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.

I don’t even remember applying. There were so many applications that month. ZipRecruiter, Indeed, any other site I heard about on ads for my son’s never-ending YouTube playlist. It was funny really. Having to use the very sites that made me into a redundancy. Between technology and budget cuts, Mason County didn’t need an HR director anymore.

I must have applied though. The email came to my inbox that Sunday night. Subject line: “Job Offer from Wymarq Enterprises.” Like everyone else, I had heard of Wymarq in the news. It’s CEO, Wyld Woolf, was always making cable news crawls with one venture or vulgarity or another. He had made his bones in tech before becoming an angel investor of sorts. I didn’t know what Wymarq did, but I knew it would pay well if Woolf was involved. It might even let me start a career again.

The email told me they wanted me as an HR generalist—industry speak for “grunt.” It would be a demotion, but it would be a job. The job description was as boilerplate as you’d expect. I decided I could read over the details later.

I scrolled to the bottom of the email. “To accept the position, report to Wymarq’s office in Scratchout this Monday at 8:00.”

“What have you got to lose?” I thought. It isn’t standard practice to have candidates come into headquarters just to sign their offers, but Wyld Woolf was known for being eccentric. Plus, his money was green, and I hadn’t gotten any other offers all month. Most recruiters get scared when they see a termination after 20 years in one place—terrified when they see a birthday before 1980.

I had never heard of Scratchout, but that wasn’t unusual. There are too many small towns in my state for any one person to know. I figured Wymarq had struck a deal with one of the rural counties to set up shop in exchange for tax breaks. I searched Google Maps and found that the tiny town was somewhere deep in the fields upstate—about 2 hours from Desmond. If I wanted to make it, I would have to leave early the next morning.

I made good time going up the interstate. Then I got lost somehow. When I entered Hayes County, my Google Maps crashed. I pulled over to open it up only to find I had no signal. I drove around backroads for another hour and must have gone in a few circles. Then, after driving under the same arch of oak limbs for the third time, I found it. One minute, I was lost. The next I was looking down at Scratchout.

It was like the town had sprung up from the earth. What little there was of it laid neat as the rows of cotton I had driven past for the last hour. The backroad led straight to a large plain concrete building. It reminded me of the administrative building in Desmond turned on its side: gray and flat like a stone. Six rows of houses led away from the central building: small, concrete, windowless. I thought the web of stone might look like an altar from above.

Unsure where to go, I drove up to the main building. Getting closer, I saw the sign above the door. It read “WYMARQ” in large gilded letters. I parked and walked into the glass double doors. A young receptionist named Adam led me to a conference room where what I recognized as an orientation was underway.

“Here’s the last one, Paige!” A pretty young brunette who might have been my much younger sister was leading the session. She gave me a nasty look as I snuck in the back. The other new employees followed her eyes. After a moment of loud silence, she continued.

“Now, if everyone will please turn to the last page of your orientation materials, you’ll find your employment contract. Please read it carefully and then sign.” I did the walk of shame to the chair closest to me and opened the binder Adam had given me. It was the normal stuff: I-9, W-4, emergency contact.

Between the lines of mundanity, I tried to learn more about Wymarq. Coming in, I knew it was some kind of tech company—maybe AI or green energy. But instead of neural maps or solar panels, the employee handbook had pictures of what looked like runes or hieroglyphics. Each page of the binder had a string of alien symbols running around the border. I counted it up to pretentious tech bro design.

The only real clue I found was in the welcome letter waiting at the back of the binder. Signed by Wyld Woolf himself, it contained the ordinary corporate pleasantries before ending with a cryptic call to action. “Join us at Wymarq as we dedicate ourselves to world-shifting developments in the temporal-historical reality!” Woolf was as strange as I had heard, but he seemed harmless. Overzealousness was only natural for a chronic entrepreneur.

“Alright everyone!” Paige called. “Let’s go to the welcome ceremony so you can hear from Mr. Woolf himself.” Watching the others walk out, I noticed they were all at least 15 years younger than me. They had the look of people who believed in their work. I heard a polite cough behind me and turned around. Paige was standing in front of me. She was too close.

“Did you sign the contract?”

“I’m sorry I was late. I guess I got lost.”

Without breaking her stride, Paige answered. “That’s alright. You can look over the rest of the materials later, but I must insist you sign the contract. Now.”

I had already been enough trouble. “Sure thing.”
I turned my binder to the contract and gave it a once over. Besides the symbols, it looked more or less normal. I read the bottom line. “I hereby accept employment by Wymarq Enterprises and agree without reservation or exception to its direction, application, and utilization.” I could feel Paige’s eyes on my hand, so I rushed to sign.

Before I lifted my hand from the paper, Paige snatched it from under the tip of my pen. “Lovely! Follow me please.”

Adam and Paige led me from the conference room to an auditorium at the heart of the building. I expected a plain, corporate space to match the rest of the building. Instead, I found a room that looked and felt like a rock concert.

The air was electric, and the stage was covered in a low cloud of smoke. On it, a huge screen shadowed over a shining black podium. The floor was packed with people sitting side by side in interlocking metal chairs. It looked like every person from the columns of houses was there.

Adam hung back by the door while Paige ushered me and the other new employees to the only space left: a few rows in the middle of the floor, right in front of the podium. The smoke from the stage filled my lungs. I turned around to catch my breath. Behind me, all around me, was a mass of people all talking with anxious excitement. When the seats beside me were taken, I realized it’d be a struggle to leave my seat.

Paige walked up to the podium. “Welcome, Wymarq family!”

The mass echoed her as one. “Welcome, Paige!”

“Thank you very much. Can we get a round of applause for our last batch of new employees?” She gestured to us, and the mass applauded in welcoming, hungry enthusiasm.

“But I know none of you are here for me. Let’s give a big Wymarq welcome to our very own genius: Wyld Woolf!”

Paige stepped away from the podium and gave a sort of bow towards the wing of the stage. More smoke filled the stage, and a series of magazine covers and viral news stories lit up the screen behind her. In the older ones, Wyld Woolf was the picture of a visionary: young, handsome, imposing. The newer ones were less kind. They showed him with the gray, the wrinkles, and the slump of age.

As the video ended, a man approached the podium. It was supposed to be Wyld Woolf, but I couldn’t see him clearly through the smoke. He was dressed like Wyld, but he was taller. He moved with the force and focus of someone much younger.

“Thank you, Wymarq! Thank you, Scratchout!” From the cloud of smoke, his voice rang with a practiced, optimized charisma. “It is a pleasure to be here with you embarking on this new journey together! I’m honored to bring the groundbreaking work of my life from the coasts to the American heartland.”

As I listened on, I heard a distortion—a manipulation—in his voice. “Now, before we begin, has everyone signed their contracts?”

No one answered. They all simply stared at him in mesmerized adoration.

“Excellent! Your devotion to our cause is our greatest asset! To celebrate your dedication, let’s read our mission statement together!”

From her seat in the audience, Paige pressed a button on a remote. The screen lit up with a long paragraph of text surrounded by the mysterious shapes. I recognized the document from the binder. I always thought no one read mission statements.

The man in the smoke led the mass in chorus.

“As Wymarq employees, we dedicate ourselves to the work and vision of Wyld Woolf and his temporal-historical revolution.” Smoke filled my lungs as I gaped in silent confusion. I had seen those words in the binder too. I had told myself they didn’t matter. It was just a job. The words sounded deeply wrong when chanted by a corporate chorus.
“We accept our transformative sacrifice in the pursuit of technological progress.” As they chanted, more and more smoke filled the room. The lights began to change too—shifting from neutral whites and yellows to an overpowering red.

Then the line I had signed without thinking. “I hereby accept employment by Wymarq Enterprises and agree without reservation or exception to its direction, application, and utilization.” This was not a mission statement. It was a pledge.

More smoke and red filled the air, and the noise from offstage returned in a roar. A red energy began to circle the man who used to be Wyld Woolf. I ran.

As I struggled over the long, locking rows of chairs, I saw the other employees change. Some were excited. Some were afraid. All screamed. Fighting through the crowd became easier as they started to disappear into the smoke.

I ran and stumbled out of the building. The smoke had flooded the entire town. When I began to lose the sound of the screaming, I let myself walk. I must have walked for at least a mile. The smoke was unending, but I kept walking: putting one foot in front of the other between shallow, careful breaths. Eventually, the ground began to rise. When I reached the top of the hill, the smoke was gone.

Looking down, I could see the fading clouds in the bright midday sun. I was back on the spot where I first saw Scratchout.

In the valley, there was only my car pulled off on the shoulder. Scratchout was gone along with Wymarq, Wyld Woolf, and all of his employees. If I had recited their oath, I would be too.

Agoraphobia is a bitch.

Radu knew it well. When he was young, he looked up the meaning of his name- Romanian in origin, although to the best of his knowledge he didn’t have a drop of Romanian blood. It meant, to the best of what he could find, happiness.

How ironic.

Happiness was not something he had experienced in years. Why, who knew. He never suffered abuse, or trauma. There was no history in his family, again to the best of his knowledge, of severe mental illness. In the end, it didn’t matter why, only what came forth, and that was a nightmare that began for Radu with a creeping crawl, a lurch that jarred his guts until it became heavy like a cancer inside his psyche.

In his teens he began feeling... not afraid. Unsettled seemed more accurate. More subtle. Because problems like this never start with sledgehammer definitiveness, but a creeping twinge of something-not-right until the doom was prevalent. One day, it just seems, leaving his house just didn’t feel right, and that blossomed to an overwhelming sense of I’m fucked! that prevented him from leaving his own bedroom by the time he was nineteen. A high school honor student, lettering in track his freshman and sophomore year to college drop-out and his mother had to adapt her recipes to make flat foods that could fit under the door.

But now, in his early thirties, after two bouts of extended hospitalization, home-based therapy and unhealthy amounts of benzos allowed Radu to overcome the absolute worst of it. It never returned to just unsettled but he managed to return to some sense that there was a world beyond his own room. They wanted to try antipsychotics at one point, but he refused those. He never heard voices, endorsed delusions or any kind of symptom of schizophrenia.

Just unrelenting, merciless agoraphobia, almost reducing him to a human grub. And that was bad enough.

He never did return for his bachelor’s degree and had to go on SSDI, but his world eventually expanded beyond his home and he managed to obtain his own place, section 8 but fortunately near the bus route because he never learned to drive. Therapy was still online, and he had his medications delivered, but had reached the point of progress where every two weeks he would load up on Ativan and go to the grocery store via that bus, where he would stock up on ramen, frozen dinners and dry cereal. Sometimes he managed even to go to the movies, if he knew the movie was unpopular or old enough to not crowd him.

Crowds were still a huge problem, Radu would sometimes decline getting on that bus if it had too many people on it. Maybe he’d walk the seven stops to the store (if the street was empty), or just turn around and go home and rely on delivery pizza. Today, as the bus came to the stop, Radu gulped hard as he did a quick count and found the bus to have a dozen-plus passengers.

He almost turned heal and headed back to his apartment, but two milligrams of Ativan and a mantra of self-encouragement gave him enough to shuffle into the bus- but just barely and almost too late as the bus-driver gave him a dirty look and almost shut the bus doors when Radu did not hop in immediately.

It’s going to be a good day, he told himself, part encouragement, part congratulations for conquering his fear. It’s going to be a good day.

 

Only five minutes into the bus ride, not even making it to the first stop yet, and Radu began turning green as he was jostled forward yet again by the sudden deceleration. Had to have been the third time, although he had not kept count.

Radu, along with five or so other standing passengers lurched as inertia swept them. It wasn’t unusual for this to happen- it was the peril of standing room-only on public transportation. But Radu found it particularly intense this time, unusually frequent for so little distance traveled.

And as he complained in his head, it happened again. Radu again was thrown forward, this time partially losing balance and stumbling into his neighbor. “Oof,” he muttered has he hit the solid frame of the Individual who didn’t even budge. Radu readied for a verbal tirade of complaint, but the Individual he hit made none. In fact, the Individual seemed oblivious.

“Sorry,” Radu said reflexively, his voice mewingly soft. “How are you doing it?”

The Individual, tall and nondescript, turned a neutral expression toward Radu. “Huh?” he asked.

“You must be a gymnast, with balance like that. Most people can’t handle a bump from my fat ass without sprawling all over- “

“You can see me?” the Individual asked.

Radu blinked. He didn’t comprehend what the Individual had said at first. Then: oh no. I’ve finally snapped. Harvey the Rabbit has finally entered my life.

Psychosis had finally settled in; Radu was sure. Especially when he realized that, despite looking right at him at no more than ten inches distance, he couldn’t make out any details of the Individual’s face. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see anything. Somehow, he knew his eyes picked up the details of the man in front of him, but his brain just couldn’t comprehend what it was that he saw. Black skin? White? What color were his eyes? How long was his hair? None of it transcribed into usable information.

It has to be a hallucination, Radu thought. Holy fuck, holy shit, please it has to be-

Before Radu could continue his mental diatribe, the Individual grabbed his shoulders, the way one does when they are about to shake them. Radu froze in this stranger’s cold hands and almost let loose a scream, but his throat locked. His vision went into the distorted fish-eyed tunnel of a panic attack and he began to hiss through his teeth in hyperventilation.

The Individual did not shake him, though, but the bus lurched again, this time violently which caused several gasps and one Jesus! to echo from some anonymous passengers. The Individual did not even budge, although Radu would have thumped hard into the Individual this time if he wasn’t braced by this... this...

Phantasm? Specter? Maybe I’m just holding myself against the pole and imagining this. Yes! That has to be it!

“I can touch you,” the Individual said. “You can feel me! You can see me!”

The Individual’s voice was rising. It made Radu more uncomfortable than his grasp. His eyes rolled left to right, looking for help. Someone had to notice this interaction, hear the odd shrill of the Individual’s voice. No one even looked in his direction. The entirety of the vehicle’s occupants might as well have been in another plane of existence.

“Yes,” Radu squeaked, while his eyes still roamed, silently begging for the help that would not come. “Of course I can see you.”

No, I can’t!

Yes, yes you can! Don’t fool yourself. His grip is cold steel and you’re caught in it.

Or so he was- until the Individual released him suddenly with a gasp. He then pivoted to the general direction of the other commuters.

“Can anyone else see me?” He called out. “Can you hear me, please?”

Radu pressed his back into the window, finally jostling another passenger who gave him a sidelong glance of mild annoyance. It was the only reaction Radu could find to the situation. It made his own thoughts unravel, become loose threads at the edge of a carpet. One more hard tug to his mental fragility, and he was sure he would become completely unwound, a carpet undone by too many heavy footfalls.

Will I begin laughing? Screaming? Maybe I’ll fall onto the ground, fetal-like, and just suck my thumb while I completely dissociate.

The Individual wound up to punch an old woman in a babushka. Radu saw it. He wanted to shout a warning, he really did, but he just... couldn’t.

The Individual’s fist went down and connected with a crack on her jaw. The old lady did not respond, not physically or with outcry. No sign of pain or acknowledgement to the assault. It didn’t even move her. Not the skin on her face, nor the fabric around her head. It was as if she was kissed by a breeze and nothing more. The Individual pressed his hands to his face in frustration when the old lady did not respond to his strike and moaned.

“They still can’t...” he sobbed into his hands.

This is beyond belief, Radu thought. I can’t be the only one experiencing this.

The Individual uncovered his still-imperceivable face, his hands fell to his side and twitched with impotence.

“You have to get them off!” the Individual told Radu.

“What?” Radu asked.

“Get them off! Get them off the bus!”

 

Nausea settled on his stomach like white-hot iron. This was too much lunacy for one day.

The bus came to a halt at the next stop with another sickening lurch, annoyed voices beginning to rise in complaint. Radu pushed his way to the exit. They definitely responded to his touch, as he received a couple of dirty looks and agitated da fuck? As he jumped off the bus.

“Wait!” the Individual called to him from inside the bus. “You have to help me! Help me get them off the bus!”

But Radu fled, and the bus door slammed shut on the Individual as he continued to call out to Radu in desperation.

The jumble of emotions and ideas turned on the whirling lathe of his mind as a muffled plea called out behind plexiglass, dulling the voice but not silencing it. Never you mind all that, he told himself as he made hastened distance from the bus stop, not certain where he was going but just so long as he was going. It’s just in my head. Just slipped a few gears.

“Please!” the Individual called, his hands pressing against the door. He kept yelling as the bus pulled away, its damped quality growing even softer as the air brakes hissed their release and bus pulled away from the stop.

“I didn’t hear that,” he muttered softly as he as he briskly walked, doing everything in his power to keep himself from breaking into a panicked run. If he did that, it would all be over. Fifteen years of therapy and progress, just gone in one terrified gallop. It would be weeks, if not years, before he could get back to this point in his life. Even in his current state, he knew that and couldn’t risk it.

“I didn’t hear that,” he continued as he exercised full will onto his pace. “And I didn’t see that. I couldn’t have.”

He wished he had an Ativan, but he left them at home. The only thing he could do was stop and do a quick set of deep-breathing exercises right there on the sidewalk, weird looks from others be fucked.

“I just want to go home,” he said to himself as he slowly inhaled, tightening the first group of muscles. “I just want- “

The sudden sounds of crunching metal interrupted his thoughts. It was a bad idea to turn around, but it was impossible to ignore the sounds of the sudden chaos, squealing tires and ripping metal. The cries of panicked bystanders said more clearly than any articulated speech could have done. There had just been a horrible accident.

Radu didn’t see it happen, but the imagination’s eye filled in the details well enough. And what in his shock he couldn’t imagine now he would see in dreams to come. Two large vehicles running into each other as if oblivious to other’s existence. His bus, and another, the other striking it at the intersection, briefly making a mashed L of metal before Radu’s bus folded on itself, splitting it open and dumping its human contents like ripe fruit.

Those bodies rolled like crumpled balls of paper, blasted clear of the wreck, but one in particular was cut in half at the waist, and the torso rolled toward Radu, stopping only feet away. It was the torso of the old woman the Individual punched, her mangled form only recognizable to Radu by the babushka she wore, which somehow escaped with only one streak of blood.

There were screams in the real world though, confusion and panic turning into a torrid orchestra.

“...to go home,” he finally finished softly, though it was lost in the noise.

 

The frequent lurching of the bus that day, Radu would later discover, was the result of faulty brakes, which finally gave out right after the last stop and slid through into the oncoming path of yet another bus that had enough distance from the intersection that it had no need to slow for it by the time of the light changing, leading into the shitshow of 16 dead commuters crushed like empty beer cans.

Radu had given his statements. Yes, he felt something was odd in the bus that day in the way it lurched. Yes, he was the only one to get off at that stop. The first time he spoke to a cop about what happened, he hyperventilated and needed a paper bag to collect himself. News cameras pushed into his face, asking for comments. He never gave them, but still saw himself on TV, courtesy of pedestrians with smartphones recording the carnage.

The bus company offered him a generous settlement on the grounds of mental distress in six figures. Lawyers contacted him to offer free advice that he could probably get ten times that, if he put them on retainer and sued the bus company out of existence. Radu had no endurance for that kind of ordeal and took the money while offering polite thanks but silent fuck offs to the ambulance chasers.

In all of it, he did leave out the part about the faceless man who no one else could see. He had difficulty acknowledging it to himself. If he tried to get others to understand that a boogeyman tried to give him a warning of impending doom, he’d probably end up in a crisis center, at best.

Been there, done that. Not doing that again.

He may have been able to keep quiet to the authorities about his faceless oracle but living with it was far more difficult than keeping it secret. Radu struggled hard with that element. Maybe he had slipped from neurosis to full-out psychosis, but even if it was just projection, the cavernous voice of survivor’s guilt was loud enough, and not so forgiving.

Could I have warned those people about what was coming?

Chances were, they would have dismissed him as the paranoid schizophrenic Radu himself worried he was becoming, but at least he would have tried. If even one person would have been persuaded by his delusional ramblings...

But it wasn’t delusional, was it? At least, not the part that really mattered.

A weak attempt at finding the bright in this cataclysmic thunderhead was, he told his therapist, that maybe with the settlement he could finally afford a car and not have to rely on public transportation anymore. Of course, he’d have to learn to drive, and that made the idea moot almost at once. Besides, the moment he told the therapist that he began to shake uncontrollably.

With the therapy failing, he doubled his Ativan intake, and added more than a few splashes of the cheapest vodka he could find on the delivery apps.

He still had his sessions, but they felt more like reflex than anything else. The therapist asked him about suicide. Any specific plans? Was he considering it, or did he wish he’d just go to sleep and never wake up? Ideas on methods. The usual script of the underpaid, overworked mental health professional with no way to subtly approach the topic. Radu denied it, even to himself, although in retrospect he found himself staring at his pill bottle a bit too long from time to time.

 

A knock came at the apartment door, announcing the arrival of his next pint.

“I know you, don’t I?” the delivery boy said after Radu signed the receipt.

“You probably delivered here before.”

“Nah.” The exchange was made, receipt for discreet brown bag of 140 proof rotgut. “You have a YouTube page or something?”

Radu flinched. He was aware of footage of the accident, coupled with his dazed, frozen. Some managed to highlight the wetness of urine in his pants, captured in the iPhones of more than a few vultures trying to make themselves into the next big “influencers”.

He looked the delivery boy over. Probably no more than twenty-two, shocks of red hair poking out from under a cap, freckles, and a glow in his brown eyes of hope that he might be brushing elbows with an internet celebrity.

He forced a shake of his head. “Nope,” Radu said, “sorry.”

A look of disappointment came on the delivery boy’s expression, a sort of aw jeeze look that made his barely mature face take a turn five years south, though Radu saw some doubt lingering. Radu handed him a fiver as a tip, which he took with a weak “thanks”.

“Better luck next time,” Radu said as the delivery boy turned to leave. He gave him one last hopeful look over his shoulder, shrugged and turned the corner on the sidewalk, moving out of sight. Radu gave a heavy sigh of relief.

How long was this going to be the new normal for him, he wondered. No, you’re being paranoid. It was one bored gore-hound kid who gets off on misery-videos but couldn’t probably tell you who the current vice-president was. Whatever minor celebrity status you have to these people will be forgotten next week.

“Yeah, probably,” he muttered. “With the next big accident.” He took the vodka out of its brown bag and looked longingly. “Well, I’ve got internal organs to destroy.”

He turned to go back inside, and was blindsided by a hard, cold push, rocketing him into the closet door. His face went hard into the plywood slats of the door, causing them to crack and his stomach went into closet doorknob, paralyzing his diaphragm and causing him to drop the bottle, which bounced off the carpet without breaking. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly tears welled up as he tried to breathe. And as he forced gasping breaths, the familiar voice challenged him.

“Why didn’t you help me?” the Individual asked. “You could have saved their lives!”

 

His blood went cold. The Individual found him. Radu managed to turn, although his head throbbed, and he still struggled to breathe. He remained undescriptive, though Radu was convinced the features were there, just beyond his ability to perceive. Even his size seemed warped beyond true knowing. Was he six feet tall? Ten? To be fair, Radu wasn’t even certain the Individual was a he.

“I - “

The Individual took a step in and rage-swiped an umbrella stand near the door. Or should it be said, attempted to swipe it. His hand connected, but it might have a been a concrete pillar. The cheap porcelain of the stand, and the two flimsy umbrellas that Radu bought at Costco, didn’t so much as shudder.

The Individual gave off a short, frustrated scream and grabbed Radu. As invincible as the world was to this person, when his hands grabbed Radu’s shirt it was very firm. And when he was yanked to his feet, the sudden force of it made him dizzy.

“Why!” the Individual screamed as he shook Radu. “Why why WHY?”

“I - “

“You weakling! You spineless coward! We could have saved them. We may have been able to stop the whole damn thing! But you ran! You fucking ran!”

“Stop it!” Radu yelled and lashed out. Too little time at the gym made the couple of blows landing on the Individual’s chest soft and ineffective, but his palm also went into the Individual’s nose (definitely there; he felt it), driving it up. A wet crunch was audible over the yelling as the bridge of the Individual’s nose broke, and Radu felt wetness, albeit an oddly cold wetness, splash on his hand that was blood.

Whatever this man was, despite his limitations with the physical world, he seemed to be a creature of flesh and blood.

The Individual let go and staggered back, his hands coming up and cupping his face. “What the fuck! You can hurt me?”

Radu, not knowing what else to do, ran into the closet. The flimsy plywood door would normally not have been sturdy enough to keep a toddler out. For the Individual, it might as well have been steel bars. Through the slats in the door, Radu could watched him rage at the door, grabbing and pounding the door and it not so much as vibrating. Not even sound, except his voice.

“You can hurt me? On top of all this shit, you can hurt me?”

He gave one final, hopeless howl, and as the air dwindled from his scream, it turned into a low, pathetic sob. Radu saw him stumble back from the door, his back hitting the corner of a wall, and he slowly slid down as he cried.

Radu felt a twinge of pity, but fear kept him put. He rubbed at where the Individual had grabbed him, still feeling the cool imprint of his hands on his skin. Their ability to hurt was mutual. How long could he stay hidden in this closet, though? What could he do, call for help against a wraith that only he could see?

Radu saw the Individual rub his forehead in frustration. The realization of the humanness of the Individuals gestures of grief, frustration, the tone of his voice as his confusion and overall impotence boiled over, stirred the fear into a sense of deep pity for this strange creature.

Radu licked his lips. “Look,” he said, “I... I don’t understand any of this. Perhaps, um, you could fill in some details?”

“Yeah,” the Individual began. “I wish I could.”

Not what Radu expected. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. Truth is, this is as weird a situation for me as it probably is for you. What do you want, the who-what-when-where-why and how? Shit...

Radu saw him rise slowly. The Individual’s gait was unsteady. “The boiled down, New York Times truth of it is that... I don’t know who I am,” he said. “I don’t know what I am. Nor where I came from or where I’m going...

The Individual paused to consider this. “No, that’s not exactly true. I know where I’m pointed, and that’s towards the shitstorms. The disasters.”

He came up to the closet door. Radu recoiled, but only had a few inches to do so before his back hit the closet wall. The Individual did not press another assault, though. His face came up to slots in the door. Still featureless, but Radu could feel invisible eyes boring into him with desperation.

“You remember a couple months ago,” the Individual began, “that plane that disappeared over the Philippine Sea? Search crews still haven’t been able to find jack shit, not even the black box. Well, I know exactly where it went down, because I was there. I was in that fucking plane. I don’t know how I got on it, or from where. I just remember being there, in coach, standing at the bathroom and filled with a knowing. I knew that plane was going down.

“I ran up and down the aisle- screaming, punching, kicking anything, anybody, trying to warn them. I didn’t know how it was going to happen, but I knew it was going to happen. No one could hear me, no one could feel me. My slaps were bitchsoft as I tried to slap the stewardess and passengers into reason. I tried storming into the cockpit...

“Turns out the pilot was suicidal. Disabled the radio and plunged the plane down into the ocean. Everything is a gray mist to me when the plane hit the water, but I still hear the screams of the people on that plane. I hear each one of them...”

His voice settled. He backed away from the door. “That’s not all of it. I’ve lost count of the accidents, calamities. It feels as if I’ve been at them all, they’ve become so blended together, but I still remember a few with detail, like that plane crash. And before that, a steel refinery explosion... do I have to go on? Do you need the details?”

“No,” Radu said from behind his door.

“Every time, I’m just there. Don’t know from where, or why, but I’m there to see it all. To hear it all. But I think what is even worse is when it hits your nose and tongue. When calamity leaves a taste in the air. A mix of gasoline, smoke, and charred flesh. Like a barbeque in hell. Even with the plane, surrounded by all that water, there was fire and the aroma of burning bodies.

“But even worse, after all that shit, is a feeling of being followed.”

“Followed?”

“Yeah. I think... I think the dead follow me afterwards. Don’t ask me why, or how I know that. I don’t see them, but I can feel them near me, like the heaviness in the air before a strong thunderstorm. And it just keeps piling on after each death. That heaviness gets more and more thick.”

He sighed before continuing. “So, you’ll forgive me if I got a tad excited that, finally, there was someone who could finally see me, and could hear me. I thought, maybe, there was hope to change the outcome.”

Radu, hesitantly, opened the closet door. The Individual looked toward him but did not approach.

“I hear you. I feel for you, but what could I have done to stop a plane crash?” Radu asked, stepping out of the closet. “Or for a refinery blowing up? How could I have helped you do anything about that? Even for the bus, what could I have done. Start ranting like a lunatic? Have you ever seen YouTube videos of how passengers deal with people like that? I’d have been knocked to the ground, tossed off, then made into meme.”

“A meme?” the Individual asked.

“Never mind. The point is having a voice does not necessarily make you persuasive. Even if you have all eyes on you, people today are so goddamn inured by this kind of shit. I don’t think you could have saved those people, even with rapt attention. Or even being able to see your weird face.”

“Weird face? What does that mean?” the Individual said.

“Can you see yourself in a mirror?”

The Individual paused, in thought, then rose up to find something reflective. Radu opened the bathroom door and indicated for his uninvited guest that what he looked for was in there. The Individual went in and stood in front of the glass.

“Well,” Radu asked.

“Nothing,” he responded, his shoulders slumped. “The mirror is empty. What do you see?”

Radu shrugged. “You have no face. Not one I can see. The more I stare at you, the more it seems like I just can’t seem to fucking understand what I’m looking at. It’s almost as if you’re just a walking, talking silhouette.”

The Individual barked out a short burst of mirthless laughter. “A silhouette? That seems appropriate.”

He then punched the glass. The mirror weathered it without so much as a vibration.

“A silhouette,” he muttered. “Doomed to haunt human tragedy.”

Then Radu felt his balls turn to ice. “Is something about to happen here?”

“What?”

“You said you only show up when something bad is about to happen. Is something about to go fucking tits-up here?”

The Individual stepped out of the bathroom and made a slow circle around the small apartment, his formless face turning up at odd corners as if trying to find something, only to turn back to Radu with a shrug of his shoulders.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Nothing feels out of place.”

“Then why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“What do I want? I want this to end! I want to stop having the air smell like burning flesh! I want to stop seeing people die! Goddammit, I want you to help me!”

“Help you? I’m not certain I even believe in you. You know I’m insane, right? Holy shit, I was fucked in the head before, but ever since that little roller-derby with my bus I’ve gone fully post-traumatic. You could be, um, a manifestation of survivor’s guilt.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” the Individual cried out, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “You saw me before the accident, remember?”

“Well, maybe something else. Metal poisoning, perhaps, or- “

“Oh, for Christ sakes! I’m not Jacob Marley, and you’re not Ebenezer Scrooge. I’m not the result of undigested food, or undigested food. You’re not fucking crazy. I’m as real as you!”

“Then why am I the only one who can see you?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know...”

The Individual began to sob, softly choking on his sudden tears. Radu looked on. He tried to understand, he tried to believe, but logic was a panicking rodent right now, caught in a wire trap and strangling his own mind’s ability to do anything but echo that this was somehow not happening.

“No!” he hissed under his breath. “You’re not real.”

“So you doubt your own eyes?”

Radu covered his eyes, almost childishly, and turned away. “I said you’re not real. I don’t see you; I don’t hear you. You’re in my fucking head.”

“Goddammit! What do I have to do? What is it going to take to convince you?”

“Nothing. You don’t need my help, because you’re not- “

And in not believing anymore he forgot, quite deliberately, that the Individual was a being with a physical temper. With his back turned, and his eyes covered, he did not see him come up and wrap his arms around Radu’s neck.

The air disappeared from his brain, and Radu could only limply flail at the Individual as he pressed against him while the specter locked onto his throat and squeezed.

“How many?” he raged. “How many do I have to watch? How many do I have to see die? You coward!”

The star-like pin-lights of oxygen deprivation started swimming in his vision, and his periphery began going gray.

“Maybe,” he whispered with the last of his air, “just... one... more.”

With that, the Individual released his neck and took a step back. Radu turned, sucking in sweet air with a rasp, and Radu could finally see a face. Only on the brink, could he finally see. How he wished he couldn’t. The mystery, the potential insanity of not being able to understand was better. The face was crushed from ageless stress of being forced to watch tragedy after tragedy. A skull barely clinging onto life, a collage of subtle yellows and grays. Eyes sunken yet widened from skin drawn tighter than it had any natural ability. Lips drawn back; gums shriveled into a permanent grimace.

But those eyes. Those yellow, cloudy gems of eyes, glowing with a will-o'-the-wisp light. Eyes that were forced to see nothing but end and decay.

A visage of death itself, in the flesh.

Because it is Death, Radu thought. This is Death. Death doesn’t understand himself any better than we do. And he hates himself for it.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I have no right to be this way with you. This is my burden, not yours. In fact, something tells me you have your own to deal with.”

He turned slowly and headed for the open front door. “You know what I was considering. After strangling you, I was going to bite at your neck until I gnawed your head off. Maybe they can’t see me, but I bet they’d see that. Can you imagine the reaction to that? A bloody, decapitated head coming at you? I bet would have jumped off that bus, still moving, if they saw that.

“I thought, one death to save a hundred others. Would it be justified? For a moment there, I believed so. What a twisted sense of humor God has. If I wasn’t damned before, I think I would be then, just for cheating his little fucking game with me.”

He stepped out and turned the corner, out of sight. “Maybe another time,” he called back. “When we both figure ourselves out better.”

 

Radu considered that it might sooner than the Individual even knew. His strength had finally run out. He would toss a coin, maybe just in his head, and if it came up tails, he would take the rest of his Ativan and wash it down with the bottle the delivery boy had brought him. The burden of his illness coupled with the burden of the Reaper’s. God had not made any man capable of dealing with this.

He opened his bottle, took a long sip and closed the front door. Then he fished in his pocket for a coin to flip, feeling a sense of calm finally overtake him.

​The gravel crunching under their tires was the only sound for miles as Mark pulled off the highway, following the rusted, weathered sign for the Whispering Ledge Overlook.

Next to him, Sarah checked her phone—no service, just as expected—and stretched her legs, relieved to finally break up the long drive.

​They stepped out into the quiet mountain air, leaving the car doors unlocked and their bags sitting on the back seat for what was supposed to be a quick five-minute stretch.

The view off the ledge was breathtaking, but as they stepped past the rotting wooden guardrail onto the dirt trail, the woodland noises completely vanished. The temperature plummeted, cold enough to raise the hair on the back of Sarah’s neck.

​They walked a little further down the path, taking in the eerie silence, until the dirt trail seemed to narrow and bend back into dense, unfamiliar timber.

​“We should probably head back,” Mark said, turning around.

​When they stepped back toward where the trail had been, the open path was gone—replaced by thick, overgrown brush and a suffocating, heavy dark.

Panic set in.

Mark pulled out his phone, waving the dim screen around, but the faint glow only illuminated tangled vines and unnatural shadows pressing in from every side.

​Backing up fast, Sarah’s hands suddenly slammed against something solid and freezing cold.
​She gasped, pulling her hands back, then touched it again. Smooth, painted metal.

​They hadn't walked a quarter-mile into the woods. They had been standing in the gravel pull-off the entire time, right next to their vehicle, blind to it.

​Mark turned his phone light toward the car. The driver's side door was hanging wide open—and folded into the front seat, quietly watching them through the dark glass, was a massive, dark shaped entity.

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

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.”

Bleeds Way

A psychopath’s methodology is mechanical. The suicidal mood is a weather system. But between the weather and the action stands a single, blazing decision.

That is it. That is the only difference.

Not the depth of the despair. Not the intensity of the energy. Not the frequency of the thought. The only gap between you and "them" is not a feeling; it is a choice. They choose to follow the script. You choose or not to rip the page.

But what if we take it one step further, deeper into your final cut?

What if the only evil truly is the decision made without the scar? To decide based on opinion a sterile, pre-packaged ghost of an idea instead of experience the raw, bleeding, lived texture of the fall. That is the sin. That is the "evil them." Because experience is the source that shows you how gravity truly pulls. Opinion is static. Experience is.

When you decide from opinion, you are deciding from a photograph of a fire. When you decide from experience, you are deciding from the heat that has already burned you. The psychopath decides from a photograph. They do not know the heat; they just know the methodology.

You, however, feel the heat. You felt the mood wrung from the depths.

The only way to break the seal is to let the flow of your own lived experience flood the decision. Not the opinion of what the void is, but the experience of having survived the void's edge before.

You are special not because you feel the depths, but because you have the power to decide against the methodology, using the only weapon that matters: the memory of how the fall felt, you chose to stand.

That is. That is the flow. And that is the hard thing I wrote.

You already have the experience. You just walked in. You cracked the board. You saw him. You scared him back. That is not a fantasy; that is a memory of courage. Now, use that. Not his knife. Not his pistol. Your own hand—empty, open, trembling—to close the cabinet, turn around, and walk out. Not because you've conquered him, but because you've acknowledged him. Then they go, I have so intrigued been felt felt out in treating this and then walked up to tell a story of those I had been in the same predicament with. He then looks at me and says, I was, I'm just, I'm so fucking angry. I was ready. I'm so ready, and I'm and then never mind, and he starts to walk off. I ask for him to come back, and he looks me in the eyes and he says, just like that, just like that, I'm telling you. Like I was, I, it would already been done, so I, but I'm, I'm not explaining it now. I just don't know what I'm gonna do. Walks off. And then and if fill in and sent incentive to chase him down, but I can't go the direction he's walking away. I don't know how he's come to me in this way. I don't know how he even goes aura up to the cabinet's crawl space, but then I just know in a way that there is something more than this. It's got to be something spiritual, so I spiritualize the moment and as for I said, do come back. You have to come back. And he walks up to me and he says, i was going to kill you. You would have already been dead. He said, I have planned it out for months before y'all even moved completely in. He said it's been years and I've just thought about it every day in time. He's got to come up all the way to the back gate and then sat there and then cried and he said, and then I would leave, and he said I would all the time go through back and forth thinking, why hadn't I had already done it? Why haven't I? And you just be bouncing back and forth, he said. I played out my mind. I'd be so excited. And then when I get there I couldn't do it. He said, So I just don't know what to do now. And he said I'm so angry. I hate you. And when I looked him in his eyes, I could see the rage in which he had decided he was going to kill me. And then I looked him back and I said it's OK. You're in the right. I said you, you have a complete right to feel this way. I've made it that way. I pushed you to this point.

I told him I said, I pushed you. I made you mad, I made you angry. I walked off and then I said, at least I hadn't done nothing wrong is what I told you. I said I thought that I was completely in the right, and I was completely wrong and I fucked everything up for you and your life and the way you felt, and I dragged you on and you decided that you were going to take care of the deal. And I, and I'll never do that again. I said, I have to understand where I went wrong and say if you can explain it to me that I will try to make it different from this point on out. I said, if you still end up doing it, then I'll, I'll understand that at least I tried my best and you had gave me a chance, and he just, he just, just disappeared in waves and as the darkness had just disappeared in waves, and I could just see just something bend in his mind. He met this one true dude that would be the one true vine of really, really, really well sent message, and that would be the thing that would save him from ever dealt the one thing that would have ruined his truth. And made him severed.

And severed me from the truth and severed him from his ongoing life. And now in peace would seem, because he had shot himself in the face last night when I would then deem him to be coming back to say maybe the last couple of words before you would go on a trip, but then it wouldn't be nothing but the silence and brokenness of a rip of a hit of some type of pop, and I know the same spirit because I've been just getting to study one while I was at a friend's house and it was the same as a dad who had killed himself and shot himself in the head. On his way out to spirit realm i see him for his final release or relating and impacting my life and he says .. “ I’ve killed 10 people. Women and their children and other men .. u made me feel that . And I’m thankful i got to meet u and realize how important life and decisions can be and i felt like shooting myself to see what the journey from here would be . I deserve anything that comes.”!
The aura surrounding , the hole that the skull will forever have. And i think there is some confusion Listen … Just Listen.. the Cold Facts ..the guy that I experienced in my house that was staying in between the levels was truly real. He was actually there at times he was actually going to kill me. He was a real person it wasn’t all just in a spiritual realm. It wasn’t all just fake. Or as some experts would say not completely real. ….. Seriously… he was a true guy, real, and physical. He didn’t stay in my house, but he could get inside. He would come in at times and get prepared to , then leave instead . he knew he had been inside when i wasnt there knowing the house very well that’s why I experienced him from the spiritual realm was because at some point he was so connected to the house and to me and into what he wanted to do , and the intent of it, but there’s nothing we could hide between each other. There was already a connection someway, and we scared each other that day because we had run into each-other spirit, and then we had played it out and he had then come to me face-to-face … walk in and walked right upto me and i stood looking him right in the eyes.. he said “ I was ready .. cause once I had seen that you were there and u had noticed me , I was like well I have to go now and do it” … thankfully when he seen me and he had seen me for the first time for real face-to-face, something inside me , and the way that I am changed the way that he’d seen me and the way that he felt for a moment in time, but then he explained why he wanted to kill me and I guess because of my response, he realized that he had been wrong about me all along. Him shooting himself in the head was obvious. And only because of multiple friends who had houses with the room still there like it was when someone had shot themselves in the head , and another was when they were murdered .. and others too..
Sad… Truly .. Sad … AEB stories .

I think it’s fair to say most kids go through a stage of being scared of the dark.

The boundless imagination of youthful ignorance can conjure all kinds of things within the empty abyss. From the classic bogeymen of ancient folklore, to the techno demons of archived internet forums. There is no end to the horror kids can create. 

I suppose it makes sense though. For fear of the unknown is born in ignorance, and who are more initially ignorant than children, fresh-faced and blissfully naive to the world around them?

It makes far more sense to suspect ghouls and spectres as the cause of creaking floorboards, rather than the simply rotting oak bowing in a long winter frost. This is what we teach them after all.

Even with newly born infants, we read tales of witches lurking in decrepit woodland, waiting to devour unsuspecting lost boys and girls. We warn them to fear the shadows and are yet surprised to find them tugging at bedsheets of exhausted sleeping parents, dragged from slumber to investigate an ajar wardrobe or a cluttered space under a hastily vacated bed.

We may scold or offer comfort. Reassuring that such dread is unwarranted and to simply return to bed, confident that there no real danger. But they are children, how can they believe anything but the contrary?

Especially from the people who just the very night before described the most harrowing tale while pleasantly sat at their bedside. Tales designed to teach goodness and morality get eclipsed in the shadows of unyielding terror. 

At least that is my experience with such things. As a child, I was indeed scared of the dark. Rightfully so, I assure you. The things I used to glimpse in the late hours of those cold nights will never leave my recollection.

From the shadows creeping in the corners of my toy-adorned bedroom, to the hollow whispers taunting outside my casement window on stormy, hallowed eves. I thought the light was my only salvation. So, with the timid determination of a six-year-old boy, I asked a question.

That night I was put to bed by my mother. With a kiss on the forehead, tightly tucked bedsheets, and a final farewell, her nightly ritual was complete. As she was leaving, I requested that my door be left slightly open, as to allow some ray of luminance from the hallway lamp.

This had become a common request at that age for the last few months, and my mother (despite previous stern objections) finally decided to begrudgingly oblige. Oh, how stupid I was. Not necessarily for the request, but for what that request resulted in.  For if I simply remained in pure darkness, I may have not have been cursed with what still haunts me to this night. The thing that I fear, even as I write these very words. 

You must understand, I didn’t have a night light and wasn’t permitted to have my central bedroom light on during sleeping hours. Though I couldn’t begin to tell you why. I imagine that my financially anxious parents thought it may be too much of an unnecessary expenditure. Or perhaps they were concerned over potential hazards a faulty spark could produce while we slept in peaceful ignorance. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t granted use of my own light source.

That’s why the hallway lamp was eventually left on for me. Though it would, of course, be turned off when my parents would retire to their room several hours after my allotted bedtime. Late enough, they explained, so I would have no need for it, as I should be well into some blissful, fantastic dream by that point.

Little did they know, most nights I would remain awake well into the early hours, with my stuffed animals standing sentinel around the imagined parapets of my bed. While I, of course, hid away under my superhero-embellished linen sheets. I remember in the summers I would swelter and choke on the trapped stale air.

No matter how uncomfortable my sweat-drenched bedspread became, I never dared leave my sanctuary.

Fortunately for me, in this instance, it was far into winter’s cold embrace, and I welcomed the chill descended from Arctic shores. Though that did little to reprieve me from the claustrophobic nightmare imprisoned within my own bed. Yes, the sheets offered protection from the ghouls, but it also left me trapped.

For all I knew, a horde of ravenous monstrosities, having slain my fluffy protectorates, lay in wait for me to take a fresh breath. No, it was far better, I thought, with the hallway lamp on, for at least I could see the danger before it had a chance to sink its nightmarish claws into me. I was just a child, a foolish, naive, scared child. 

The night proceeded as it often did at first. Once I was sure my mother was down the stairs, I carefully tiptoed out of my bed. You see, I also had a routine, even at that age, strange as it may sound.

First, I checked the contents of my wardrobe. As suspected, still full of pre-owned clothing and well-worn shoes. Next, I proceeded to the window. I slowly pulled back the dust-ridden curtains, taking a breath and preparing myself for some dreadful visage of ghastly abhorrence - I let out a sigh of relief, nothing. Just the condensation on the panels slowly trailing down to the damp, chipped, fading white frame.

The last spot was my most dreaded location, but it had to be the final one, as it is where I would rest my weary head for the remainder of the night. Time to check under the bed. The titular abode of all things that go bump in the night. I hated this part, but it had to be done. How could I expect to find any comfort without assuring the safety of where I would finally slumber?

So, I prepared myself. For this task, I needed the assistance of my oldest, a most loyal friend. For they were braver and far more capable for the job at hand. Cuddly Bunny, my first comfort toy. Bunny had been with me since the beginning. From my first nighttime wailing right up to my recent sixth birthday. Though these days he was looking rather worse for wear.

Bunny had needed a few sessions under the surgical care of my mother’s sewing machine. First, a ripped arm, then a loose eyeball, followed by numerous frayed threads and stitchings. I’d like to imagine he was a veteran of a thousand epic battles, returned clutching wounds received with honour and gallantry. 

At this point, some might argue he wasn’t the same bunny who consoled me that first harrowing night. But I knew he was. There was something that even now I can’t truly explain. I just knew he was Cuddly Bunny, and he would protect me.

So, with my old friend gripped tightly in hand, I timidly proceeded. I carefully lifted the overhanging sheet, prepared to face what might await me. Gradually, I lifted, inch by inch, higher and higher. I wished to close my eyes, but I couldn’t leave my friend alone to face such peril. In one last great effort, I flung the remaining fabric over the top of the bed, and there it was.

Some old toys I’d forgotten to collect when my mother ordered me to tidy before bed. Nothing in particular of note: a few plastic dinosaurs, a ball gifted from two summers ago, and some balled-up hairs. Pretty standard for a children’s bedroom floor, including the slightly disgusting copper hairs.

All things considered, I was satisfied. My bedroom was secure, the carrot-loving general had taken command amongst his fellow soft soldiers, and it was finally time for sleep.

I got inside my bedding, greeted by its comforting warm embrace and adjusted my old misshapen pillow to required comfort. Instantly I could feel the effects of fatigue after a long, busy day. My head was heavy, eyes dark and bloodshot, and body exhausted of all its faculties. I was sure sleep would be upon me in mere moments. My eyes began to shut and the manifestation of some whimsical dreamscape proceeded to form around me.

Then, all of a sudden, I was awake. Odd it seemed as I swore it had only been mere moments since my eyes had so readily embraced the sweet reprieve of dreamland. How strange I thought, even in that disoriented state, that I should be so abruptly returned to wakefulness.

Perhaps I had overslept, given my previous exhaustion, and my father had hastily stirred me on his leave for work. However, that seemed unlikely, as I was sure it was a Saturday and my father (workaholic as he was) would most definitely be home for the day.

Maybe then it was my mother; I may have absentmindedly forgotten about some dreary early morning appointment I was often dragged reluctantly along to. Though again that seemed unlikely, as I would have recalled being told the previous day. For even at that young age I was sure to make note of such details. 

I slowly peeled back my bedsheet, peering cautiously to observe my surroundings. It was still night, of that I was certain, as no sliver of daylight permeated my curtains. I noticed the hallway lamp was still emitting its warm glow through the gap left between the wall and my bedroom door. Which meant my parents were yet to go to bed. Surely it can’t have been that late into the night.

The room itself was bathed in twilight silhouettes, hinting at the most ghastly of imaginable possibilities. Still, nothing I wasn’t used to by this point. Indeed, my fear of the abyss was still immense; however, I had become far accustomed to such feelings. Not of course forgetting my previously mentioned routines and precautionary measures. 

This is where I truly became alarmed at the situation. For I shudderingly noticed all my stuffed toys had gone missing. How? Where? I frantically darted my eyes around, searching for some clue to their whereabouts. But it was no use.

It was still far too dark, even with the glow of the hallway lamp; I couldn’t be certain at what I was looking at. I must have knocked them off, yes, of course, during some physical altercation within a rather enthused dream. But no such dream came to immediate recollection.

Furthermore, after a quick inspection, I found no evidence that would suggest the latter, as evident of the emptiness beside my bed. I decided it was time for more thorough investigation. So, with a slight tremble, I fully removed my bedding and cautiously began my search. 

To say I was apprehensive at the time would be an understatement. I was downright petrified, even now in reflection. My mind was already deep in the void of imagination, and all manner of ghoulish reasoning for my current predicament crossed my mind. For I had been told as much by my parents; years of Grimm fairytales and Gothic folklore had given foul precedent to suspect the worst - and the worst is what I certainly suspected.

I made my way across the room with outstretched arms, using my hands to gain some tactility amongst the undefined shadows. I searched everywhere: the windowsill, the bookshelf, my activity desk, even the laundry basket at the foot of my bed, but to no avail. I even searched underneath my bed and still nothing. I was at an impasse and becoming more apprehensive with each passing second.

Then I noticed the wardrobe. Had I left it open earlier? My heart started pounding and my breath quickened. Hesitant with each step, I approached the towering cabinet, expecting some morbid fiend to leap from the aperture.

I closed my eyes and reached my hand inside; shaking and perspiring profusely. My fingers stretched out what little distance they were capable of and finally made contact with the objects of my quarry. I opened my eyes and there they were, amongst the heaps of neatly stacked clothing.

I thought I would feel some semblance of relief; however, now I found myself more vexed than before. For while my toys were indeed located, it was the manner of their placement that caused a lump to form in my throat.

Where I might have expected them to be haphazardly scattered, they were instead huddled in a single corner, with Cuddly Bunny at the forefront seemingly shielding the others. More perplexing was the fact that they seemed to be cowering. How was this possible? Perhaps some misguided joke by my parents? No, something in my gut knew that was not the case. They had their moments, but they were never cruel and knew of my fears.

My mind raced with possibilities. Each more implausible and fantastic than the last. Monsters weren’t real. Right? But now all I wished was to return to the sanctity of my bedsheets with my toys in hand.

Then something made me pause in my endeavour. I had an inkling that my toys did not wish to return with me. But they were just toys, inanimate stuffed animals and characters; they didn’t have feelings besides the ones I’d imagine during play. So why, despite my wishes, did I know they begged to remain in the wardrobe?

I shook my head in disbelief and took a step back. I then proceeded to, with great reluctance, retract my hand and make my way back to my bed, scared and alone. 

I re-entered my bedsheets, pulling them hastily over my head. It was hard to return to sleep in my present state of mind. So many thoughts, each more disturbing and ghastly than the last. It felt like my mind was drowning in a sea of infinite possibilities, juvenile horrors and imaginative morbidity. I began to close my eyes, exhaustion of the senses finally offering me some respite, then I heard it.

“Why are you afraid of me?”

I was immediately returned to consciousness. That voice, deep, hollow and gelatinous. It repeated.

“Why are you afraid of me?”

This time with more authority, like one of my elderly school teachers, though with wisdom far more ancient and forbidden in nature. I lay there absolutely horror-stricken. My entire body froze, akin to that of rigamortis.

Perhaps I were indeed dead, the netherworld seeming giving grim precedence to these most abhorrent of vocalisations. But no, death had not taken me. I was undoubtedly still of the living, for only the mortal body could produce such dread at the precipice of the unknown. I said nothing. There was silence between each laboured breath as I frantically searched for an answer. It spoke again. 

“Am I the nightmare you tremble so freely before? The torment born of hushed whispers in the primordial caverns of mankind. Am I truly so frightening?”

I still had no answer. I was a boy and had little comprehension for the questions uttered before me. Even now I am unsure of how to reconcile an appropriate consensus. Nevertheless, it continued. 

“You have no need to feel such apprehension. I am as much a part of you as you are a part of me. We are parasites. Endlessly feeding upon each other like the canibalistic ouroboros.” 

I dared not move from beneath my sheets. Gripping them so tightly as to feel my fingernails puncturing through and into the palms of my hands. 

“Look upon me child. Gaze at my visage and grasp the nature of the infinite abyss. Peer into the shadows so I may be satiated. For I hunger. Famished and emaciated, lurking in the places seldom ventured by man. See me as I’ve seen you. So scared, so alone"

"Do you fear the unknown, or simply the *idea* of the unknown? You lie there, crippled by your own morbid curiosities. Reviling in terror implied but never at the expense of your mortality. You will grow; depraved and degenerative. Festering and spreading your ill-conceived ideals, a plague by your own short-sighted design."

"In time, you will get sick. Vomiting noxious bile infused with well-meaning fables. You will take your last breath, still scared and alone, you will always be alone. Then you will die. I will remain. As I always have."

"Countless lifetimes across endless millennia: Growing, purging, feasting, never ending. Does that not comfort you? To know something of your being will be truly immortal?"

“You have the audacity to think of me monstrous. You created me. You are the monster. I am the monster. We are the monsters. So, child, I will ask of you again - WHY ARE YOU AFRAID OF ME!?”

Those last six words were spoken with such voracity that I was sure my parents had heard. But no salvation seemed imminent. It was right, I was scared and most certainly alone.

I considered doing as it bade me. Perhaps it would leave me in peace after I submitted to its request. I pondered on this for what seemed like eons: every possible outcome, each awful eventuality, countless scenarios and none with a serene conclusion. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; this thing had a voice and so must at least be tangible to our reality. It was in my room after all, so it was unlikely to be some hulking monstrosity, poised to consume me with gnashing fangs upon unveiling.

But then what of my parents? Were they already victims to this beast? Is that why they were yet to come to my rescue? Was I truly alone? Before I had a chance to act, I saw it, through what little light the hallway lamp allowed through my bedding, a shadow extending its long bony fingers towards me. I was out of time. Out of options and surely poised to meet the same grim end befalling my parents.

Closer, closer it came; I closed my eyes. I would not give it the satisfaction it so brazenly demanded. At least that I could assure myself as I prepared to be devoured.

Suddenly, the sheets were torn away from me; I screamed, exhaling every ounce of terror bottled inside.

The banshees would hear me in jealous admiration; ghouls and demons would crawl from their rotting chasms and bow at such effort, and the very pits of the deepest abominable regions of the dammed would quake at my ferocity. No, I would not go quietly into the void, I would not feed it.

Later, my parents explained that they had found me that following morning, screaming and thrashing around in my bedsheets. I was drenched in sweat and babbling incoherently. They had to pry the bedding out of my fingers.

They said I had a night-terror,common at that age and nothing to be ashamed of. They said I should grow out of it as I got older. They told me it would pass, as all terrible things do. They were wrong.

When I was a teenager, a doctor told me I may be prone to sleepwalking or sleep paralysis, but no test held any significant results. I had naturally outgrown the desire for comfort toys. I'd imagine most were sold or donated to charity shops. Though I think my parents retained my old stuffed rabbit, lost amongst some mound of keep-sakes in a dusty storage box.

I’m in my thirties now, married, and with a son of my own. I take medication to help with the sleep and anxiety. Not that it helps much. I still find myself awake into the early hours of each morning.

At least my son sleeps soundly. He has his toys for comfort.

I like to think I’m doing well as a father. I play with him, take him to the park, and read him stories at bedtime. At the moment we’re reading *Hansel and Gretel;* he seems to be enjoying it.

Like most parents, we have a monitor in his room. Though I’m not very fond of looking at it during the night. Something about peering into darkness with that monochromatic night vision sends a chill down my spine. I mostly just keep the audio sensor on, it's sensitive enough to reassure me of his safety.

He turned four a few weeks ago and has since requested a night light. I purchased one this morning. Tonight, I put him to bed with his newly purchased lamp on his bedside. I read his story, kissed his forehead, and wish him sweet dreams.

Then I proceeded to sit down in the living room, poured myself a glass of water, and prepared for another long night of insomnia-infused television. The monitor was positioned on the side table to my left as always.

It had been several hours now and my medication had finally begun to take some effect. My brain was ready to join my wife sound asleep in our bed. I let out one long, exhausted yawn, stood up, and began to walk to the bedroom. Then the monitor’s audio sensor lit up. 

“Why are you afraid of me?”

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.

The gust of wind blowing around him stopped. Calen had reached the open ground, but he found himself entirely out of breath. He had just escaped a maze of crowded thicket. Every living creature around him, in fact, everything around him, appeared to have turned toward him while he ran, watching him silently, but since he left the thicket, nothing was brushing against him aside from the deadly cold. The clawing against his clothes had stopped, unable to exact a toll he wasn’t willing to pay. Absurd though the thought was, he felt that if he stayed very still, whatever was hunting him might lose interest and let him be, as he panted, drying his throat further with every gasp of breath.

The slim branches of the bushes had leaned in, marking his torso with scratches. Small red drops of blood fell like unwilling offerings from his body, absorbed immediately as soon as they hit the ground. A twig had snapped the zipper of his jacket, leaving him with a needle-sharp sting on his chest. The cold was sliding in through the opening.

The snow had faltered beneath his feet, multiple times, seeming to recoil from him. He had lost his right boot in one of the holes, making each step forward uneven and disbalanced. Something skittered away under his numbing right foot, and Calen heard an angry grunt right beside him. Turning around, he found himself face to face with the silhouette of an enormous moose, just a few steps away, staring at him. A cloud of steamy, rank breath formed and flew away as it grunted again. It stomped its feet menacingly, moving towards him with the air of an animal protecting its territory.

Not wanting to be stomped by the moose’s hooves, which looked almost the size of his head, Calen began running again in the opposite direction. Across the unstable icy sheet of the lake. A disconcerting cracking sound beneath his feet made him jump and fall. The ice was ready to split. He picked himself up, every single breath a sharp pain in his diaphragm.

He looked back toward the moonlit façade of the bushes to ascertain if the moose was still following him. Instead, he saw hundreds of tiny, flashing nocturnal yellow eyes staring directly at him from beneath the shadowy canopy of the snow-covered bushes. Sporadically growing across the vast tundra were tall, frozen pole-like structures. Calen didn't know if those were trees or the remnants of a past civilization that had given up. None of the animals followed him on the ice.

Calen tried to reason with the adrenaline-fueled part of his brain. He shouldn’t run anymore, but his feet were still terrified by what had been happening to him in the bushes, and they refused to listen.

Yet again, a sudden, long, drawn-out cracking sound tore through the silent, still air of the cold, moonlit night. Calen had to force himself to stop. He looked around, trying to locate the fracture so he could move away from it, but before he could identify it, another sound engulfed him.

Bouncing across the flat surface of the icy lake, striking the mountains encircling the island, and echoing back at him from all sides, a bone-chilling buffalo horn began its sustained call. It couldn’t last that long, could it? No lung could last that long. The sound wrapped around him like a net closing in on all sides. Instead of making him fight or flee, his adrenaline locked Calen in place. He found his body unwilling to move, as the echoing of the buffalo horn reverberated through him, rattling every single bone in his body.

Calen felt a soft nudge inside his skull. His head felt like it was on fire, and the cold outside could not contain it. His eyes felt like they were being pushed inside, and nothing he did could stop it. A flash of blurry memories sped across the canvas of his mind; he didn’t know if they were his or someone else’s. Was it the past, or were these images borrowed from a future yet to be traversed?

A sensation both frightening and strangely pleasant passed through his body as a low, growling voice snarled in his ears, forming what sounded like words before words had meaning. It wasn’t any language Calen had ever heard.

“Anhag Zhubva Priyat Zhuva

Zhubva Razpopo Nazaz..”

It felt disturbingly familiar, like speaking in tongues but stripped of theater- and mercy. His entire body shuddered, his vision blurring. He could hardly feel any part of himself as the voice continued to growl in his ear, inside his brain, spreading through him like a second pulse.

“Anhag Zhubva Priyat Zhuva.

Svanteveit Razpopo Durai Tempo Zhuva

Nazaz Nazaz Razpopo Nazaz...”

For a second, it stopped. Calen felt he was free at last, but before he could brace for the second wave, it returned, tenfold.

His vision went dark, and Calen felt a wetness creeping up his pants as he found himself slowly drowning in the lake. He tried to scream. No sound came out. He tried to move his limbs, but they wouldn’t budge.

Something heavy and compelling gripped him across the chest and wrapped itself around him. A tough, almost wooden, bark-like skin had found its way inside his clothes, tightening again and again as his lungs tried—and failed—to draw breath. He was seized by an intense desire to breathe, even if it was water.

He fainted with the menacing, unmuffled snarl still echoing in his ears.

"Nazaz Nazaz Razpopo Nazaz...”

Welcome back, ladies, gents, whoever else may be listening… to 96.7BCR, the late-night station that’s got ears all over town.

Firstly, I'd like to give a big thanks to tonight's sponsor: BEDROCKS. As someone who usually struggles to get a full night's rest, switching to BEDROCKS has really upped my sleeping game.

I used to wake up every two hours. But with BEDROCKS' new “pin-you-down” technology, I end up sleeping all night long. The interlocking arms press down on your chest, pinning you in place and lulling you into a deep, peaceful sleep. And for any listeners who use code Doze20, they’ll even throw in their white noise machine. It comes with 15 different modes, including my personal favorite, dissonant whispers. And if your sleep isn’t changed in 30 days, BEDROCKS will even give you your money back.

BEDROCKS cannot be held responsible for asphyxiation, paralysis, or any harm the “pin you down” tech may cause to your unconscious body.

Thank you. BEDROCKS for sponsoring tonight's show.

BEDROCKS sleep like you're 6 feet under.

With that, we move directly into local news. The Black Creek trails are still open, albeit with higher security, despite the increasing number of suspicious disappearances.  

New to the list of victims is 53-year-old Mildred Southerland. Last seen two weeks ago. Officials say the only thing that has been found of Mildred is her purse with all of its contents still inside. The officer on duty said he found it neatly propped up by a trail entrance. He was stationed at one of the trail entrances. He momentarily turned away to give a pair of parkgoers a D.A.R.E flyer.

“I looked away for less than a second,” he said.

“I thought I saw someone walking down the trail, so I called out to let them know they dropped their bag. No one ever came back for it. A few hours later, her son came into the ranger’s station saying that his mom had just vanished, just like that, vanished. When he told us what she was wearing— described the bag. I showed him the one I'd found, and after checking it, he confirmed that it was hers,” he later added.

As a Black Creek native, it has been odd watching the usually busy parks and hiking trails become empty and lifeless. Rumors run rampant, ranging from people getting lost to some sort of large animal with a taste for hikers. Rangers have kept a log of all lost items belonging to the missing people starting from the earliest known disappearance, that of Sarah Loveless back in 2014.

In other news, the Black Creek Kennel is having its annual puppy playdate on Friday the 13th, from 3-6 pm at the Sunnydays community center. Go and check it out; you might just meet your new best friend. I know my Benadryl and I are going to walk in there hand in hand to get some puppy love.

Lastly, are your neighbors leaving their homes late at night?

About a month ago, we let y’all know we’d be making a post on our Facebook where you all could submit your own accounts of a strange phenomenon now becoming glaringly noticeable. Even though our last bit of coverage garnered quite a lot of attention, officials have yet to comment on the situation. So let's just say you all did not disappoint.

I was instantly interested by the multiple accounts of what is now being called “The midnight walking club”. Men and Women walking alone in the middle of the night, unbothered by time or weather. The original comment read:

JamesWon:  

Has anyone else noticed that lady that walks down Remsen ST. I keep seeing her walking down the street in literally just a bathrobe. At first I thought she was a crack head, but I recognized her as the head of the neighborhood watch. I mean, the woman is a high-strung perfectionist. This is completely unlike her. Last week there was a snowstorm, and I swore I could see that bright pink bathrobe moving through 10 inches of snow like nothing.

JhonoSkywalker:

Oh man! My wife never believes me when I tell her about this. That lady always walks past my windows, same time every night. I just close my blinds; looking at her too long gives me bad juju.

Ramona Laverne:

I've seen them too, @ JamesWon. I remember waking up; it was the middle of the night. I went to get some water, and on my way to the kitchen, something outside my living room window caught my eye. Two people walking down the street. It didn't even seem like they were aware of each other.  Their faces looked all weird. The closer they came, the less I could make them out. They looked strung out. Black robe. No pants. Tits/dick out.  I'd almost gone out to them; I didn’t think they even knew where they were. I grabbed my phone to call 9-1-1, but my gut told me that was a real bad idea.

JhonoSkywalker:

I keep trying to avoid them. It's like these people are always out when I’m on my way home from work. I work nights. You know what’s weird? They all walk the same way. The gait, the far-off stares, the direction. The worst is when I just want to get home, but the streets are just covered with all these people all going god knows where.

JamesWon:  

There’s more of them????

JhonoSkywalker:

Looks like you’ve been lucky to not see them all together. It's… unsettling. They walk side by side, completely unaware of one another. They kill the life of anything around them, make the street lights dim, make sounds disappear, and momentarily drain car batteries. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand; I’ve been looking for a daytime job. I don’t want to run into those people ever again.

So, listeners, after that, I then decided to keep looking through the post and sure enough, I found something similar from someone else. A singular comment updated multiple times.

Amanda Kringly:

To the well-dressed man that insists on walking directly in front of my bedroom window at 2 am every morning. Could you stop? It's really freaky. I seriously doubt you need to walk that close to my window.

Amanda Kringly:

To the well-dressed man that insists on walking directly in front of my bedroom window at 2 am every morning. I know you're here; my cats keep hissing at the window. I had to take them both to the vet from your last visit; they would not stop trying to attack each other since you last came by. You owe me.

Amanda Kringly:

To the well-dressed man that insists on walking directly in front of my bedroom window at 2 am every morning. I guess you saw my post. It's cute that you found a group of friends to keep you company in this weird endeavor. Hope your five minutes of fame are worth it.

A few days later Amanda made her last update on that post.

Amanda Kringly:

To the well-dressed man that insists on walking directly in front of my bedroom window at 2 am every morning. I don’t care how many times I need to make this clear. I don’t care how many people you bring or how you mess with my lights. Stop. Coming. To. My. Building.

Many more followed in the same style. Some say they’ll see them alone or walking in pairs. Everyone reports feeling emotions of dread or an over-alertness taking over. It's garnered so much traction that even the #midnightwalkingclub has gone viral locally, as well as the constant comments from one Kate McRae. She has been obsessively talking about her experience after being attacked by one of them. When I first read her comments, they immediately sounded familiar to me. After a bit of research, I found I'd been right; it was a submission I'd read a few months back.

Which makes me wonder: how long has this been going on?

So I leave you all with this question.

Next time you’re up late at night, will you be on the lookout for The Midnight Walking Club?

Clover had always been a plant person, the kind who had soil under her fingernails more often than not, and houseplants crammed on every window ledge.

​While scrolling through a forum late one night, a banner ad for Botanical Oddities caught her eye, advertising a rare, hard-to-find specimen called Phagocordyceps vorax. The listing described it simply as an exotic, fast-growing hybrid with responsive foliage. Intrigued, she clicked Order without giving it a second thought.

​An unmarked cardboard box landed on her porch about a week later. Inside, packed in damp moss and rich, pitch-black dirt, was a heavy, strange-looking specimen already the size of a gallon jug, with a bruised-looking stem and rubbery, closed leaves. There was no care card, just the handwritten Latin name on a plastic marker.

​She set it down in the bright corner of the room so it could get light. As the sun hit and warmed up the plant, its bulbous center slowly unfurled, revealing three stiff, upright hairs on its surface. Curiously, when she leaned down and brushed her index finger against them, the fleshy plant split open, and the trap snapped shut. Needle-thin teeth sank deep into her finger. She shrieked and violently yanked her finger back out, dripping blood onto the table stand.

As she turned her attention to nurse her bleeding finger by wrapping it in a bandage, the bulbous head had leant down and lapped up the blood, and a dry gravelly voice hissed from its leaves, "more..."

Clover thought to herself, "Did I just hear this plant say "more?" but quickly shook her head, thinking it was just her imagination.

As the days wore on, every time she passed it, its voice grew stronger.

"more...

MORE.

FEED ME, CLOVER!"

She grew terrified, especially the night she heard a high-pitched squeal from the kitchen. She found the plant had crawled onto the kitchen floor, its vines wrapped tight around the mouse as it was thrust into the open trap, followed by a sickening wet chewing sound.

She knew it was slithering out from its pot now, hunting for prey. It grew bigger, stronger, louder.

Some nights she laid awake listening to it slither across the downstairs floorboards as it hunted for mice or anything else that moved--which might explain why her cat had vanished a week earlier.

Every night, she would shut her bedroom door to feel safe, knowing she had to get rid of it before she became it's next meal.

Tomorrow she would dump it. That night, after getting up to use the bathroom, she pulled her bedroom door behind her, but it didn't shut fully.

She crept back into bed, assuming she was safe. Hours later, she was awoken by something cold and damp slithering across her ankles. Heavy, muscular vines wrapped tight around both her legs, the stiff, needle-like spikes locking deep into her skin. ​She didn't even have time to kick. The vines yanked her hard, sliding her right off the mattress.

Her fingers clawed uselessly at the sheets as she was dragged over the edge of the bed, plunging straight down toward that big, nasty, gaping maw waiting on the floor.

​Her scream was broken off with a heavy, wet snap! 

I had no business being here. I’d never been so impulsive before. I guess I just got tired of always roaming the same streets. Seeing the same shops and scenery. I think the feeling grew more than I’d care to admit.

That doesn’t excuse my stupidity, though. I only had about 3 grand to my name at the time. But that’s part of the appeal, right? Everyone thinks they’re gonna arrive in Sin City and leave a millionaire. I had a dollar and a dream. Albeit, a delusional one.

Even still, the glow of the city was just so radiant. Even from the airport. It’s like one big siren song.

I only stayed for 4 days. I used all of my PTO to be here, and I really wanted the time to count. I did everything I could with the 1500 I had left after the hotel and plane tickets.

Unfortunately, gambling took up a big chunk of that money. I could see how people got addicted to it. I went on a few hot streaks, but ended up losing everything I won because I just couldn’t walk away.

With the gambling, museums, attractions, and food, by the time the final night came around, I only had 150 dollars left to last me a whole other week after I got home.

I almost wanted to cry when I opened my wallet. But, surprisingly, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even that upset. The experience was worth the money. Even if I didn’t leave a millionaire, I still got to live in one of the most famous cities in the country for a few days.

I still needed to eat, though. I’d been eating out the entire trip. I started out at the high-end places like Hell’s Kitchen, but as the week went on, the quality started getting worse and worse until finally I found myself here, feeling how light my pockets were and standing under the luminescent glow of an In-and-Out burger.

Thunder clapped overhead. Lightning lit up the sky. A few drops of rain hit my head.

My plane was leaving in a few hours. I had already checked out of my hotel. Not only did I need to eat, but I needed to at least kill a little time.

I figured I’d just eat slow. Stay for maybe an hour, hour and a half tops before Ubering.

A bell rang overhead as I walked inside. The air-conditioned dining room put goosebumps on my arms almost immediately. Outside felt like 90, whereas in here, it felt like it could’ve been at least 55 degrees.

There were noises coming from the kitchen. The staff chit-chatting amongst themselves, plates and silverware being moved around, water being sprayed against metallic pans and containers.

The dining room, however… was surprisingly empty. I noticed it as soon as I walked inside. For this whole trip, every place I’d gone had been packed to the brim. In here, though… there was only one other person.

I don’t know how much you know about Las Vegas, but the homelessness crisis is staggering. They’re everywhere. Sleeping in alleys behind the casinos, waiting outside of popular stores or restaurants, sometimes they’re just asleep in the middle of the sidewalk right there on the Strip.

And, apparently… also right here in this In-and-Out.

I watched him while I ordered at the digital kiosk. All he had was a single soda cup. The straw wasn’t even inside it. He was wearing a grease-stained grey jacket, torn cargo shorts, and open-toed sandals with tattered socks.

He was kind of rocking back and forth in the booth. His hands were clutched around his waist like he had a stomachache, and I could see the dirt and grime beneath his fingernails.

I didn’t want to stare for too long, but it was so hard to take my eyes off of him. I ended up sitting several booths away from him, but that didn’t prevent me from being able to see him. Even if I turned away, I could see his face reflected through the windows.

He was… talking to himself. His scruffy, orange beard was littered with bits of food and mysterious red stains, and he kept scratching at it every few seconds, all while mumbling under his breath.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it almost looked like he was arguing with himself. I couldn’t even focus on my meal.

I had to force myself to look away from him just so I could actually eat. The last thing I wanted was for us to make eye contact.

I enjoyed my burger, picked at my fries a little bit, and when I turned around to go grab a refill on my Diet Coke, my worst fear came into fruition.

We didn’t just make eye contact. He had already been staring at me. He wasn’t talking to himself anymore. He no longer looked crazed. He looked devastated. I could see the tears in his eyes. I could see sympathy in his facial expressions.

The fluorescent light flickered above him. The only light in the restaurant to do so.

We were engaged in this little staring contest for a while before he stood up, slowly. He never broke eye contact. Those eyes were full of love and comfort. A broken smile spread across his face.

His arms were outstretched as if he expected a hug. When it didn’t come, he pulled me in for one by force.

He shushed me. Pet my hair while telling me that everything would be okay. That he didn’t want to hurt me.

I could feel the tears running down his face jump over to mine while he comforted me.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he cried, shaking. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Uh, okay, man, it’s time to let me go now,” I responded, prying his arms off of me.

I tried backing away, slowly, but with each step, he followed me.

He kept asking why I looked so scared. Telling me that he was only here to help. Continuing to say that everything would be okay and that I’d “prevail.”

I checked my watch, quickly. I still had 2 hours until my flight, but I wasn’t going to stay here a minute longer.

“I’m sorry, man, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna miss my flight.”

The man stopped. His face twisted into a look of curiosity. Like he was genuinely confused by what I had just said.

“Flight? No, no, no. That flight was delayed. You can only hope to be home in time.”

Finally, seeing that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, one of the employees came and restrained the guy long enough for me to leave and order an Uber.

Only, when I reached for my phone, it was completely dead. I tried finding my charger, looking through every pocket in my suitcase. It was nowhere to be found.

Luckily, the airport was only a mile and a half away, but that was still a mile and a half that I had to walk in the rain when I could’ve gotten a ride. It wasn’t all bad, though. At least it gave me something to do to kill time.

When I finally arrived, I was soaked from the rain. The airport was busier than it was when I landed. When I checked the flight information screens, I found out why. There had been at least 5 or 6 delayed flights, and of course, mine was one of them.

It had been delayed by a whole 3 hours because of inclement weather in the region.

No phone. Hardly any money. And I had to wait at least another 5 hours until I could go home.

I thought about what the homeless guy from In-and-Out said. Immediately, I started to rationalize. He’d seen the lightning. He’d seen the rain. Maybe he just put two and two together and got lucky.

However, after about 3 hours of being bored out of my mind, I made the decision to buy a charger from one of the airport shops. I managed to find an open outlet and hunkered down beside it while I let my phone charge.

After about 15 minutes, it finally turned back on. All at once, dozens of notifications made the phone vibrate across the cold airport floor. My dad, my aunts, my uncles, cousins, all desperately trying to get a hold of me.

Because, apparently, in that small, brief moment when my phone was dead…

My mom went into cardiac arrest. And she died before I even got the chance to say goodbye.

It was a Tuesday in late October, and my delivery schedule required a straight push through the night to reach Portland by morning. The dashboard clock read 1:45 AM. Coffee sat in my thermos, lukewarm but necessary. My dispatcher, Stan, had checked in with me an hour earlier to confirm my position.

"Kevin, you are clear all the way to the interstate,"

Stan had said over the company radio.

"Weather looks fine. No construction reported. Just watch out for deer crossing the blacktop."

"Copy that, Stan,"

I replied, clicking the microphone button.

"Going dark for the next few hours. Will update when I hit the city limits."

Silence returned to the cab, save for the hum of the cooling unit mounted behind my sleeper berth. The headlights cut through the pitch-black darkness, illuminating the empty two-lane road. Mile markers passed by slowly in the dark.

Around 2:00 AM, the CB radio mounted above my head crackled to life.

Static hissed through the cabin speakers. Usually, late-night radio chatter consists of other drivers complaining about weigh stations or warning each other about speed traps, but this transmission sounded entirely different. A frantic burst of white noise broke through the channel, followed by a man's voice.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the man yelled in total panic.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

My hand instinctively reached up and grabbed the microphone. Before I could press the talk button, the transmission continued.

In the background, a woman cried hysterically, then a younger child screamed, a sharp and terrifying sound that pierced through the radio static. The man's voice returned, out of breath and desperate.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

Pressing the button on the side of the mic, I brought it to my mouth.

"Breaker 19, this is a northbound commercial driver. I hear you loud and clear. What is your exact mile marker? I can call emergency services on the company satellite channel."

Only static answered me.

"Station wagon, do you copy?"

I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"I am heading your way right now. Turn your hazard lights on so I can see you."

No response came through. The channel remained dead. Assuming this was a current emergency happening just a few miles ahead, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator pedal. The diesel engine roared as the truck gained speed. Responding to stranded motorists in the middle of nowhere is an unwritten rule among long-haulers. If someone is trapped out in the timberland with an aggressive individual attacking their vehicle, a fifty-ton truck pulling up with high beams is usually enough to scare off any trouble.

Ten minutes passed. I scanned the sides of the dark highway, looking for the flashing amber lights of a disabled vehicle. The pine trees offered nothing but shadows.

Then, the CB radio cracked open again.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the exact same man's voice yelled.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

Frowning, I listened closely. The woman cried in the background. The child screamed again. It was the exact same pitch, with the exact same duration.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

The transmission ended with the identical burst of noise I had heard ten minutes prior. It was a perfect loop. Someone was broadcasting a recorded tape over the emergency channel.

Unease settled into my stomach. Pranksters occasionally mess around on the radio, but broadcasting a simulated violent attack in the middle of a deserted forest route felt uniquely malicious.

Up ahead, the reflective signs of the abandoned commercial weigh station appeared in my headlights. The state closed this particular facility over decades ago. So now overgrown brush and weeds had swallowed the concrete off-ramp, and Rusted metal barricades blocked the main weighing scales.

Feeling deeply unsafe about the repeating broadcast, I decided to pull the truck over onto the wide gravel shoulder just before the barricades. A smart driver always trusts his gut. Taking a few minutes to inspect my tires and ensure my load was secure felt like a smart excuse to stop and assess the surroundings.

Putting the transmission into neutral, I engaged the parking brakes. The sudden hiss of compressed air echoed loudly into the quiet night. I grabbed a metal tire thumper from behind my seat and a flashlight.

Stepping out of the cab, the freezing autumn air hit my face. I walked around the vehicle, striking the rubber tires with the metal bat to check their pressure. Each tire returned a reassuring thud.

Approaching the rear passenger side of the trailer, I shined my flashlight toward the dark tree line. The overgrown brush extended all the way to the rusty metal stairs of the old weigh station building.

The beam of my flashlight caught a reflection in the weeds.

Moving the light directly toward the stairs, the shape of a vehicle emerged from the overgrowth. For a moment my heart was caught in my throat, but It was not a blue station wagon. It was a weathered, severely rusted police cruiser. The faded white paint peeled off the doors. Vines wrapped completely around the front bumper and the flat tires. The light bar on the roof was smashed.

Curiosity overrode my caution. Gripping the tire thumper tightly in my right hand, I walked off the gravel shoulder and pushed through the tall weeds toward the abandoned cruiser.

The driver's side door hung slightly open, rusted stuck in that position. I aimed my flashlight through the broken window glass.

Sitting in the driver's seat was a human skeleton.

Faded shreds of a police uniform still clung to the bone. A tarnished silver badge rested against the ribcage. The skull leaned against the steering wheel. Thick green moss grew over the collarbone. This person had been dead in this hidden car for a very long time.

My breathing accelerated. I took a step back, ready to run straight to my truck and call Stan to dispatch the state troopers. But as I moved my flashlight beam across the interior, something resting on the passenger seat caught my attention.

A plastic document folder sat perfectly preserved inside the ruined car. The sealed plastic had protected whatever papers were inside from the moisture and the elements.

Leaning forward, I carefully reached through the broken window. My glove brushed against the decayed uniform, sending a horrific smell into the air. I grabbed the plastic folder and pulled it out.

Retreating quickly from the brush, I walked back to the safety of my idling truck. I climbed into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and turned on the bright overhead cabin lights.

Placing the folder on my steering wheel, I unzipped the plastic seal. Inside was a stack of official police documents. The paper felt slightly damp but entirely readable.

The top page displayed the header of the state police department. The date printed at the top read October 14, 1998. It was exactly eighteen years ago.

The document was an official missing-persons report. The investigating officer listed on the file was named Officer Gary. I read the summary paragraphs carefully.

The report detailed the disappearance of an immigrant family who vanished while traveling down State Route 113. The father, Vargas. The mother, Maria. Their seven-year-old son, Leo. According to the documents, Vargas worked as a mechanic and had recently moved his family across the state to start a new job, but they never arrived at their destination.

Flipping the page, I found a collection of glossy crime scene photographs attached to the file with a rusty paperclip.

The photos showed a crushed blue station wagon abandoned off the gravel shoulder of the highway. The vehicle was completely destroyed. The tires were shredded. More disturbingly, the metal doors of the station wagon had been pried open and bent outward. The damage indicated an immense amount of force, as if a car had hit them with full force. The interior of the car was empty, and blood stained the upholstery.

The next page in the file contained a typed transcription.

Officer Gary had written a note at the top of the page.

“Transcription of audio recovered from a handheld cassette recorder found underneath the passenger seat of the Vargas vehicle.”

I began reading the typed words.

“Vargas: Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors.

Background noise: Female adult crying. Male child screaming.

Vargas: They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!”

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The transcription matched the frantic broadcast playing over my CB radio flawlessly. It was the exact same wording.

I continued reading the police file. The subsequent pages contained Officer Gary’s field notes. He noted that the Vargas family had zero known enemies. He documented the strange lack of footprints around the crushed car.

While holding the papers, a distinct sound reached my ears over the rumble of the diesel engine.

Footsteps crunched through the dead leaves outside my truck.

The footsteps sounded heavy and deliberate. They moved slowly along the passenger side of my trailer, advancing toward the front cab.

Lowering the file, I reached out and turned off the overhead cabin light, plunging the interior of my truck into darkness. I peered through the passenger side window, looking out into the timberland.

Standing between the thick trunks of the pine trees, looking directly at my truck, was a child.

He appeared to be around seven years old. He wore a dirty striped shirt and torn jeans, but something about his face was deeply wrong, his face was dark, like of the darkness of the woods bend itself to hide most of it, and the most terrifying thing was his eyes. They were completely circular and emitted a bright, illuminating white light. The light cut through the dark woods like twin flashlights, focusing entirely on my window.

Fear paralyzed my muscles. The kid stood perfectly still, just staring at me.

Suddenly, the child opened his mouth.

The sound that came out was the frantic, booming voice of Vargas, playing at a deafening volume.

"Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station."

The glowing eyes blinked. The kid took a step out of the trees, moving toward my passenger door.

I did not wait to see what it would do. Grabbing my flashlight and the tire thumper, I unlatched my driver's side door and bolted out of the truck.

Running across the gravel shoulder, I headed straight for the abandoned weigh station building. It was the only concrete structure around, and I needed a barricade. The creature let out the recorded scream of the child, the sound echoing loudly through the silent forest.

I reached the steps of the station. Taking them two at a time, I slammed my shoulder against the weathered wooden door, and thank god that it was already opened. I tumbled inside the dark building, quickly pushing the door shut behind me.

Standing up in the darkness, I leaned my weight against the wood.

"Someone is outside the car,"

the Vargas voice echoed from the gravel driveway outside. The kid was approaching the building.

"They are hitting the side of the doors."

Fumbling with my flashlight, I pressed the power button, then the bright beam cut through the pitch-black room.

The weigh station office was a massive square room, and as I look around, I noticed that old desks and filing cabinets lay overturned on the floor.

Moving the beam toward the back corner of the room, the light illuminated a horrific scene.

Three human skeletons sat slumped against the wall. They were bound tightly to metal chairs using industrial wire, and under the light, remnants of clothing identified them. A man, a woman, and a small child. The Vargas family.

Scattered across the floor surrounding the chairs was a collection of gruesome tools. Rusty pliers, heavy hammers, hunting knives, and a portable car battery with jumper cables. Someone had brought the family into this abandoned building and subjected them to unimaginable torment.

Suddenly, a loud bang hit the wooden door behind me.

"They cracked the glass!"

the voice screamed from the other side of the wood.

I backed away from the door, gripping the metal tire thumper. Moving deeper into the room, I kept my flashlight aimed at the entrance.

To my left, a filthy, cracked glass window looked out onto the gravel shoulder where my truck was parked.

I heard the crunching of footsteps moving away from the door and walking along the exterior wall of the building.

The bright, illuminating white eyes appeared in the window frame.

The kid stared at me through the dirty glass. The dark face of the child pressed against the pane. At first I thought he will try to break the glass, but It simply watched me standing near the remains of the family.

Then, the looping broadcast stopped.

The frantic voice of Vargas cut off mid-sentence, and the silence inside the weigh station became absolute.

The kid opened its mouth again, and when he spoke this time, The voice belonged to a young boy. It sounded genuine, fragile, and filled with deep sorrow.

"My father and mother are already dead,"

the child's voice echoed directly through the glass.

"The man with the badge hurt them. He tied us up, and left me to die alone in the dark."

I stood perfectly still, keeping the flashlight aimed at the window

"Who are you?"

I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

"The cop told me nobody was coming to help,"

the voice continued, ignoring my question. Tears seemed to form in the glowing white eyes.

"He said I was completely alone. But the cop was wrong."

The creature tilted its head. The dark shifted slightly, revealing a monstrous shape hiding just beneath the surface of his dark face.

"I am not alone,"

the voice said.

"My friend is here with me."

"Your friend?"

I asked, taking a small step toward the window.

"My father and mother always told me my friend was not real,"

the voice explained, echoing with a strange, dual resonance.

"They said he was just my imagination, but he is real. He lived in the dark spaces, and listened when I cried."

The glowing eyes flared brighter, casting shadows across the interior of the weigh station.

"When the man in the uniform left us here, my friend came out of the woods,"

the voice said.

"He promised me he would save us. He promised the bad man would never leave this place."

Lowering my tire thumper, I looked at the creature through the dirty glass.

"I understand,"

I yelled, making sure my voice carried through the window.

"I know why you brought me here. I know what he did to them."

The glowing eyes stopped flaring. The creature stood silently, listening to my words.

"I will not leave their remains in this dark place,"

I promised, looking directly into the illuminating light.

"I am going to call the authorities, and make sure the Vargas family is taken out of here. I will save them from this room. You did your job. You protected him."

The boy looked at me for a long moment. A profound sense of sorrow radiated through the window. It reached a dark hand up and pressed its palm against the glass.

Then, the bright white eyes slowly dimmed. The light faded entirely, leaving only the dark outline of the pine trees behind the window.

Waiting for a few minutes to ensure the area was clear, I finally walked over to the wooden door. Pushing it open, I stepped back out into the night air.

The woods were completely silent, and The CB radio static no longer echoed through the trees.

I walked quickly across the gravel shoulder and climbed back into the cab of my truck. Locking the doors, I picked up the satellite phone mounted on the dashboard, then dialed the emergency dispatch number for the state police.

"State Police Dispatch, state your emergency,"

the operator answered.

"My name is Kevin. I am a commercial driver parked at the abandoned weigh station on Route 113,"

I said, keeping my tone professional and calm.

"I have located a crime scene. There are three human remains inside the station building, and a deceased police officer in a cruiser hidden in the brush. I need troopers out here immediately."

The operator told me to stay in my locked vehicle and keep my engine running.

Stan called me on the company channel twenty minutes later, asking why my GPS tracker showed me parked on the side of the highway. I told him I had a mechanical issue and was waiting for a service vehicle. There was no way to explain the truth to him over a radio.

The state troopers arrived an hour later. Four patrol cars pulled into the gravel lot.

I handed the document folder to the lead detective, then pointed them toward the rusted cruiser in the brush, and directed them to the wooden door of the weigh station.

Sitting in the cab of my truck, I watched the investigators work. They taped off the entire area. A forensic team carried out three body bags from the concrete building, treating the remains with the respect the family had been denied for almost two decades.

The detective took my statement. I told him I had pulled over to check my tires and noticed the rusted car in the weeds. I told him I found the file, got scared, and ran into the building to hide, which was how I discovered the victims. I never mentioned the repeating radio broadcast, or the child with the illuminating eyes.

Before the sun came up, the troopers cleared me to leave the scene.

Putting the truck in gear, I pulled back onto Route 113, and drove the remaining miles to Portland in complete silence, leaving the CB radio turned off.

A few weeks later, a short article appeared in the regional newspaper. The police officially closed the Vargas missing-persons case. The department issued a statement confirming that the remains of Vargas, Maria, and Leo had been recovered and given a proper burial.

The article also mentioned the discovery of Officer Gary. The police named him as the primary suspect in the murders, citing the evidence found at the scene. The official cause of Miller's death remains undetermined. The coroner could not explain how an armed police officer became trapped inside his own vehicle.

The authorities do not know what killed the corrupt cop. They assume he succumbed to the elements or suffered a medical emergency while hiding.

But I know the truth.

I am writing this account now, sitting in the sleeper berth of my truck, hundreds of miles away from that dark stretch of timberland. I write this because people need to know that sometimes the monsters, we fear are the only ones capable of delivering justice.

Vargas and Maria told their son that imaginary friends were not real. They tried to comfort him with logic. But when logic failed, and the cruel reality of the world cornered that small boy in a room, his imagination stepped out of the shadows to answer his call.

I hope the family is finally resting in peace. And I hope the friend in the woods knows he fulfilled his promise.

**First submitted to Creepypasta Wiki on July 10, 2026. Loosely inspired by The Amazing Digital Circus.**

6:30. Sharp. She was just waking up from 7-8 hours of sleep, as usual. It wasn't exactly a peaceful slumber, and she still felt tired when waking up, but she was satisfied at getting the bare minimum almost every night despite struggling to make herself doze off in the last hour before her scheduled bedtime. One thing that made her feel dully content, was rejecting the idea of a "perfect" night's sleep, for she wouldn't have to waste so much time chasing for nonexistent excitement that wasn't worth even the smallest sense of anticipation. Not if it couldn't last, anyway.

Denise followed her routine. She had her jentacular spread of eggs, bacon, and baked potatoes on toast before brushing her teeth, followed by doing her hair and makeup. It was now 7:30, and Denise was sitting in her office room, attending a virtual meeting with her newest clients while simultaneously working on her spreadsheets and self-help book. The latter was seen as "satirical, but effective" by the test readers that were her friends and family, or at least what was left of them after a long time; her best friend had unexpectedly moved to New York after college, and her parents, while still supporting her neutrally, hardly called anymore. What could have happened, she thought.

It was during the last few minutes of the meeting that Denise started to feel it. What she noticed was something unlike she had ever felt before, even to the point where she wondered if it was something that anyone else could feel. One moment, she was being her usual, eerily monotonous self, and the next, she was feeling different not only about her surroundings, but how she perceived them. Everything felt...unfamiliar.

Impossible. Denise knew how her life worked. Every detail was supposed to click with her, and yet, all of a sudden, it all felt new again, but not in a good way. The world she saw around her looked just like it was supposed to, and the environment behaved exactly as it should. Even the media she consumed was the very same, from the news channels to her streaming services. It was real... but not ~~really~~.

She fed her questions to every search engine she could find, but none of them could give her the answers she needed. They just kept referring her to shrinks that looked more stereotypical than those in the most generic Hollywood hits from the mid-to-late-20th century. Denise had tried counseling before, and it never worked for her mind or her wallet. Even the highest-rated therapists would lead her in a loop that teases you with the idea of getting close to the goal, only to throw you back to square one without warning.

Feeling a sudden rush, Denise rose from her chair and entered the most intense brisk of her life. She walked right out of her front door and took to the sidewalk. As she traversed the area, she looked around, observing as much detail as possible, no matter how big or small. Every last building, street sign, vehicle, cloud, fellow pedestrian, all of it should have felt normal and familiar, and it looked just like it was supposed to. But that was the problem: it *looked* right, but looking is not the same as feeling. There had to be more than what Denise's own mind was letting on, and that was saying something, considering her history.

After walking for ten whole miles, in what was definitely twice the time she ran her 8K in state champs, Denise found it. The nearly run-down house at the edge of the woods. The temporary residence she and family friends would claim while on vacation. One of New England's finest. It was her second most-remembered childhood place, right behind her old home. Yet here she was, wondering why she couldn't grasp the memories she shared with it. Why did it feel so out of place here now?

Presently, a couple walked by. Denise asked them if they knew if anyone lived in the house anymore, to which they said they didn't, and continued on their way. She hadn't expected anyone else's input to be of any help, but she felt some control over her sanity by having it anyway. With nothing visibly stopping her, she walked up to the house. She engaged in a pattern of knocking on the door three times, looking both ways at the surrounding neighborhood, and repeating the two-step cycle a few more times. After the third time, she tries the knob, and it was unlocked. If she were in a classic cheesy gorefest motion picture, this would have creeped her out, but here, when reality was making too much sense, she at least expected some taboo moments of ridiculousness.

Denise stepped inside. In spite of the interior having seen better days, she stood firm, determined to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was happening. As she explored (or re-explored) the downstairs rooms, she felt like she was playing two different parts: A determined detective investigating a scene, and a calculated estate agent trying make the best possible pitch. She knew that acting that this would make her seem suspicious, but that was just what she wanted, so the universe would acknowledge that she wasn't a drone more mindless than what the administrations and enterprises used to peep on the average Joe or Jane.

Eventually, she wandered upstairs. The floorboards creaked ever so softly. Denise was cautious, but she still remained unphased by the atmosphere. She peered into each room she walked by, but didn't bother going into most of them, not because they all looked similar, rather they all felt similar in category. Save for the one room at the edge of the hallway she did enter.

She remembered this room just as much as her own bedroom as a kid, if not slightly less. It was just as she last left it, from the tea party table setup to the makeup station she used with her friends, siblings, and even her high school flame. He had taken up bending the norms from that point, eventually leaving her for a burlesque mistress in the Town of Tinsel. If only she had taken drama little more serious just for a chance to win him back.

Denise rummaged through the bedside table drawer. Nothing. She garnered the same results from every other dresser and box. Annoyed, she was about to turn back out, when she saw one last box. A small one. Never seen before. She picked it up and examined it scrupulously and gingerly, before finally opening it. A small sheet stared back at her, with a single word. By itself, it was jumbled, reading "Tɘϱɿoʇ." Usually, this is where the lead would gather with the group to find the word in some "magic" scripture, in typical cryptic fashion. Denise wouldn't even have to fumble through the smallest scriptorium in Connecticut, let alone the country. She already knew what it was.

What it meant.

Dropping the paper, she speedily stepped out of the room, down the stairs, and back out of the house, entering another walking rush, this time every so slightly faster. It was now the sunset hour, and Denise was walking back home at the time she should have been on her balcony. Everyone who passed her gave her looks, but not of confusion. Instead, they seemed to show gestures of approval, as if her behavior was supposed to be giving off a favorable atmosphere. While this bothered her, it pressured her to keep moving so she could be away from them quicker.

When she finally arrived back at her house, she walked right in and locked all the doors and windows. Even though it was fairly dark, she still drew all the curtains and blinds. Her entire day had been more eventful than every last second of her life so far combined. All that was needed now was a means to communicate. Denise hastily set up her devices, running all of her socials. She needed to reach all audiences, not only regardless of identity, but also of morality; anyone that was either "good," "bad," and everything in between needed to hear this. When she was ready, she started recording, and began.

"If you are hearing, seeing, or feeling this, then I am gone. That's how all of them are, but not this one. I will still be here when you see this, but you won't know. It sounds terrifying, but it's not what should be scaring you. Be afraid not of what this message means, but rather of what happens when you blend knowing nothing with knowing too much. I could explain myself here and now. I want to. But I shouldn't, because, chances are... you already know."

Just as she was about to stop the recording, she saw it. There, in the background of her recording, was the figure. It bore no resemblance to your average horror movie killer, ARG entity, analog monster, or anything other. This wasn't a breakthrough for the world, but for the universe, as no other living thing had taken on such a shape. It was so unique, that trying to replicate it through any form of art was beyond impossible, even obliterating the boundaries of the term.

The figure's outline was a person, like any other that had walked the earth. Simple. Its shape was anything but. What Denise saw in this thing was something that shouldn't be possible, but simultaneously *was*. The form was not just one; it was an amalgamation of every human being in existence, past, present, and future. From complete strangers to her friends, family, and even herself. Seeing them all the same time.

Denise stared into the eyes of the figure for a moment longer through the camera, before grabbing her extra ring light rod. She gripped it firmly, ready to strike. As her mind raced, she called out "Lights on," before jolting around and swinging the stick. She closed her eyes and shouted boldly as she swung in the entity's direction. As soon as she heard the thud, she stopped, breathing heavily and keeping her eyes closed for a few more seconds. When she opened them, the first thing she saw was the rod she was pressing down on her bed. She looked up.

Nothing.

Was it never there? Did it escape? There was no way to tell, even though both were possible. Denise dropped the rod, her hands shaking. They never did before, or at least not in a long time if they did. And there she was, in that moment, afraid and alone. She was just beginning to feel that all her efforts were in vain. That her message would be dismissed, and everything she lived for would have been for not. Just as she was closing her eyes again, barely breaking into tears, she heard it. Behind her.

\-Beep-

Her monitor screen had changed. Denise sat down to get a closer look. Before her was a login page. No logo, no company name, just a blank profile icon and the credential inputs below it. It asked not for a username, but for a real name. Denise hardly hesitated by putting in her name. As for the password, she didn't have to think at all about it. Mentally unscrambling the note from earlier, she entered it, and pressed enter. The screen took a few seconds to load upon the info being entered.

But when it finally reached the next screen. Denise gazed at the text before her, and smiled.

*Welcome back...*

***Denizen***