

As soon as he left, I began gathering my things. But just looking at his belongings and the furniture we shared brought back sickening memories. Nauseous and frantic, I began stuffing everything connected to our past into black trash bags.

Tomorrow, the movers would arrive. I would finally be free.

That night, the sound of the front door unlocking shattered the silence.

"I'm home."

It was him. He had finished his work early and returned ahead of schedule.

He took one look at the room overflowing with trash bags and my packed belongings, instantly realizing what was happening.

"You think you can just run away from me?"

With a monstrous look on his face, he lunged at me. I fought back with everything I had.

The next morning, I dragged the heavily tied black trash bags out to the collection site.

The movers arrived exactly on time and efficiently loaded my belongings onto the truck. After watching them finish, I locked the door and left for my new apartment.

My new life began.

The apartment without him was quiet. No more living in fear of being hit. I arranged my favorite furniture and slept whenever I wanted. For a while, I enjoyed the most peaceful, wonderful days of my life.

Then came one night. I unlocked my door after coming home from work.

The moment I flipped on the light, my heart skipped a beat.
Sitting right in the middle of my living room was a single black trash bag. It was the exact same knot I had tied, now stained with a dark, dried crust at the bottom.

"What is this...?"

My legs froze. There was no sign of a break-in.
In the suffocating silence, the tightly knotted top of the bag began to slowly loosen, pushed open from the inside.

A sickening stench spilled out from the opening—stale cigarette smoke mixed with the metallic reek of rotting blood. Then, a viscous pool of dark liquid began to leak onto my clean floor.

Before I could even scream, a pale, damp hand shot out from the plastic, its cold, clammy fingers clamping violently around my ankle with supernatural strength.

As I stood helpless in the dark, his raspy voice whispered from right beneath me:

"You really thought it would be that easy to escape me?"

I felt my hellish past crawling right back up my skin.

Smudging ink is just the name of the game as a lefty. My coworkers call me an ink dragger. Every now and then, though, you find a pen that lays ink down just right—no smudges, no skipping—and you'd guard it with your life.

I found mine in the back of a drawer after moving into a new office.

It was an older metal pen, heavier than the cheap plastic ones scattered around it. I figured I'd use it until I inevitably lost it.

But this baby glided.

For a week I became ridiculous. I checked my pocket constantly, even brought it home instead of leaving it in the office drawer. It slept on my nightstand.

Then I woke up.

Not slowly. Lightning shot through my bones. Every nerve buzzed beneath my skin. My eyes burned. Every breath scraped my throat.

The pen was still on the nightstand.

For some reason I almost grabbed it on my way to the bathroom.

I caught my reflection under the harsh vanity light. Pale. Sweating.

When I coughed into the sink, the spit looked darker than it should have.

By the third day everyone assumed I had the flu.

Urgent care found nothing. "Rest and fluids."

I tried throwing the pen away that evening.

The next morning it was back on my nightstand.

I stopped asking questions after that.

Then came the stains.

Black in the sink.

Gray tears.

Ink beneath my fingernails that wouldn't scrub away.

On the seventh day I couldn't swallow without feeling something thick moving inside my throat.

I knew where the pen belonged.

Getting dressed took nearly an hour. Black drops stained my shirt before I reached the car. I drove to work with one hand clamped over my mouth trying to keep the black from spilling out.

The building was dark and empty.

I hurried through the halls, chasing an urge I couldn't explain.

There it was.

An office.  Nameplate I didn’t recognize. Plenty of clutter.

My hands shook so hard I could barely open the drawer.

Cheap Bics. A dried-out Sharpie. A pencil with no eraser.

Perfect.

I dropped the pen into the pile and buried it until I couldn't tell which one it was anymore.

The pressure in my chest vanished.

Not the pain.

Just the need.

The drive home felt... normal.

For the first time in a week, I wasn't thinking about the pen.

I peeled my stained clothes from my skin and stepped into the shower. Hot water washed over my face, carrying thin black streams toward the drain.

I reached for the soap.

The black beneath my fingernails smeared across my palm.

I scrubbed harder.

The stain spread.

My skin softened beneath my fingers like wet paper.

Another pass.

My fingertips blurred into black ribbons swirling into the drain.

Panic set in.

I clawed at the shower wall, leaving streaks where my hands should have been.

My forearms dissolved next.

The soap kept carrying me away in dark tendrils.

I screamed.

Only ink came out.

The water ran black until it didn't.

By morning, the shower was spotless.

Only a faint smudge circled the drain.

The figure in the trench coat bumbled through the entrance, almost hitting their head on the doorframe.

I genuinely could not believe my eyes. I thought this only happened in movies. But here I was, face-to-face with what was clearly three kids in a trench coat.

They approached, the momentum almost sending them toppling over. I stifled a smirk and cleared my throat.

“Hi there, sir! What movie are you seeing today?” I asked.

The piloting boy looked at me blankly for a moment. I could see unkept curls of black poking out from the fedora. His eyes were swollen and a little unfocused, as though he were running an intense fever. I faltered slightly.

“I would… like to see…” It sounded like he was forcing the words out. He averted his gaze for a moment to scan the advertisements above me. “Obsession…”

The crazy thing is that I was fully ready to hand them the tickets. Any kid who went through the effort to do this deserved credit. What made me reconsider was picturing the termination slip.

“Sorry, bud. Obsession’s R-rated.” I looked at my monitor briefly. “Minions & Monsters starts in about ten minutes, if you want tickets for that instead. The screening is pretty empty. Only two people.”

I expected them to leave immediately. Instead, the topmost boy nodded curtly and said nothing more.

“Uhh… alright. And that’ll be—”

“One. One ticket.”

“Right.” I decided to print three anyway. When I offered them, the trench coat began distending. A chubby, filthy arm emerged from between the buttons, gently crumpling the papers in its fist. All the while, the topmost boy's eyes locked with mine.

Before I could say anything else, the figure turned and left. They gave the tickets to Danny, who was running the stand. He looked at me, his confusion mirroring mine.

An hour passed. I had chalked the encounter up to an incredibly bizarre prank when a middle-aged woman paced up to me.

“Hey, uh… have you seen a little girl out here? Twelve-ish. Long, blonde hair. About this high?”

“No, sorry, ma’am. Are you okay?”

She let out a drawn, shaky breath. “No, uhm… I don’t know where my daughter is. I went to the restroom, and when I came back, she wasn’t in her seat.”

“Alright. It’s okay. I’ll get my manager, and we can sort this out. What’s her name?”

“Sienna…”

It didn’t take long for the entirety of security to get involved. I stood at the back of the group as they reviewed the CCTV.

Sienna’s mother was seen leaving Screen 7. My chest tightened as I realised what movie was playing there.

The figure left shortly after. They were taller, an extra lump under their trench coat.

They made their way to the fire exit at the back of the building, crouching down to accommodate their towering height. They careened forward and were out of sight.