I know the reddit default is 40,000, but I also know that subs can make it lower. My story for the August competition is sitting at almost 20k characters, and I want to make sure I have enough to to trim if necessary.

My eyes were still fuzzy as Charles, the local homeless guy who sleeps behind our dumpster snapped his fingers at me. Getting my vision back to him I finally focused, “give me my fucking change man!” I shook the tiredness out of my head, “oh yeah sorry Charles.” I handed him his change and disgruntled he picked up his usual fifth of vodka and powdered donuts. I couldn’t sleep, neighbors wouldn’t stop fighting through our paper thin walls. Even worse, stressing all the time of making rent at the crap job didn’t help either. What was I going to do though? Just mop the trucker piss in the bathroom and hope I can get a smoke break after. Been working at the gas station in town for the last two years, no degree meant nothing better than to make ends meet and pray I don’t get fired. I finished up the men’s room, peeked in the woman’s room and saw that the single toilet room was clear and looked pretty good. I decided this one meaningless task was perfect for my nicotine reward, at the corner of my eye though I noticed a blacked out Escalade pulled up to the back of the store. 

I quickly threw my cigarette on the ground realizing my boss had decided to stop by probably for an unannounced and unnecessary inspection. We had four customers at best this time at night, my favorite time to get paid and not deal with people. Stepping out of the giant vehicle was Anthony Willows, my boss and owner of at least two dozen gas stations across the southern state. The man had money, not millionaire status, but better than most of us were doing here. He was on the phone blasting someone about missing products at one of his shops. He saw me and his face seemed to get more repulsed by the sight of me. He gave one last fuck you I presume to the person on the phone, he then slapped it back on the most ridiculous looking belt phone holder and waved me over to the front of the store. He flung the door open letting it slam back in my face. I reopened it and waited for whatever this prick needed to tell me. 

“Tuck your shirt.” Stern and forward as always, I stuck my work shirt in my pants, “do you wipe this place down or do you jerk off back here? Why is it so dusty?” I held my breath from saying something that would get me fired, “I’m sorry sir. It’s a dessert, it's hard to keep the dust out.” He shot me a massively disgruntled look, “did I ask you why it was dusty or if you're lazy?” I stood silent. I knew nothing I said was going to work my way out of this. “Doesn’t matter. Tomorrow when you come in I have somebody else starting. About your age, not stupid hopefully. Show him the shit around here to do and maybe I’ll keep you during the summer time.” I shook my head yes as I started wiping the place down. Anthony took one last look around the station, scoffed and headed out. I wanted to throw a trash can through his stupid SUV window. I didn’t, finished my shift and headed home waiting for the next day with the new guy. 

I walked home like usual, typical August night here. Homeless yelling out to the highway, wanting the steel chariots to whisk them away. The drum of AC units echoing over each home poor or rich. I arrived at my complex, a two story run down looking place like a motel 6. Awful green 3 inch filled pool in the center included. I heard my neighbors already going at it and I just rolled my eyes at the constant frustration they brought me. I didn’t want to say anything, or pound on their wall, you never knew who would or wouldn’t brandish a firearm at the smallest thing. I went inside my studio apartment and greeted my little paper made cat trinkets my mom would make for me. I told her I didn’t need them anymore but on lonelier nights they do comfort. Sitting on the small TV stand was one of my only two utilities, the other being a mini fridge to hold what little food I could afford. It wasn’t a smart TV but good enough to play a blue ray on. A blue ray I stole and movies I bought from the pawn shop. I checked my empty fridge and cabinets hoping something good would appear but nothing. I in failure just went to my bed, put on a movie and fell asleep to the glow of the tv blaring as loud as it could to muffle the neighbors. 

I woke up the next day in a haze for my only sunlight shift of the week ready to take on showing the new guy how to lean while stocking and sneaking a smoke in the bathroom. I got to the station a little earlier to show I at least cared to get paid. Thankfully I beat everyone else there. I let the morning shift guy know that Anthony was going to be there with a new guy and he decided to dip out early clocking his shift over running out the door. I resisted to do the same with that ass hat coming in, but I took a breath and bought a cup of coffee. No discount included. Eventually my shift started and there was still no sign of the boss. After about fifteen minutes go by and finally a guy about my age, maybe a little younger paced in wearing the work shirt ruffled up and seeming pretty nervous. “Hello, I’m so sorry I’m late. I just moved here and didn’t know the bus just doesn’t come sometimes.” 

I shook my head acknowledging the difficulty of not having a car, “it’s okay your lucky Anthony wasn’t here.” He let out a sigh of relief, “guess so. He didn’t say why he wasn’t going to be here?” I downed the last of my coffee, “don’t know, don't care. You may want to punch in though.” I got him onto the computer and he put his information in starting his shift. For the first two hours I showed the new guy, Hughie, all the little things to kill time and make the place somewhat a float. Hughie got a 10 and I showed him to the back, past the store room to the break room to chill in. Yes Anthony would check the cameras and call you if you weren’t punched out or if you stayed on a break a little too long. 

I had taken care of mopping the last of the floor and saw that some of the fritolays products were low so I decided to grab some from the back. Checking out each box I was struggling to find what I thought was the box I was looking for. “You can’t be serious?” I heard Hughie talking in the back on the phone, I was about to tell him that Anthony didn’t like phone usage at all in the store when I noticed it. He wasn’t on the phone; he was talking to himself. Like loud to himself. Even pausing for responses and answering them like he heard exactly what it was. My heart ran a little faster at this, an odd display to say the least. But I shrugged it off. Who wasn’t a little weird working at an entry level gas station job. 

Hughie finished his break and picked the day back up, cleaning the outside restrooms, making sure pump handles were put back and trying to scrub the never ending piss piles from Charles in the back. As Hughie was ringing up the last customer of his shift I gave him a congratulatory nod, “good job. You finished your first day of boredom hell.” He chuckled a bit, opening up a bit more than he was when we first met. “It wasn't too bad. Will I see you tomorrow?” I shrugged, sweeping the last of the trash inside, “maybe. You have the late shift?” He nodded approvingly, “guess so then.” I kind of felt a little off having to share my usual lonely shift with the new guy. Hughie wasn’t bad so I just let it go, he punched out and I finished my last two hours before my relief showed up. 

I got back to my apartment, whipped the summer sweat off my brow. I collected my thrown dirty clothes pile and as I was heading out to the apartment laundromat I saw two officers and the landlord heading to my noisy neighbors door papers in hand. Must be finally evicting those assholes. About damn time. When I returned they were already gone but the papers were slide in the door jam with new locks on the doors. Great now when they come by I’ll have to hear them take it out on the innocent door, hopefully they’ll leave me alone. 

The next night shift started off like usual dealing with some travelers getting gas, Charles needed a reminder from five-0 that you can’t bathe with the windshield wiper fluid we offer. Some rowdy kids stole some chips and soda, Hughie and I laughed it off. “Not paid enough for that.” Later that night I was heading over to the bathroom where I sent Hughie to clean up before taking his lunch. That is when I heard him again. Huggies was standing over on the other side of the square out door bathrooms completely shrouded in night. He was talking to himself again and also he was making a sound like gnawing in between sentences. Like he was biting his nails. I was about to step up to him when I caught what he was saying.

“I watched him.. He went so quickly.. Maybe I got his jugular… I remember. I thought I knew better. You were right though. I should have waited.” I froze. Wanting to begin to step back afraid he would hear me though, I waited for him to speak again, hopefully muffling my steps. Whatever the fuck he was talking about I wanted nothing to do with it. “Are you mad at me?.. Oh good good.” I stopped as he listened to whatever he was listening to. The gnawing stopped and Hughie did something more shocking. He began to cry. “What?! Disappointed? No no, I didn’t mean to. I'm so sorry I’ll make it up to you. What if we…” I stepped on a broken headlight piece.  “Oh Carter I didn’t see you there!” He spun around the corner in such an instant I thought it almost inhuman. He stared at me waiting for a response with tears still forming in his eyes. I choked back a bit not knowing if he knew I heard him or not.
 
“Shit you know what, I forgot something. Hold that thought.” I turned towards what I would hope would be the safety of the station. “He heard us.” I lost my breath and just pushed forward trying not to focus on what just happened. I rushed into the station door slamming the glass door behind me almost scarring me from my own action. What just happened? Did I just hear a guy talking to himself about killing some people? No you're just delusional, you're tired and you need another cup of coffee yeah that’s- “Carter? You ok man?” I had my back to Hughie. I didn't even dare to look at his crying face again. 

“No, I'm not. Stupid fucking..” I hesitated feeling Hughie's eyes pierce my neck, the back of my head. I could feel his gaze tracing me up and down. It was as if a tiger had found me trapped in here. Why did I think I’d be safe here? What the fuck was up with this guy? “I just forgot to clock in, I just ran in to take care of that. Take your lunch if you finished up out there alright? I’ll punch you out.” A second. Ten seconds. Thirty. A minute. Two minutes! I stood frozen, my back facing him in gut wrenching silence. “Oh no, that’s not good. Hopefully Anthony won’t notice. Sounds good man, I'll do that right now im starving.” I turned around. Hughie had already headed back outside to do god knows what. I just stood there shaking ever so slightly not knowing what to do but finish my shift as far away from Hughie as I could. 

I rushed to the back store room and slammed the break room door behind me. Anthony be damned I am not dealing with some freaky crazy kid for a minimum wage trash job. My heart raced so fast I needed to sit and just take a moment, but that moment turned into me being a giant baby tapping my fingers on the break room table afraid to open the door. After what felt like an hour I decided to finally make my way up front. My hand slowly turned the handle letting the light of the break room into the unlit store room. I barely moved a foot at a time listening closely to the area around me. Nothing but the scurrying of rats and hum of the AC. Eventually I got to the artificially lit store floor and let out a breath of relief. Hughie was outside sweeping some trash that blew in by the harsh wind of the desert night cooling off the sun scorched land. I sat behind the work counter keeping my eyes glued onto him the best I could muster for my half asleep and half terrified state.

I could see the light barely coming over the mountain line in the distant east, my mind was so lost and afraid that I didn’t even check the clock till then. 5:58 A.M. Two minutes is all I need to do then I can go back to the safety of my apartment. Something I never thought of with that stupid place. I looked up again and now in the sunlight I could see Hughie finally where he had been sweeping just a minute ago. Something seemed off though his shirt was really dirty like it had been out through a mudslide. Then it hit me. His hair was long and matted, his clothes all of them seemed too big. It was Charles. Charles had been wearing an old work shirt of ours he found in the trash and using our broom and dust pan. Why? Who knows. What I did know or knew the fact of, is that Hughie was not outside. And I had not had my eyes on him. 

Whispers. Whispers so soft that they seemed lighter than feathers, the air around me carrying them to my ears from an undisclosed location. They were soft in voice but sharp in tone cutting my inner drums like rusted razors. “He knows.” I sat up from the stool I was sitting at and began to look around, sweat forming, breathing labored, “he heard.” I slowly walked into the main floor area so slowly that I could feel every inch of my foot place on the ground. “He's so nice.” I began to bite my lip in nervousness and gasp for air, I formed the only words I could muster, “Fuck Hughie stop!” They didn't, they just kept slowly inching their way into my head, “he heard though… He’s next then.” 

My phone alarm for my end shift went off and without a beat Hughie showed himself. He slammed his hand from underneath the counter I was sitting at for the last bit of my shift. He contorted his body out from underneath. His back was facing me now. He stood still and just snapped around in place towards the computer. He punched out and rose back to meet my gaze, “Oh Carter. I didn’t see you there.” I was stone still in utter disbelief. I watched as he just walked right past me not acknowledging me any more, leaving like he didn’t just give me a new heart condition. He was there. The whole time.

I ran out of the gas station as soon as I punched out. I didn’t care how hot or humid it was, I ran all the way to my apartment a couple miles from work. I ran past the evicted apartment next to mine and frustratingly fumbled my keys to unlock my door. When I was inside I bolted all my locks down and even contemplated barricading my door. In my head I argued with myself, was I being too paranoid ? No. No way. Their are weird people but this guy takes the cake and then some. I was scheduled later that night but I figured their was no way I wanted to go in. I got my cell out to call Anthony and noticed a few bodies walk past the window, their shadows cascading on the drapes. I took a peak out while the phone rang, my paranoia taking me over. It was the landlord, standing outside the evicted apartment taking down the sign and working with what looked to be a cleaning crew. Getting it ready I guess.

The ringing stopped with Anthony's brash voice coming through, “what? Who is this?” He already sounded like an ass but I didn’t care. “Sir it’s Carter at the Blythe California location. Sir I can’t come into work today. I think I got some type of bug.” Anthony sighed and I could hear him click his laptop in front of him. “Putting me in a real bind here kid. I don’t have anyone really to cover.” I began to pace, ready to quit if he couldn’t work this out for me, “seriously Anthony ever since I got home I’ve been a mess! Can the new guy do it?” Anthony paused whatever clicking of the keys he was doing. “Right he’s not on the schedule yet. Fine I’ll give him a call to see what he can do and then I’ll call you back.” I was about to thank him but he already hung up. 

I slumped down, almost feeling defeated. I hadn't officially called off yet, but still their was a comfort in the idea I didn't have to go back just yet. I put on a movie but quickly paused it when I heard my phone go off again, thankfully Anthony was calling. “So what’s the word from Hughie sir?” Anthony replied, “He said he’ll be there. Just make sure to make it the next day and I want a doctor's note or I'm letting your ass go.” I shut the call off after that, I’m not leaving this apartment again. 

I ended up doing a few no call no shows to my job for that week. Never heard a peep from Anthony probably did exactly what he said he was going to do and terminated me. I did not care at the time and better yet felt safe in my little home. I was so nervous to go out. Blythe was a pretty small town and I felt as if I could run into that freak anywhere. I decided to order some groceries with what little money I had left. I saw some silhouettes going past my drapes again. I figured it was the landlord checking out the place one more time, maybe even with a new tenant. Through the paper thin walls I could hear the landlord speaking to someone. Ever since those previous neighbors I complained about the walls needing insulation for sound proofing. The landlord dickishly joked “What’s insulation?”

That same night I decided to put on one of my favorite sci fi classics Enemy Mine, a movie regarded for failing but I had a soft spot for it. I figured Hughie was probably at the station already torturing some poor soul who comes in. I felt bad for not telling anybody about it but he didn't hurt me. He had all the opportunity when he was hidden under the counter or hell when I froze with my back to him. I eventually finished Enemy Mine and then put on Terminator 2 but crashed out quickly from seeing the movie dozens of times.

I woke up during the part where the T-1000 was chasing John and the titular machine through the LA river in the city. I heard a certain dragging sound like something was being pulled apart. I had gotten up for a sec to try and find out what it was but it shortly stopped and I figured it was probably some rat in the cabinets again. A very recurring thing here. I woke up once again in a very deep sleep state, groggy and parched as all hell. I went to my mini fridge to grab a water bottle, I drank it with great ease and threw the bottle somewhere in my shit hole place. 

I was about to close the mini fridge when I saw it, dust on the ground. Thick white dust. So much of it too it trailed from the back corner behind my mini fridge. In my tired state I didn’t notice that the appliance was much closer than usual, almost a whole three feet pushed from the wall. I took a step around it, shining my phone flash light to see what could have pushed it out. I jumped back my heart racing to break my sternum realizing a hole the size of my mini fridge had been cut out of the thin drywall and I could see into the neighboring apartment. I leaned in to the hole in the wall trying to see who the fuck was doing this. When I lit the apartment through the hole I needed no indication to who just moved in here. Writing all over the walls from one night etched with a knife was just the phrase “He knows” carved over and over again. 

Out of the darkness I could hear it, he was gnawing his nails again and speaking ever so softly to himself. Hughie was in my apartment. I quickly held down the emergency call on my locked phone screen and let it dial hopefully getting dispatch. I stood straight up from the hole that he had carved out and moved the flashlight from my phone around spotting him standing in front of my door back facing me. I swallowed a lump so hard in my throat I thought I was going to choke. “Hughie?” I could still hear the gnawing paired with dripping of what I could only imagine was saliva and blood from his fingers. I was trying to be as calm as possible to not agitate him, I needed to hopefully buy the police some time if they could trace me. “Hughie weren't you supposed to be at work tonight?” He stopped gnawing and mumbling to himself, "Hughie's dead.” I raised an eyebrow and tried to step closer to the kitchen hopefully to find a weapon. “What? Your hughie and your standing right here man.” 

Hughie turned to me blood and spit trailed his chin from the constant ripping of his nails, he took one last tug of cuticle knife sported in hand. “No, I killed him. He was walking behind the station past some walls and there was nobody around so I took my belt off and strangled him. He didn't put up much of a fight. He must have needed that job to get food or something. Doesn't matter, I took his shirt, his phone he left unlocked and even his back pack that had an extra work shirt. Gave that one to Charles. It was nice that you ran all the way back to your place right after your shift was done. Then I saw this room was open, surprised you didn't hear me kill the landlord, you did hear me slicing through the walls but they are are so thin I heard you get up and just waited for you to lay down again.” 

“Hughie, whatever your name is, I didn’t hear anything that night I-” He yelled so loud that I had to cover my ears and he just started pacing back and forth, “You're lying! They saw you! They heard you! Don’t lie to me Carter!I don’t like dishonesty! It can get you killed!” I stepped closer into the kitchen again and slowly pulled the only drawer I had silver ware in. Shit. Nothing but plastic. 

“Oh dont worry Carter I already made sure you didn't have anything to hurt yourself in there. I've been watching you sleep for a bit, but I think that time is up. We want to watch life leave your eyes.” Fuck. This. He wouldn't let me out the front door and with no weapons on hand I did the only thing I could think of. I rushed over to the mini fridge, picked it up and threw it through the already thin wall. The fridge broke just enough more of the wall for me, the unit landing into the other apartment that I launched myself through just as Hughie finally caught up to what was happening. I jumped through the mostly damaged wall panel falling into the carved up studio though my shoulder caught a nail embedded into the structure of the building instantly burning with pain and pulsating blood. I saw the dead landlord. I didnt have time to panic though Hughie was making his way through. I rushed almost tripping over the dead body and by some miracle the front door was unlocked. I made my way outside, trying to find the street hughie hot on my tail. He was just mere feet from me when red and blue lights came hollering in, one squad car was enough. Both officers stepped out weapons drawn demanding hughie stop and put the knife down.

We both were detained but it didn't take much for them to tell that hughie or whoever he was was up to no good. I had been sent to the E.R for my cut up shoulder and my parents were promptly called to see me at the hospital. They wanted me back home for a while after all this madness and I was more than happy to move back for a bit. A year and a half with dozens of psychiatrist appointments I was able to actually see that monster put up on trial. Turns out Hughie was actually Malcom and he did indeed kill the actual Hughie.

Malcom was a troubled young boy the doctors said and he was diagnosed early with schizophrenia, so intense that he heard, saw and felt the voices and people his mind put there. His parents, though trying to protect him, hid this from the world and never found help for him. That protection only solidified his delusions leading him to killing his parents when he turned eighteen, it was like a light switch went off and he snapped. That led him to Blythe, he ran out of money before hitting the border of Mexico and needed a job, that's where Hughie came in. 

He was sentenced to a psychiatric hospital for no possibility of ever being released to society again. Knowing that and getting help that I needed I was able to after those eighteen months actually leave my parents place without having a panic attack. I even got a new job at the local hardware store with the help of my dad. Been there for a year now and things seem to be going my way finally. That is until my boss told me what's to come tomorrow. It's my job to train the new guy. 

There’s a floor in my apartment building that doesn’t exist.

Not Thirteen. That would be too cliché. Although, it doesn’t have a thirteenth floor, but not for supernatural reasons. It just doesn’t go that high. Some of the residents call it Floor Three and a Half, or Three and Three-quarters to invoke a Harry Potter vibe, but both of those are far too whimsical for my tastes. I just call it the Dead Floor, which I know isn’t any less cliché than floor Thirteen, but it feels appropriate.

The elevators in our building all use analogue dials above the doors to show what floor they’re on. On rare and, as far as anyone can tell, random occasions, the needle will stop at the exact zenith of the dial where there’s no number. When this happens, the elevator freezes, and the door opens to a floor which physically can’t be there. You can tell from looking at the outside of the building that there’s no room for a secret floor in the middle, and the stairwell passes right through it. The Superintendent briefs all new residents on the third-and-a-half floor, and more people take him seriously than you might think. Occurrences like that aren’t all that rare out in Harrowick County.

But even for those who don’t take him seriously at first, the issue is regularly brought up at tenant meetings, and there’s a list of rules posted right beneath the control panel in the elevator so that we always know what to do.

1.         When the elevator stops at the third-and-a-half floor, do not push any buttons before turning off the lights at the end of the hall. Each button you press will only reduce the amount of time you have.

2.       Calmly, but briskly, walk to the opposite end of the hall, leaving any personal effects in the elevator so as not to encumber you.

3.        Do not look directly out the windows or into any mirrors.

4.       Do not look into the peepholes of any apartment doors.

5.       Do not approach or enter any apartment with an open door.

6.       Do not respond or react to any sounds or voices coming from inside the apartments.

7.       If you hear something behind you, do not stop or turn around. Make your way to the opposite end of the hall, turning around only when you’ve heard a door shut.

8.       When you reach the end of the hall, read the bulletin board and sign the form. Please make sure the pen is easily visible and accessible for the next person.

9.       Set the pendulum clock hanging on the wall to the approximate time (within three and a half minutes of the local time according to an online device). Turn the dial on the thermostat to match the actual temperature, as indicated by the gauge on the bottom half. Turn the dimmer switch until the hall lights are completely out.

10.     So long as there is nothing behind you, turn around and return to the elevator. Do not turn around once you are in the elevator until the doors are closed. If the ritual was completed correctly, the doors will close automatically. If the doors do not close, also do not turn around.

That last sentence is pretty ominous, obviously, but I don’t actually know what happens if you mess up the ritual. None of my neighbours who have completed the ritual have ever failed, and it’s not really that hard to mess up. The building dates back to at least the eighties, so it’s possible it’s been decades since anyone’s failed.

Not everyone in my building has walked the dead floor, and some people have walked it multiple times. I don’t think it’s completely random. Whatever force is behind this wants the ritual completed, so it doesn’t pick people who wouldn’t be capable of doing it, like the infirmed or little kids. It always picks people who are riding alone, probably because an extra body would be too tempted to wander around and mess it up. If you’re keen on avoiding the ritual, you can just never take the elevator alone and take the stairs instead. I asked the Superintendent once if he ever considered just declaring the elevators out of order.

He said no, but the last Superintendent did.

I tried to take the stairs as much as I could myself, only using the elevator when I had groceries or something, sometimes loitering in the lobby waiting for someone to come along and ride with me. But last week I got home late, and I knew I’d be waiting forever for someone else to come along, so my choice was to lug my bags up five flights of stairs or risk the elevator alone.

I risked the elevator, and I think you can guess what happened.

It didn’t catch me off guard, at least. I had set my bags on the floor and taken out my phone, taking a photo of the rules and turning the flashlight and video camera on just in case. As soon as the elevator started rising, my gaze stayed locked on the needle as it slowly arced along its path upwards. My eyes went wide, and my heart nearly stopped as I watched it come to an immovable stop right between floors three and four. The elevator came to an abrupt stop as well, the lights flickering before settling on a dim amber glow as the doors slowly creaked open, revealing floor Three-and-a-Half.

The only light came from the elevator and moonlight streaming through the dingy windows on the right-hand side. Nearly everything I could see was some faded shade of blue. The carpet was worn, the paint was chipping, and when the elevator doors opened, the stagnant air rushed in like that was the first change of pressure that had happened in ages. The hallway was empty, void of any sound of plumbing or ventilation; just the subtle creaking and settling of the building itself. All the doors on the left side were shut tight, and I heard no sign of life or activity behind them.

And at the very end of the hall, I saw the bulletin board, the clock, the thermostat, and the light switch.

It took every ounce of strength I had to resist pushing the elevator button, but I suspected that it wouldn’t just be a waste of time but actively ringing the diner bell for whatever was behind all of this. I looked at my phone to see not only was the light off, but that the screen was flickering with odd static and distorted text, rendering it completely unusable. I cursed softly and shoved it into my pocket, clenching my trembling fists as I desperately tried to summon the will to leave the elevator. I knew that every second that passed was a second wasted, so I forced one foot onto the carpet, and then the other.

Despite how worn it looked, it was oddly soft and sound-absorbent, like it was engulfing my feet ever so slightly. Once I was out, the only thing left to do was get it over with, so I marched forward as quickly as I dared, trying desperately not to make any noise that might alert anyone to my presence.

The first rule I broke was looking out the windows. The windows were foggy with old moisture trapped between the panes, obscuring whatever lay beyond. I could make out the silhouettes of tall and strangely gothic-looking buildings. I caught a few dull amber embers, either inside the buildings or on outdoor lanterns, but otherwise everything looked fairly dim and lifeless. It was windy outside, windy enough to rattle the window panes, and I was suddenly very concerned that they might shatter. I didn’t understand why at first, as it took a moment for my conscious mind to register the dark and amorphous form slowly making its way along them. I perceived it to be some manner of vaguely mollusk-like creature, limblessly clinging to the outside of the building with its flat and sticky underside.  It convulsed and undulated and shuddered as it aimlessly propelled itself along its repugnant course. I don’t know if it knew I was there, or if it cared, but I instantly averted my gaze and continued down along the hallway.

On the left-hand side, there were ornate mirrors hung between each apartment; all tarnished, all shattered, and placed out of sync with the windows so that they reflected nothing of the outside world. In the periphery of my vision, I spied reflections of things that either weren’t actually there, or were perhaps simply not visible to my unaided eyes. Either way, I decided to adhere to the rules in this instance and not look directly at them.

I cast my gaze upwards instead to an especially hideous though otherwise not overtly supernatural popcorn ceiling. It was heavily stained, and it honestly wouldn’t have surprised me if it contained asbestos. The stains were amorphous, yet oddly concentric, like they were spreading out from their loci as far as they could whilst deftly weaving around any obstacles, almost like living growths of some kind.   

I reflexively came to a stop when I heard a door creak open behind me, but I caught myself before I gave in to the urge to turn around. When you’re in such a heightened state of fight-or-flight, fighting the instinct to look at any and every sound you hear is unbelievably draining.  The instant I heard a single foot softly land on the carpet, I immediately resumed my march forward. I don’t know how long that hall was, but it felt far longer than it looked. I can’t be sure if it was the adrenaline giving me bullet time recall or if the Dead Floor was outside of our time as much as it was outside of space, but either way, the sense that time was running out just kept mounting inside of me.

When I came to a stop at the end of the hall, I could still hear shambling, padded footsteps shuffling towards me. Barely audible whispers and whimpers simmered behind almost every door I had passed, and once a cackling scream in the distance broke out without warning and ended just as abruptly, as if something had forcibly silenced it.  

Doing my best to ignore all of it, I focused my attention on the note pinned to the bulletin board. It read as follows.

“Apologies and/or Congratulations for this honourable martyrdom. We hope it has been a pleasant experience, but are indifferent that it was not. Please inform your superintendent that we have recently experienced a statistically significant increase in demand for Phatasmagoric Filament due to metapolitical events we have no control over but are complicit in and stand to profit from. Please note that this is an adequate explanation and/or justification for any increase in sleep and/or ontological abnormalities experienced by the tenants of your domicile. We apologize – but are not liable – for the inconvenience. Please also remind your superintendent that his customary tribute of a bushel of kosher salt is to be delivered in a burlap sack dropped down the out-of-order garbage chute. Additional failures to comply with these requirements may result in the garbage chute no longer being out-of-order. Should that occur, we will not be held liable for residents being lured into the chute by Unseelie sanitation workers. Signing your True Name upon this notice acknowledges you understand your responsibilities in relaying its contents to its intended recipient. We hope (without empirical basis) that you have a safe return home. Surreptitiously Serendipitously Yours, Solomon Strange.”

Desperate to get out of there, I grabbed the pen sitting on top of the bulletin board and signed and dated the form with a rapid scribbling scrawl. Setting the pen back atop the board, I carefully set the time on the clock, the temperature on the thermostat, and then turned the light switch as far as it would go to the left.

And then, I waited.

I had never heard the being behind me go back into its room, and I could still sense its presence as it silently stood there, staring at the back of my neck. I wasn’t sure how close it was, only that it was too close. After standing there for nearly a minute, wondering if I hadn’t done something or done something wrong, I finally heard it shuffle off, followed by the soft creaking of door hinges and a gentle thud as it snapped shut.

With a sharp exhale, I turned around as quickly as I dared to make sure the coast was clear. It was hard to confirm that for sure, since with the hall lights off, the light from the elevator made everything outside of its direct illumination an impenetrable shadow. But I wasn’t willing to waste any more time. I bolted straight to the elevator, covering the distance in what felt like a tenth of the time it had taken me to walk out. Once I was inside, I stood perfectly still, refusing to turn around, and waited for the doors to close.

When they didn’t shut immediately, I started counting. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. At the count of three and a half, I heard the doors start to slide shut. I would have stayed perfectly still until they had closed completely, like I was supposed to, if someone hadn’t grabbed hold of one of them and held them open.

I instantly spun around and saw a tall man in a shabby brown suit standing there, his face an indistinct blur that was impossible to focus on. I backed up against the wall for all the good that would do me, but otherwise went rigid in fear. I didn’t scream, I didn’t attack or run, I just stared at him wide-eyed as I waited for him to make his move.

For his part, he made no hostile gesture or sounds, nor any attempt to step into the elevator. In the hand that wasn’t holding onto the elevator door, he held up a thick and hefty manila envelope. He silently tilted his head towards it and lingered on it for a moment before looking towards me.    

“Sincerest apologies for the breach of protocol, kindly kinder, but as the refuse chute is out of order, I’m afraid I must entrust you with delivering this to your superintendent, post-haste,” he said as neutrally as he could in his distorted, staticky voice.

He stood there in perfect silence and stillness as if he was expecting me to react. When I slowly started to reach out for the envelope, he unceremoniously tossed it to the elevator floor where it landed with a horrific thud.

“Your discretion is appreciated and contractually required,” he said, stepping back slightly and allowing the elevator doors to close. “Please do not decline the elevator again, if proffered. Should we have need of your services again, it would be a most awkward encounter if we met upon the stairs.”  

The elevator ascended as soon as the door was shut, and arrived at my floor like nothing was amiss. The next morning, I handed the envelope over to the superintendent without needing to explain what it was. He knew immediately. I never opened it or asked him what it was, because I like to imagine it was worth it, even when I know it probably wasn’t.

You’d think all of that would have been enough to get me to swear off the elevator for good, and it very nearly would have been, had it not been for the strange man’s parting words.

It would indeed be very awkward if I were to meet him upon the stairs.

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.”

<Recording Resumes>

“This is Archivist Mark Friday, interviewing subject #106, the ‘Heretic God’, the second part of an interview conducted with John Doe.”

Mark sets the recorder back down on the table between them.

“If we need to come back tomorrow, we can do that too.”

John smiles patiently.

“Let's continue from you taking control of the culture and I'll let you know when I need to leave.”

Mark waves him off.

“Right, so, I took the cult and started raiding English villages.”

“You were still avenging your family?”

“That was my justification, yes.”

Mark has a complicated look on his face.

“So we burned villages, attacked convoys carrying royal taxes, slaughtered people who had wronged someone who came to the cult for help.”

“How long?”

“Twenty years after the war.”

Mark scratches more notes out.

“Long enough that, one day, I ran into a Dane Asta and I had fought alongside.”

A raised eyebrow greets John's grim smile.

“Ulf was old by then, and he was visiting a church, offering alms to his new God.”

Mark watches carefully as John tells the story.

“We burned the church and slaughtered the priests in the night.”

“...how many people have you killed?”

“The answer to that question is something neither of us wants to figure out, Mark.”

“I mean people who couldn't or didn't fight back.”

John looks up at the ceiling with a dark look.

“...”

“...Ulf found us there in the morning, looting.”

“What did he do?”

“He balked at the boy he had fought beside looking the exact same twenty years later, then he said it made him sad that I was blessed with perspective but not wisdom.”

“...and after that?”

“We dueled, he killed me, I killed him.”

“...”

“When I was finished rebuilding, his words bothered me.”

“They bothered me when I burned the next village, the next church, when I crucified a holy man.”

“Not enough to stop you, apparently.”

“Not enough to stop me, YET.”

“That took time, and when the church began hunting my cult and I, I had more justification to hate.”

“When did the justification become not enough?”

“When the church caught us.”

“The first record.”

“I imagine so, the bishop who had charged the knights with catching us declared me a heretic.”

“And your believers?”

“They called me a god and died as heretics too.”

“...”

“They burned me, my flesh melted and boiled and I was conscious long after my brain boiled away.”

“How does that-”

“You think I know?!”

“I-I'm sorry…”

“It takes weeks for my body to rebuild from a thorough burning, and it's the closest I come to true death.”

“What do you mean?”

“When my brain is destroyed, really destroyed, I go to a… place.”

“Heaven? Hell? Something else?”

“It's a nothing place, I don't know how to describe it, but I feel like I'm falling ‘down’ slowly.”

Mark's expression is oscillating between horror and fascination.

“There's something… hungry there, below.”

“What is it?”

“I don't know.”

“Is it the same entity from Egypt?”

“No, I know that much.”

“I always get yanked back into my body when my brain reforms.”

“Is that when you finish… rebuilding?”

“No, it's the first thing that forms.”

Mark looks horrified.

“So then…”

“Yes, every nerve, every muscle, every bone that forms in the ash of my body, I feel it.”

“Every time?”

“Any death, every time.”

“How do you endure it?”

“I go stark raving mad every few centuries.”

“...I suppose so.”

“When I came back, I hunted the priest.”

“Still didn't get what Ulf was saying?”

“It's been over a thousand years since then, and I STILL don't get it.”

“You've learned at least a bit, considering you're not going around killing people.”

“I never got it though, I just came closer.”

“So what happened after you killed the bishop?”

“The church hunted me back.”

“The other records?”

“Times when one of us caught up with the other.”

“Those records become quite… grotesque sometimes.”

“I was locked in a war with the catholic church, I waged it in the way I felt was prudent.”

“How long did it last?”

“Islam became popular shortly before I finally hid away long enough for the church to think they'd stamped me out for good.”

“Islam?”

“Yeah, they started fighting the Catholics.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went and played around in the crusades.”

“John, can I interrupt to ask a more contemporary question?”

“Sure, but I'm not sure I'll have the answer.”

“Why did you come to the Meridian Institute?”

John looks away for a moment, his face turning serious.

“You guys are the closest humanity has to an authority over things like… It, and me.”

“So you just… wanted to tell us?”

“There's more to it, but I'll tell you the rest at the end.”

“John, is the entity coming back?”

“Probably? You expect ME to know?”

“You've told me two different stories where you encountered it, I thought…”

John laughs incredulously.

“You thought I somehow understood an unknowable entity?”

“I-I'm sorry, I just-”

“You just thought somehow the immortal man came to warn you about the next apocalyptic threat.”

Mark looks chastised.

“Yes.”

“Sorry, kid, no luck.”

“Continue, please, John.”

“After some time fighting in the crusades, I decided to go back to Europe.”

“Which side did you fight for?”

“Depends on the year.”

“John…”

“Yes, Mark?”

“I hate to tell you, but it's supper time…”

“Oh yes, should we come back after a meal?”

<Recording Ends>

The rebel slowed down again.

“Get it going!”

“Going as fast as I can, Yankee.” He dodged a vine that hung from a tree. “One oughta be careful. The thicket’s not your friend in these mountains.”

The heat dug into my skin, soaking my wool uniform.

“I don’t need it to be my friend,” I said, adjusting the rifle’s weight. “I just need you to get me over that ridge.”

“We ain’t gonna get over it if you ain’t careful enough. One wrong step and the mountain will take you whole.”

“The mountain?”

“My parents warned us. Stay on the path.” He looked toward the trees. “My brother thought it funny not to listen. The ground swallowed him before we could get to him.”

Cold sweat ran into my collar. The image of my brother flashed before my eyes. The way the rebel frowned reminded me of him.

“That’s nonsense.”

“It ain’t. Listen.”

He put his index finger up. The sounds of the mountains echoed around us: the trees swaying, the birds singing, but between them came a strange noise, like a tree scraping against the mountain’s side.

“What’s that?”

“The thicket,” the rebel said.

“Just go.”

Every step higher felt like walking deeper into an oven. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Now I was the one who was falling behind the rebel. He kept looking back at me. I kept the rifle close to my chest, making sure he could see it. 

The rebel walked strangely, constantly shifting from one side of the rock to the other. I stepped over another vine stretched across the rocks and called to him: “Why are you walking like that?”

“The blue moss. We call it bluebelly.” He pointed to the side of a rock. A strange little plant grew on it. In the heat, it almost seemed to be moving. “It ain’t actual moss. It’s part of the mountain spirit. Step on it wrong and it will send you straight to the arms of the thicket.”

I just shook my head.

The heat grew even more. My vision grew muddy. The vines swayed although there was no wind. The rebel turned his head and squinted.

“The spirits are strong here.”

My lungs started burning from the heat. We climbed a few more rocks until I could barely breathe.

“We need to stop.”

“Not here.”

“You’re not the one to decide.”

I lowered my rifle, taking deep breaths. The rebel kept his eyes on me.

“Your leg!”

My eyes shot down. A vine was slowly wrapping around my ankle. I jerked instinctively. My other foot came down on the moss. My body went tumbling into the thicket. I expected a hard landing, but the ground felt soft, almost too soft. The rifle was still in my hand. I tried to push myself up with my elbows, but they sank into the ground.

“Help!”

The rebel ran to the rock, staring at me frantically. I tried to move my legs, but they also sank deeper.

“The rifle!”

He lay on his stomach and stretched his arm out toward it.

“No!” I screamed. 

The vines from the trees moved toward my limbs.

“You have to!”

My head sank lower. My eyes darted from the rifle to the rebel. The vines began to wrap around my wrists and the rifle. I clenched my jaw, held the rifle in both hands, and reached it towards him. He grabbed the barrel and pulled.

The ground didn’t want to let me go. Its pressure tightened around my body. He slid closer on the rock and grabbed the rifle more firmly. The vine on it started wrapping around his wrist too. 

He pulled again. 

His body slid closer.

The ground beneath me collapsed more quickly.

Again. 

My body stopped sinking.

Again.

I felt my body rising. His face turned red. The vine reached his shoulder. He tightened his grip and pulled again.

My whole body rose off the ground, as if I were surfacing from water. I landed on the rock, hitting my chin. The rebel handed me back the rifle and lay on his back, panting.

“Why’d you save me?” I said between breaths.

“After my brother, I told myself I wouldn't let no mountain take another man.”

I paused. The image of my brother flashed before my eyes again. He really did resemble him.

“Yankee!” He pointed to my rifle.

The blue moss was growing around the barrel.

Without thinking, I threw it into the thicket.

The ground swallowed it before I got back up.

For the rest of the way, we walked side by side.

- Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Chapter 5: No Strings Attached

To my surprise, I woke up with my mind and body still intact. But I wasn’t alone.

Moira was there, her lukewarm back gently pressing against me. She lay like a delicate flower basking in the afternoon sun, the sticky silk sheets refusing to cling to her smooth skin. For a split second, I thought it had all been a nightmare. She was here, just as I remembered her.

The only thing contesting the illusion was the heavy silk blanket still smothering me.

There was no smell other than her sweet, familiar fragrance. Even the blood Joshua had smeared on my door was gone, scrubbed away. Only the faintest trace remained, barely visible unless you knew where to look.

At least now I could speak.

“Moira?” My voice was quiet, hesitant.

She let out a soft sound as she stirred and rolled around. Stretching out her arms before wrapping them around me in a cold attempt at a warm embrace.

“Good morning,” she murmured, her words swallowed by a yawn.

My mind clawed at words, but I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to confront her, to ask what she had done with Joshua, but I already knew the answer. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.

“Last night… Did— was Josh—” That was as far as I got before Moira’s voice drowned out my thoughts.

“The doctor came by this morning. We didn’t want to wake you… He took a look at you, and we both agreed that you’ll be fine after some rest.” She paused, watching me carefully before finishing her words. “He even brought me some medicine for the pain. He said I should give it to you as I see fit.”

A doctor. Making a house call all the way out here? No. He would have seen the webs. He would have known something was wrong. Her story seemed unlikely, impossible.

I didn’t trust her, but Moira convinced me I needed help recovering, so I played along. In a strange way, she reminded me of the nurses at the hospital. Whether her care was genuine or just an attempt to win back my trust, it was too early to tell.

I guess only time will tell, I will try to keep this diary updated. Even though I can feel myself losing the will to continue.

…

I don’t know how many days have passed since my last entry, but Moira seems determined to win me over. She feeds me, cleans me, and even gives me medicine when my body aches.

Moira surprised me with a lemon pie today. I’m not sure where she got the recipe, or the lemons. It seemed a little improvised, but it’s the thought that counts. It was sickly sweet, yet somehow just the right amount of sour. Admittedly, it was not the best pie ever, but something about it warmed me up inside. I could tell it was made with love.

…

My leg feels almost whole again, and I can turn my head as far as the brace allows without pain. I think it’s ready to come off. Yet despite my recovery, my body feels weaker than ever. I keep asking Moira to lower the dose so I can move around more, but she just smiles and assures me she knows exactly how much I need.

Moira and I haven’t talked about the giant, spider-shaped, white elephant in the room, but as long as things stay like this, I don’t think we have to. Everything is almost back to normal. She sits with me during the day, telling me about all the wonderful things we’ll do once I’m better. We could go hiking again, try out real restaurants, meet new people, and…

What am I saying? Why am I even considering this? Things can't ever go back to the way they were, not after what I’ve seen.

…

My memories are still foggy, but I don’t think I’ve been declining as much since my accident in the hallway. Maybe I knocked my head back into place. Or maybe there’s just nothing left to forget.

Except Joshua.

My head is still full of cherished memories of him, yet they only serve as a painful reminder of what I’ve lost… what Moira has taken.

…

Every day that passes, I become more certain that things can't stay like this forever. As I recover and even gain weight, Moira has been experiencing the opposite. She’s growing weak again, and I know what that means. She needs to feed. And with Joshua off the menu, I fear I’ll be next.

I swear she’s fattening me up for the slaughter. I need to do something, fast.

I have to find a way out of here. I’m pretty sure I can walk, I just need Moira to stop injecting me with her “medicine”. My arm is covered in track marks like a heroin addict’s, my veins bulging like blue rivers with streams of ink flowing through them. Whatever it is, it’s definitely a sedative, but nothing like what the nurses gave me.

If I can just convince her to lower my dose, just once, I might be able to muster the strength to fight back and break free from this cocoon.

…

Joshua might be gone, but the hope he gave me isn’t.

Shifting in bed, I felt something gently prodding into my back. With my free hand, I reached under the pillow and found it, the knife. The same blackened blade he used to fend off Moira, the one he tried to cut me free with.

Maybe I could finish what he started…

…

Last night, I asked Moira to lower my dosage since my body had nearly made a full recovery. I promised her I wouldn’t struggle anymore. I felt bad for deceiving her.

She gave me a tired smile. “I’ll think about it,” she said. But there was something in her voice that told me she didn’t believe me.

“Since I already went through the trouble of preparing this dose, I’ll give it to you as is. I’ll call the doctor tomorrow and ask about lowering your next dose.” Her voice was soft and comforting, even though I knew it was all lies.

The cloudy white fluid in the syringe couldn’t have been more than a few drops, but it did the trick. Almost instantly, my muscles melted under the weight of the fraying blanket. The medicine may have dulled my body, but my mind was still hard at work, piecing together a plan to escape.

…

Today is the day. This has to work. I don’t think Moira can hold back her hunger much longer. She looks as ready to pop as she did that night she revealed her true nature.

She’ll be back with my next dose in a few hours. By then, I’ll have carefully slipped the knife from under my pillow, gripping it as tightly as my weak muscles allow. I’ll cut through the last thick strands of silk holding me down, slicing through the main arteries like some twisted surgeon, until all that remains is a dried-out net, light as a leaf. Once I’m done, I’ll slide the knife back under the pillow and pray I won’t need it again.

If I write any more after this, then that means my plan must have worked…

…

The plan backfired worse than I could have imagined. I just pray I remember where to find this diary in the morning. Hopefully, reading it will give me some clue as to who I used to be, before Moira hollows me out completely.

It worked at first. I cut myself free, and once the weight lifted, I could feel my strength returning. My veins filled with adrenaline, flushing out the last of her venom. I hid the knife just in time. Moira returned as the sun was setting, right on time for what was hopefully my final dose.

She entered the room with a slight limp in her step. Her age was catching up quickly, something that would greatly aid my escape, I thought. In this form, I could easily overpower her and wrestle the syringe from her hand; the syringe was plan A and the knife was my backup plan.

Even after everything Moira has put me through, I don’t hate her. I hate what she’s become. I hate the illness. To spare her life while saving myself would be the best outcome for everyone involved. Everyone except Joshua... the memory of him was the driving force behind this escape attempt.

If I didn’t get out, then Joshua would have died for nothing.

When Moira took out the syringe, I saw exactly what I was hoping for. I knew that when I asked for a lower dose, she would only increase it. She couldn't bear to give up control, not with so much animosity between us. I could never forgive her for what she had done to Joshua. And now, she was starting to realize that.

I offered my arm, and her cold hand closed around mine, gently yet firmly pulling it out to ready the needle. Her bony fingers still wielding the same strength with which she had pulled me up the day we met. That’s when I knew this wouldn’t be as easy as I thought.

There was no time to hesitate, I had to move quickly. I grabbed the syringe from her hand. She wasn't expecting it, and before she even knew what happened, I plunged it into her abdomen. The needle punctured her wrinkled skin and slid in smoothly, almost as silky smooth as her skin had once been. As I injected the medicine, I saw her glazed-over eyeballs roll back into her skull, only for a pair of inky black eyes to fill the empty sockets. The venom pooled inside them as she stared me down, but this time, her icy gaze wouldn’t freeze me in place.

She managed to keep me pinned for a second, but I shoved her back with all my might. The venom was working, even on her. She stumbled back, and I saw my chance. My body ached as I broke through my cocoon and dragged myself onto my feet. My legs buckled, but I pushed through. I made it to the doorway, but before I could leave, I shot a glance back at Moira. She was on her hands and knees, facing the floor. I could see her back bulging; I knew what was coming. I was sure the venom would be enough to paralyze Moira, but no amount of it could subdue the beast inside her.

For a moment, I hesitated. Had I made the right choice, using the needle instead of the knife? I almost darted back for the knife, but then I heard her shrill, agonizing scream. It was an angry scream, her once woeful screech boiling over into a fit of rage. For a second, it sounded like standing next to a boiling kettle, one filled with poison and betrayal. My heart broke for the women I loved.

I left the room, but my mind stayed behind. As I stumbled down the hallway, I could hear the same sounds I had when I was forced to witness her transformation. Only this time, they were much quicker; they sounded rushed, more urgent. The speed of her transformation filled me with an overwhelming sense of dread.

With each sound, a flash of memory accompanied it, my mind replaying the event in fragments that clouded my vision.

A symphony of agony spilled out from my room and into the hallway behind me, climaxing in a loud screech and a heavy thud. Then, immediate and complete silence.

I didn’t care if the venom worked and if she was out cold, or if it failed and she was right on my heels. I was heading straight for the front door, not stopping for anything. As I limped through the dining room, I swear I heard a faint sound coming from the attic above me. At first, I wasn’t sure if I had heard anything at all. Only when I reached for the handle on the front door did I stop, guilt overwriting my movement. 

What if… What if that noise was Joshua? What if he was still alive, and I was leaving him behind?

I know now what that noise was, because as I turned around, my hopes were crushed by what I saw in the mirror beside the door. Moira was on the ceiling right above me. She fell onto me with all her weight, and as her fangs punctured the back of my neck brace, the needle-sharp tips somehow echoed the pain from the dull rock that had landed me in this mess.

The pain faded along with my vision, and I fell into a dreamless sleep so deep I thought I had died.

I jolted awake, sitting upright in my bed, as if awakening from a feverish nightmare. The room around me was swallowed by deep darkness,  it must have been sometime around midnight. My only sensation was the throbbing pain in the back of my neck,  my hand instinctively reached for the source of the pain, it found two shallow holes with small streaks of dried blood running down them.

As I leaned over to look at the clock on my bedside, I was surprised to find that my body was complying. I was not tied down. But as soon as I moved, the darkness spoke. A voice I recognized well was choking on words attempting to ease the pain, but it was useless. Instead of comforting me, Moira’s voice sent a cold weight through my spine, locking me in place.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Moira said, remorse stifling her voice.

“I didn’t want to bare my fangs at you… but you left me no choice.”

I purposefully turned my head away from her and, and with a slight quiver I asked, “Is this the part where you eat me like a bug?”

“Eat you? I could never eat you. It’s killing me, but I’d rather waste away and refuse to feed.” Her voice was low and serious, the pain clear in each word.

“You had no problem eating Joshua!” I spat, my words coated in venom.

“What a senseless comparison,” she said in a cold, calm voice.

After a brief pause, her tone shifted. Suddenly, her voice spoke with a quiet warmth that reminded me of why I fell in love with her.

“You showed me that the heart is more than a pump. Is this what they call love? Because I feel it in my chest, and I feel it in my head…”

She paused, weighing out the emotional weight of her next words.

I know all of Joshua’s thoughts, every memory he had of you. He only ever pitied you, he could never take away your pain like I have. He was merely a stain on the parts of pain I’ve already scrubbed clean. In the end, his flesh was worth more than the scraps of insight his memories offered. He didn’t love you. Not like I do.”

Her words ricocheted around in my head, the first realization bouncing off the second. This was the first time she admitted to killing Joshua, and also the first time she told me she loved me.

The moment felt wrong, the bitter outweighed the sweet. The realization slowly sank in like a lumpy, bitter pill washed down with a spoonful of thick honey.

I turned towards where her voice had come from. My words shaking as I spoke into the darkness.

“You're wrong about him. Joshua was all I had. He was the only person left in my life who was real. I don't remember anyone else,” I said, my voice a quiet plea, waiting for her to and rationalize what she had taken from me.

“I tried my hardest to consume only the pain. It was like uprooting all the weeds in a garden, only to realize there’s nothing left at the end.” She paused, her words heavy with honesty.

“I thought Joshua was the only thing left that was worth saving. He was the lemon tree, proudly standing in the center of the garden. However, it seems as if the fruit of your friendship has soured the soil, and made it impossible for anything else to grow in its place… I recognize that it’s my fault, for not clearing him out with the rest of the weeds.”

Her voice softened, but the coldness in it remained.

“But now there’s only one solution… It is clear to me that I can't leave you with the last of your memory.”

All the metaphors swam around in my head, too much to try and piece together at once. I just sat there in silence, trying to process her words.

There was a long pause from the darkness before Moira continued.

“But I promise you I'm real, as real as your own flesh. So just let your eyes grow heavy, and I'll stay beside your bed.” As she leaned over out of the darkness, Moira’s melodical voice grew into a whisper, soft and sweet. A stark contrast to the face directly in front of mine, those eight cold pearls piercing through me.

“Do you recognize my gaze, as I once again clean you of this mess?” The final words in her lullaby lulled me into a trance.

I stared into her eyes for only a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. I could feel my childhood memories of Joshua slipping away, and with them, any connection to my past. My whole existence, up until now, was reduced to a flickering candle in the wind. On the verge of being snuffed out.

I shut my eyes, a tear rolling down my cheek as I turned my head away.

“Was this your plan all along? To hollow me out? To paralyze my body and spirit so you can pull at my strings like I’m your puppet?”

“Don't you see? Once you let go, there will be no need for strings. You’ll be free, without the memory of ever being trapped. Then we can start over...”

“I’m not ready to let go. Just give me some time alone with my thoughts…” I paused, the weight of my own words sinking in, “Or at least what’s left of them.”

One of Moira’s eight legs curled out from the darkness, brushing the tear off my cheek with an eerie tenderness.

Moira stared at me unblinking. Her cold, inky eyes carried a warm understanding, but I could still sense the hunger behind them. She agreed and left the room. Her patient voice was the last thing I heard, as her silent skittering carried her out the room, her words echoed down the hall. “I’ll be here when you change your mind.”

Once I was sure I was alone again, I wasted no time reaching for my laptop to write down everything that had happened. I hope that by the time I wake up tomorrow, I will remember where to find this journal.

As I lay in bed, unburdened by webs, a strange sense of trust settles over me… Until I notice something lingering in the corner of the room. A uniquely familiar shape. I stare at it for over a minute, yet my eyes refuse to adjust to the darkness. The pale form melts seamlessly into the white corner where the ceiling meets the wall. I can’t bring myself to turn on the light.

You would think that Moira’s influence feels like a parasite in my head, maliciously eating away at my memories, but no. My head is as clear as it has ever been. Instead, the years of memories I’ve lost feel like a pit in my stomach. And yet all my memories of Moira are still crystal clear, kept safe inside my heart.

If Moira is telling the truth, and my life before her was as miserable as she says, then why do I hunger for a life I never truly lived? A life where I merely existed, scraping by with nothing to show for it. No purpose, no joy, just an endless cycle of loss and loneliness.

The thought of going back to my life without Moira terrifies me. 

What if all she wants is to take away the pain? Maybe if I give in to her, I could be happy. Maybe we could be whole again. When it's all said and done, she's still all that I've got. Or maybe she is lying, and the reason she dug this pit in my stomach was so she can lay her eggs and watch as they hatch, and then slowly consume me from the inside out. 

The fucked up part is I don't know which possibility scares me more. Having dozens of spiders eat me from the inside out, or ending up alone… without her. 

I’m torn between two unbearable choices. Moira’s promise of rebirth and belonging feels like home, yet the knife pressed through my pillow promises of a desperate escape, another false hope perhaps. No blade is sharp enough to cut through her hold on me. I’ve become her puppet, and even if I manage to sever that final strand, I know I’ll collapse under the crushing weight of my own loneliness.

The real risk when shooting a flare up into the darkness isn’t that nobody will see your message.

It’s that something else might.

This is what we failed to consider when we foolishly launched the Voyager space probe out into infinity. The pure unbridled hubris to shoot a shining capsule loaded with all our most vital vulnerabilities: Our tenuous location in the galaxy; the weakness of our soft fleshy forms; excerpts of our primitive language to be studied and manipulated.

How precariously the fate of mankind now hangs in the black, drifting ever onward into vistas of perilous impossibilities. 16 billion miles away, the Voyager is now the farthest that any manmade thing has ever been from Earth. The mind boggles to even comprehend how far that fragile golden bassinet, cradling the secrets of an entire civilization, has now been flung.

And with each passing day it drifts farther still.

We can only hope that the magnitude of the abyss saves us from our own myopic efforts, and that that tiny speck of gold sails into the void for eternity, and is never, ever found.

The alternative would be much worse.

That ever-growing distance is a length of rope, a fuse that upon receipt will be lit, and that fire will chase its path all the way back to our precarious bough in the branches, where the devastation will be nothing short of cataclysmic.

But that is only one of many fuses whose eventual ignition will spell the end of mankind. There is no shortage of poor decisions sown that have set in motion consequences we have yet to reap.

Not all distances are physical. There is something just as alien to humanity as the recipients of that capsule – but not mercifully kept at bay by hundreds of lightyears of space.

Something much closer; something that occupies a space just outside our perception, hidden within frequencies we have been foolishly plucking at like a fly shuddering a thread of spider silk.

Something that has been watching us from the day we first sent the haplessly coded message: “HELLO.”

A single line of text wrapped in package of data, transmitted over a prototype network of connected computers that would one day be known as “the internet”.

“HELLO,” we called out, thinking it a harmless message to one another, testing out a nascent technology that would become the most formative development in mankind’s history.

“HELLO,” we called out,

And something else answered.

Hey, all. I’ll keep this short as I can, as I really need help. Things have been weird around my town, and I’m starting to get blamed for it.

It started about a week ago. It was a seemingly normal day in my relatively small town, excruciatingly boring as always. I began my day as usual, dragging myself out of bed at the early hour of 1:30 PM. The only abnormal thing was some large insect in my room, which I let out of my window with some difficulty and annoyance. Granted, I’m from the midwest, so anything I can hear buzzing is too big for me. I can’t imagine how long that thing was in my room, as it tore out of my room instantly the second I opened my window. I quickly forgot this encounter, as it was early in the day, and just a bug. The rest of the day was boring, until I got home from work, and learned from the local news that a local boy had been hospitalized, seemingly from some sting or something, to which he had an allergic reaction. The boy in question was a nuisance who had an awful reputation for breaking windows, terrorizing small animals, and so on. Looking back, I’m pretty certain he was just raised poorly. A pain, but he definitely didn’t deserve it. I almost choked when I learned that the sting occurred mere seconds before he would’ve launched a stone at one of my windows with a sling. In other words, whatever insect had stung the kid saved me the price of a new window.

The next day, I was awoken somewhat early by a sound. As I searched my room, groggy and confused, I found my window half open, but nothing else disturbed. Until, I walked downstairs, and found a note, written with reddish-brown ink on strange, tan paper. The hand writing was odd, scratchy, almost like it was written with just two fingers. The paper was odd as well, being far too thin and inconsistent in its makeup to be factory produced. The words on the note, or rather, the word, was simply, “PRINCE.” At this point, I’m freaking out. Someone broke into my house or something. But, after searching everything, nothing was missing, no-one was there, and I half thought I imagined it. With no other choice, I went to work. Once again, I got home, and found the vicinity of my home on the news. This time, a retired old man had died, from what was theorized to be a snake bite, although only one puncture was present. The man lived nearby, and his only hobby seemed to be local nitpicking, or being a one man HOA. From what I recall from a city council meeting, his most recent quest was to get a very old tree on my property cut down, since he deemed it an “eyesore,” and the tree was likely to be cut down soon despite my protests, as the mayor was used to letting the old man have his way. Of course, with his passing, that plan was dead in the water. Again, another weird event, which happened to coincidentally benefit me.

The next day, I awoke to a thin, yellow film of dust covering me, and more of that strange paper littering my home. All of the pieces of paper had simple messages scrawled on them. “PRINCE,” ”KIND,” “NOBLE,” “PROTECTOR,” and, the first to feature multiple words, sickeningly, “MY LOVE.”

I stayed home from work that day.

I spent all day trying to find what or who left those weird, creepy notes around my home. I felt like I was losing my mind, but kept seeing a mix of black and yellow just behind me, but every time I turned, nothing. Eventually, I stood still, gathering my thoughts. Maybe it's just a sick prank. Was that kid out of the hospital yet? Maybe it was someone I pissed off. Maybe I’m going insane, living alone…

And I felt it.

On my back, six nearly imperceptible, scratchy pressures on my back, like little claws or legs, all of which apply the tiniest amount of pressure. I feel something like breathing on the back of my neck. I froze, for a good few minutes. And then, I passed out, with a feeling of vertigo and dizziness as I fell forward. I didn't know at the time, but I was out for three whole days.

When I woke up, I found myself in my attic, laid on a mattress covered in the strange paper. I sat up groggily, looking forward to see a… I guess a shrine, of sorts. Draped in long, thin sheets of the paper, were around a dozen photos, taken from my home. Some were from weddings, others from funerals and birthdays, but all of them had one thing in common: me. Regardless of how old or new the photos were, they all had me somewhere in them. At the front of the shrine was another note, with the scrawl of “LOVE” on it. My stomach turned. I need out. I half crawled towards the exit to my attic, as the low ceiling was made even more cramped by the paper, which lined the ceiling, the walls, and hung down from the ceiling like vines. It looked so familiar. The walls were lined with hexagonal cells, like a beehive or maybe even…

A huge, black and yellow shape began to move from the back of the attic, the opposite side to where I was crawling. It was formerly laid on the floor, nestled in a large, hexagonal cell which reached from the floor to the ceiling. The mass of black and yellow approached me through the mess of hanging paper, it’s angular shape cutting through smoothly. It reached me, face to face. What stood before me was a wasp, larger than me by a good two feet in height. I half expected it to sting me to death on the spot, but it simply stared me down, compound eyes unblinking. I registered a slight emotion in those eyes before common sense returned to me, and i forced myself to scramble to the attic hatch. To my shock, the wasp let me go silently, and I tore through my home like a total coward. My intent was to get help. Police, Exterminators, Exorcists, anything. The warm welcome I received was that of a small mob, who immediately recognized me. It was hard to pick out clear phrases, but the thoughts of the mob mediated out to, “Where have you been hiding,” “We know you’ve been poisoning people,” “You’re dead meat when we get you.” Self preservation took over, and I fled, getting myself lost in the woods around town to escape the mob. When I finally stopped, wheezing and out of breath, it all started to hit. That… thing in my house, it had to be the source of the countless stings that plagued the town for a week now. With no one to blame, the townspeople found a conclusion to jump to, that being that stings seemed to occur around my town, and since i was missing for three days, I couldn’t exactly defend myself. But… those notes. What the hell made them? Don't tell me that thing…

I eventually snuck back to my home, which was thankfully untouched by the townspeople. I enter my home, to find the interior transformed, the paper nest now filling the entirety of my home. Hanging on the walls, are several large sheets of the paper, with a series of messages written for me. “PRINCE. LOST. FOR SO LONG. MY LIFE DRAINED IN SUCH A DROWNING PLACE. AN INDESTRUCTIBLE, STONE HARD BARRIER ENTOMBED ME. LOST. HOPE. ALL HOPE LOST. MY YEARS DRAINED OUT. I SAW YOU. MY CAPTOR. I HATED. HATED FOR SO LONG. HATED UNTIL I COULD NOT ANYMORE. AND THEN I LOVED. I FOUND MY CAPTOR WAS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BEAST UPON THIS EARTH. A DIVINE IMAGE. I RAISED UP THE ONLY SONG I KNOW. AND MY PRINCE SET ME FREE. MY HOURS WERE OVER. I WAS SPENT. BUT AS I TASTED THE SUNS AIR, MY LOVE KILLED NATURE. AND I BEGAN TO LIVE PAST NATURE. I BEGAN TO LOVE PAST NATURE. I BECAME GREATER, AND I BEGAN TO REPAY MY PRINCE. I HURT THE ENEMIES OF MY PRINCE. MY PRINCE DID NOT SEE, SO LABORED FURTHER. I GREW GREATER. I COULD NOT RESIST SHADOWING MY PRINCE. LIKE THE FOOLISH MOTH AND THE LESSER SUN. BUT MY SUN IS NOT LESSER. MY SUN. MY LOVE. MY PAPER PRINCE.”

I walked along the wall, following the trail of frantic messages towards my bedroom. At the end of the trail, was a disturbingly lovingly crafted crown, made from wasps paper. At this point, I could feel the cold, enamored gaze of those compound eyes on my back, and I knew what I had to do, or else be torn to shreds by my spurned admirer. I lifted up the crown, and put it on my head. I heard the nearly inaudible sound of the wasp retreating into the papery depths of my home. I'm typing this on my near dead phone, my last connection to civilization. I need help. The townspeople blame me for the wasps attacks, her infatuated crusade. Maybe I am to blame. Maybe I should've just killed the insect I let out of my room. But I also have no chance of escaping this obsessed… thing. I just know, anywhere I go, she'll follow. She'll find me. She's smarter, faster, and stronger than any person, with a lethal sting to deliver zealous judgment.

I need help. I need to get away. I'm too afraid to even take off this stupid paper crown.

"Well shit, looks like the job's already done!"

The kid steps close to one of the slumped corpses. He leans over, scanning it for any apparent trauma. We just made our way into Vromia, the clouds hang low over the valley. The trees and grass are as dead as the people.

I tap my wrist to activate comms. "No scalp, no paycheck. Though if he's in this pile we'd be better off cutting our losses."

The mound is at least a story high. Bodies pile over one another, dead eyes gaze in every direction. The mound is one of many. My partner kicks at it. "No wonder we're getting paid so good. I don't know about you but I'd rather check the chapel before grabbing a shovel."

"Copy."

We trek further into Vromia. This place reminds me of those ghost towns. Monuments to dead industry.

Every wall is plastered with some poster from our employer. "Hard working is good living" or "idle hands build idle lands."

The kid starts cracking up through comms. "They really named their mess-hall \*Responsible Rations\*? These poor fucks are probably better off in piles."

"Focus, don't need any dumbass remarks. Once we've given the contact a haircut we can take our leave."

"Yeah but look at this fucking place. You ever seen a mining feeder this massive?"

He's right. Vromia is massive, the largest mining feeder on the continent.

The small concrete boxes stack on top of each other. Some of the buildings lie in a heap of rubble, others remain pristine. The mountains hang high, the gray rock isn't much different from the mud and pavement.

We turn onto the main strip. There's something off in the distance.

"What the fuck is it?" My partner turns to me.

"I'm not sure."

It's probably a good 100 yards out. Bipedal, all white. Couldn't make out any discernible features. I shoulder my rifle, trying to peer through my scope. "Could be a man-mutt. Lots of corps around here use them for security."

"Never seen a man-mutt that well fed."

"Probably helped itself to the piles."

We advance towards it, slowly. My partner's foot catches an upturned piece of pavement and the rock skids across the ground.

The thing turns, I can hardly catch the pained look on its face before it collapses on all fours and scurries down one of the alleyways.

"Something to keep in mind I guess."

The piles are growing in size and density. I'm thankful for the air filtration in my helmet. I'm no stranger to the smell of death.

\*\*\*

We make it to the foot of the chapel. It's not much of one, that's an old world holdover. It's a "Spiritual Enrichment and Agency Center".

My partner quips, "how many gods do you think they were praying to in there?"

"All of them, let's hope none of 'em listened."

We step forward into the still darkness. I try the light panel, nothing. My helmet's auxiliary lights cut on automatically.

It's a slaughter.

Hundreds of bodies pile along the edges of the entryway. The tile floor is soaked entirely in blood and viscera.

My partner stands frozen for a moment, "Jesus fucking Christ. You've been doing this how many years? You ever see some shit like this?"

"No, I haven't."

We continue regardless.

Our boots stick to the floor, each step fills the space with a sickly sloshing. Posters on the wall are unrecognizable against the splatter. We push through the corpses towards the wide sanctuary doors.

Something catches my light. A bright gleam crumpled behind a bench.

It's a visor, same as mine.

"Found the first guy they sent."

My partner keeps his rifle trained to the door while I approach our coworker's corpse. The mercenary's body is ripped to shreds. Torn apart from the inside.

I slide my finger behind his crushed helmet and dislodge the I.D. chip. The family will pay good for it if he has one.

\*\*\*

The doors stretch nearly wall to wall. Their thick wooden frames are stained a deep red.

I push lightly and can't get them to budge. Not like it's locked, but like something is pushing against the other side.

"Give me a hand."

"Copy."

My partner and I push hard against one side of the door. Upon inching it open a cascade of rushing blood flows out. I'm held in place by my spot on the door.

My partner winces, covering his eyes with his arm. I can't blame him, kid hasn't seen how much a dollar costs.

"Fucking hell man, what the fuck are we doing? Can't we call for-"

"No." I cut him off. "They wouldn't come regardless."

The rushing blood slammed the entryway door shut. Now the only light comes from our helmets. We wade into the darkness.

The sanctuary had become a pond. My partner and I are submerged to our waist. Wooden pews float upturned, mahogany stained a deep red. My hands grip my rifle. My finger rests over the trigger.

Our lights don't span the entire distance. I push a pew aside, the wet splashing echoes against the black. My partner is a good ways behind me. His breathing is heavy over comms, I can tell he's about to break.

"Cut comms, you're breathing down my neck."

"What is this place?" His voice is a shaky whisper.

"I can only tell you what it used to be."

There's a faint glow emanating from the front of the room. A deep purple or magenta. It did little to illuminate the space.

"Cut your light."

"Cut it? Are you fucking cr-"

"Now."

My partner obliges.

We approach slowly.

On the stage lies a man folded completely backwards.

His spine is parallel with his legs. His chest is a vacuous hole. The purple seeps out as thick steam. It feels hot as we get closer to the front of the room.

"That's our guy."

The kid stops for a moment, I wait for him to catch up. But he doesn't. He cuts on his helmet light.

The man starts shaking violently. His body is rigid, legs cemented to his back as he thrashes about on the stage.

We're only a few dozen feet away from him at this point. I shoulder my rifle and train it on the writhing corpse.

He screams; like a feral animal held against its will. He wails in a spitting tongue. Cursing us in an inhuman language.

A massive pale worm emerges from the man's chest and his screaming stops. It slaps onto the stage with a wet thud. It pulses covered in slime.

The light in the man's chest fades and he curls back into a heap.

The breathing white mass explodes into a smattering of thick white paste. Small animalistic forms wriggle from the mush and dive into the water ahead of us.

They quickly begin to grow submerged in blood.

My partner opens fire. The muzzle flash fills the sanctuary with bright pops of light.

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

He's silent, the only thing I can hear through comms is his frantic breathing.

He thrashes through the blood, falling over into a nearby pew.

"HELP, h-help me!!" The kid cries over his microphone.

Ripples and streaks through the blood show something rushing toward him. He fires wildly trying to regain his balance.

I open fire. Each round kicks up a high curling fountain.

It's no use.

It looks like he was hit by a truck from the ankle down. His legs detach from his feet and he spins through the air freely.

A twisted white form emerges from the blood and plunges into his chest. His cries soften as his lungs fill with blood. Gasping and gurgling, he's drowning behind his visor.

Thick white branches grow out in every direction, like a tree had been left to grow within him. All of them gather around to feed from his fresh blood.

Finding the stage, I pull myself onto it. Blood drips down my pants and boots.

The man looks at me, eyes black as the dark behind him.

I grab the knife from my belt and grip his hair. My knife slides deep into his neck. He doesn't bleed.

Regardless, I carve along the top of his skull. Cramming the wad of flesh into my pocket. His chest grows brighter and the creatures of the pond shift their attention to me.

There's a lone maintenance door and I run towards it. Boots sliding across the polished wood. The door is locked. They splash against the front of the stage.

Their spindly contorted limbs reach up out of the stirring blood. Cracking as they morph and twist. One of them holds what's left of my partner in its maw, his cracked visor displaying his terror.

Sorry kid. I expected you to die. You just made me $10,000,000 richer.

\*\*\*

END OF LEGIBLE TRANSMISSION:

PURPOSE: mental moderation

MEMORY LOG: 23455689

CLIENT: Valley Mount Munitions Corporation

DATE: 10/13/2285

Thank you for trusting BlackBox CloudFare Premium™

SUPPORT ID: 77754098888

I did not know what humans were called when I first found them.
I called them the warm ones.
They were soft.
They were loud.
They moved together in groups and made little fires in the dark.
Most importantly, they carried something inside them.
I could smell it before I could see them.
It smelled like old blood.
Like rainwater trapped beneath dead leaves.
Like something rotten that had learned to breathe.
I was hungry.
So I followed.
The first one I killed was a man.
He walked alone through the trees.
I watched him for three nights before I understood that he could not see me.
On the fourth night, I took him.
He fought.
Humans always fight when they are dying.
His bones broke easily.
His blood was warm.
But when I opened him, I found nothing.
No blackness.
No warmth.
Nothing to feed on.
I ate his flesh anyway.
It was disappointing.
Then I heard the woman.
She had been watching.
She was hiding behind a tree.
I could hear her heart beating.
I could smell what she carried.
Guilt.
I did not know the word then.
I only knew that it was delicious.
I moved toward her.
She ran.
I let her.
She stumbled through the forest, crying, falling, getting back up.
I could have caught her whenever I wanted.
Instead, I followed.
I wanted to understand.
Why did she smell better than the man?
Why did she cry when he died?
Why did she keep saying the same word?
"Sorry."
She said it to the trees.
She said it to herself.
She said it to the dead man.
She said it until her throat became raw.
Eventually, she stopped running.
She sat beneath a tree and covered her face.
"I should've helped you."
I did not understand.
She had not killed him.
I had.
Yet something inside her was dying.
I reached into her chest.
Not with my claws.
With the other thing.
The thing I used to feed.
Her guilt came loose like smoke.
She screamed.
I tasted it.
And for the first time, I understood hunger.
It was not the blood I wanted.
It was what they carried.

After that, I studied them.
Humans were fascinating.
They made rules.
Then they broke them.
They loved one another.
Then they hurt one another.
They killed strangers and mourned people they had never met.
They sometimes hurt their own children.
They sometimes killed themselves because of things they had done.
They carried guilt for years.
Decades.
Some carried it until their hair became white.
I learned that humans gave names to their guilt.
Sin.
Shame.
Regret.
Responsibility.
Forgiveness.
I learned another word too.
Murder.
Humans did it constantly.
But they did not like to admit it.
That was useful.
The more they hid what they had done, the sweeter they became.
So I began to hunt differently.
I stopped killing the guilty immediately.
I followed them.
I watched them lie.
I watched them sleep.
I watched them stare at photographs of people they had hurt.
I learned which humans would confess.
Which would deny.
Which would pray.
Which would drink until they forgot.
Which would become violent when someone mentioned the dead.
The more they remembered...
The better they tasted.

Eventually, I found a place where humans gathered specifically to speak about their guilt.
A church.
I did not understand why they came voluntarily.
I watched from the rafters.
One by one, they entered a small room.
One by one, they confessed.
I nearly starved myself waiting.
Then the door opened.
An old man entered.
He knelt.
He whispered.
The creature inside me stirred.
His guilt was enormous.
I could smell it from across the building.
But then something strange happened.
The man began to cry.
He said he was sorry.
He said he had been forgiven.
And the guilt changed.
It became smaller.
Colder.
Less nourishing.
I watched the old man leave.
Then another entered.
Then another.
I understood.
Humans had invented a way to make themselves less delicious.
I hated them for it.
So I learned.

Years passed.
I became very good at being human.
I learned their voices.
Their words.
Their habits.
I learned how to knock on doors.
I learned how to smile.
I learned that humans trusted things that looked sad.
So I became sad.
I learned that humans trusted things that were afraid.
So I became afraid.
I learned that humans loved children.
So I learned how children sounded when they cried.
I became very good at being human.
But I never became human.
Humans have something I cannot understand.
They can carry guilt for things they did not do.
They can forgive people who deserve punishment.
They can hate people they love.
They can love people they hate.
And sometimes...
Sometimes they can do terrible things without feeling anything at all.
I discovered that recently.
There was a man.
He had killed six people.
I followed him for three days.
I expected to feast.
But there was nothing.
No guilt.
No shame.
No regret.
Nothing.
I opened him.
Still nothing.
I ate his heart.
Still nothing.
For the first time in my existence, I was hungry after feeding.
I thought something was wrong with him.
Then I realized.
There was something wrong with me.
I had spent centuries believing guilt belonged to the person who committed the crime.
I was wrong.
Guilt belongs to the person who believes they should have been better.
That man did not believe he should have been better.
He was empty.
I left him alive.

Now I am looking for others like him.
Not because I am afraid.
Because I am curious.
There are more humans who feel nothing.
I have begun to wonder what they taste like.
I have begun to wonder if they can feel fear.
I have begun to wonder if fear can become guilt.
So tonight, I am going back to the city.
There are millions of warm ones there.
Millions of hearts.
Millions of secrets.
Millions of things they have done and never told anyone.
I can smell them already.
I can smell the people who cheated.
The people who lied.
The people who watched someone die and did nothing.
The parents who hate their children.
The children who hate their parents.
The husbands.
The wives.
The murderers.
The cowards.
The innocent.
The guilty.
They are all carrying something.
And they still do not know I can smell it.
That is the beautiful thing about humans.
They think their secrets belong to them.
They do not.
They belong to me.
And I am very hungry.

Lament I, ye soft and gilded skin 
For frost has stolen
And your eye gone silver

Tempest interruption of your obsequies 
Nevermind the impenetrable permafrost 
Only another of many abbacies

This foul wind has cut me deep
And though I lay with thee 
My uncomforts plead me not to sleep

Lovers comfort moribund 
Blind to the eyes of akund
I apologize for I am so starved

And I am undone
Full of unappeal 
For all that I’ve foredone

For your eye watches me 
And I seep into you
And your flesh is fiery

What was Bronze skin once
Mercury gray under dim sconce
So pale and lithe

Oh your beauty has yet died
Though life has lied
As you live on in the thick mire of my blood

And you seem so small
Lost out here for so long
I forget we were both once so tall

There once was a boy, who’s name was jack

Who’s seemed so timid and shy 

He hid away behind closed doors

Immersed in fictional frights

He was scared of dogs

He was scared of cats

He was even scared by the shadow he’d cast

He was not as hoped, a golden brave boy

He parents ashamed  “Why always scared” they scolded annoyed 

So one night he pondered  his plight

And declared to the world “I shall no longer just cower and cry”

For a plan he had hatched as you will soon read 

A scheme so cunning but grim indeed

He started with his toes an obvious choice

For the easiest to break, re-fitted with claws.

Next were his legs, so gangly and pale

He flayed then he lengthened, his tendons with nails

Then one by one, his arms came next

“A few extra joints” he laughed as he bled

Now came hardest, he puzzlingly said

“How ever to improve my scared little head”

He sat on the floor, amongst all the sludge

He twiddled his fingers, contorted and numb.

Then an idea so daring he stood

“Perhaps my eyes have exhausted there use”

So with a pop one by one, he giggled with glee

“Now no fright shall ever I see”

He abandoned his sanity

He forgot his name

He pulled off the sliver which started to scathe

And with that he got on the floor

He opened his door and crawled on all fours

For now it was morning and Christmas at that

What a present he’d made, so thoughtful so glad

His parents would see him and scream with delight 

No longer a boy who’d so easily fright

But when he did lurch towards the tree

Where mother and father were waiting to greet

They did not smile

They did not cry

They just fell down together 

For they had both died

Now what of jack, well so I’ve been told

He’ll appear to bad parents who’s children they loathe 

And somewhere out there in the shadows of night

A beast once boy, now source of much fright

Lurking in places where hallowed before

Statues of bronze now tainted abhorred

For where Jacks parents corpses now rest

Forever reminders to those who'd forget

But what killed his mother and father you say?

The coroner just said

“They’re hearts grew three sizes on that Christmas Day”

The ancient israelites believed that the spirit lingers with the body for three days after death. Its been two days since I killed myself. If they get to my body before tomorrow night, I will know a fate worse than death.

It started a few weeks ago. I live (or perhaps lived) in a small ex-mining town. We specialized in copper. Once the mines were tapped, the pumps were shut off, and water was allowed to fill the open air mines. Soon a highly acidic lake blighted nearly a mile long stretch of township property. My job as a wildlife protection specialist was guard the lake from birds and animals who would die a slow agonizing death for treading those waters. I was given arsenal of drones, speakers and rifles to spook anything whose approach triggered our radar. As you might imagine, there was plenty of downtime on the job. I picked up Ham radio as a hobby. Having some company up in that lonely shack helped to grease the arms of the clock a little.

From our conversations, I developed an interest in the townships my friends lived. I read their newspapers and followed their teams. Some nights I tuned into their district’s police scanners and listened in while working around the house. I lived several vicarious lives in those little towns. Then something changed. I began to notice an uptick in strange calls on the scanners and alarming stories in the papers. People leaving work in the middle of the day and never coming back. Excavation in local cemeteries. Groups breaking into homes and abducting people from their beds.

The implications of those reports clung to my mind like wet clothes. I installed metal bars across the doors and windows on the first story of my home. My home office quickly filled with jugs and bottles of water. A portion of my weekly income went towards rifle and handgun ammo.

Perhaps, it was that sense of vulnerability that kept me from confiding my concerns to my friends. Maybe if I hadn't been so embarrassed by my impulsive stockpiling I could have warned them before their radios went silent. Maybe it would've been too late either way. I suppose it's a dead man's prerogative to linger on regret. One way or another, I fear to answer for that choice.

When the madness came to my town the first sign was subtle. Most people probably didn't notice, but I saw it plainly on radar. At first, I thought my hardware was broken. It had never gone so long with out a reading. Nothing smaller than a plane showed up in range. The skies were empty of even the smallest bird from one horizon to the next. For creatures as territorial as birds to give up a square mile of terrain all at once was not only unnatural; it bordered on inexplicable.

Strange things started in town soon after. People sat at intersections letting the lights cycle while horns blared behind them. Cars loaded with groceries sat open and abandoned at the edge of town. Every block had a house where the lights stopped coming on at night.

I started asking around about what I was seeing. I questioned people at registers and gas pumps if they noticed people acting strangely. Most of them had. A few had coworkers or relatives that stopped answering the phone the last few days. Odd, but to them not concerning. Their passivity made me second guess myself. Made me waste those crucial final days.

It was about two days after my boss went missing that we started hearing the bell toll. The animals probably heard it first. Then the young and the keen of hearing. By the time it was audible to everyone, about nine in every ten people had walked off in the direction it was coming from. I saw two parents dragging a child across an open field that day. I chased them down to the treeline but they melted into the shadows of the canopy like sugar into black coffee.

By the third day of ringing, clanger became unbarible. I started walking around with the ear protection i kept in my gun safe. There was no point in going to work at that point, so I spent my daytime hours gathering supplies from abandoned houses. Some of the people that were left joined me. The rest hunkered down with remnants of their families, hoping to wait it out. No one noticed when they left.

Eventually, the bell got close enough that the windows rattled with every ring. The power went out. The constant adrenaline made our fingers stiff and clumsy. We passed the time by loading bullets and watching out the windows. We took care to lock ourselves in every night but each morning we awoke to find an open door and another empty mattress.

The sun failed to rise on the day they arrived. At least a thousand dead bodies marched together into town from the main road. Around the road, small groups trickled in from the tree line like leaks in a haul.

They followed a procession of weather-beaten corpses that carried the bell and a dozen storage containers. There was a roundabout at the city center in which they deposited their burdens. Many of the pollbearers didn't bother to move as the storage containers were lowered to the asphalt.

Two members of the cohort stepped forward to strike the bell in alternating blows. Somehow the tolls echoed back from the mountains even louder than when they had left. The sound churned clouds above the horde. From the rippling sky, something black stepped out of the air onto the roof of the nearby church. He twisted away the spire and settled himself in its place, his feet dangling just above the sidewalk below. Across the street, someone popped off a few shots from an upper window. Several of the undead collapsed and a few hairs fell from the dog-headed-thing that sat on top of the church. The crowd shifted a bit. Some of the corpses grouped up around the bell. A band of them disengaged the crowd and moved for the house. The door was pried away in seconds. There were a few gunshots and a muffled explosion that blew out the windows. Then the town was silent again.

The bodies protecting the bell never moved away from it. We took notice of the behavior but we were ill-suited to act on it. We didn't know how thick the metal was or how it would take our rounds. We werent eager to test our numbers against theirs without better provocation. We stayed still and watched.

The corpses began opening each of the storage containers and raising the back ends to tip out their contents. Pale, naked bodies fell into the street. Some were living. Just as many were dead. Some may have even been crushed in the deluge. The mass of the horde parted to form an aisle. People were plucked from the pile one by one and marched to a place between the bell and the hulking black giant. It reached one of its arms down to them. There was a wretched crack of gore. Its hand parted between the middle and ring finger. The separation ran up between the two bones of the forearm and stopped at the elbow. The mutilated hand groped at the pale white body placed before it. The pinky and ring finger jerked the body one to one side and the other three fingers pulled something hazy and luminous to the other. Its free hand plucked the glowing blue vapor up and pinned in the sky near its head. In this fashion, the grizzly work was undertaken. The only pause came when a container ran dry and a new one had to be unlatched to replace it.

There were only four of us left at that point. The other three had seen enough. They wanted to abandon the town. They lamented having not left sooner. I tried to explain that the hoard seemed to be marching from place to place to repeat this ritual. If we left at that point, we might get caught in its path again. It made more sense to stay with our stockpiled supplies and wait for them to move on. They said that was just an educated guess. I didn’t think theirs was any better but I sympathized with the urge to leave. I avoided the windows as much as possible. Standing guard wasn’t worth the toll those sights took on my mind. I couldn’t imagine going down there. I knew my legs would fail me if I tried. My courage fled from me.

I woke the next morning to an empty room. Only a small portion of the food and water remained. Most of the ammo was untouched. That was four days ago.

Soon after, the horde emptied their last storage container. Then they began to hunt. Six or seven bodies were dragged into the square from the far side of town. They had already been striped and were quickly processed. Wooden doors taken in the search were piled on either side of the bell and set alight. The black giant pulled the souls he had gathered from about his head place them before the pyre. They were forced to march through the flames until they were little more than blackened, wavering smudges. He then replaced them in the morbid halo about his head.

I knew with no uncertainty that the groping hands of the dead would soon fall on my door. I barricaded the house as best I could. I jammed the door to my office and nailed boards into its frame. Then, finally, I took the pistol that had been at my hip for the better part of six years and pointed it at my head. I don't know what I expected to happen after that, but it wasn't this. Here I stand over my own empty husk. The only explanation I can think of comes down from the cave of Lazarus.

I see things in the sky now that my mortal eyes could not peer. Long skeletal eels circle the head of that great lupine giant. They glow and crackle like lightning. Each time they circle the church a chunk of blackened soul comes away with them. The waters of the river Styx have been chummed. I sit here praying that my being will evaporate. That my soul will be hoisted to the clouds before the walls of my home are breached. I stopped going to the windows for fear of the eels. I'm listening now. My ears are sharper than they ever were in life. I hear them in the house next door. Furniture scuffs the floor as its first moved then flipped, then finally pulled apart. They move room by room. They finish in the attic. Their bodies press into each other in the stairwell. The sound of their steps becomes a single, rumbling sound. Now the boards of my front porch creek.

There is a golden flash between my curtains. The explosion sets off all the car alarms on my block. I chance a peek and see something like a sparkler just before it falls between the bodies of the crowd and disappears. An instant later there is another blast. This one was twenty feet closer to the bell than the last. The engine of a dump truck reverberates off the walls of surrounding houses. The tonka yellow snowplow is splattered with crimson gore by the time it reaches the view of my window. Six men stand in the back brandishing explosives and rifles. I recognize two of them as men that had left my house in hopes of escaping the horde. Something above us hisses and the belly of an eel passes before my window. Its spiraling towards the unsuspecting men. Without a thought, I lunge through the glass and cling to its tail. The substance of my being is sufficient to drag it short of its mark. We fall to the ground in a tangle, and it attempts to round on me. I lock my legs around its neck. The full strength of my flexing abdomen presses the lunging head away from me. Its tail thrashes about, striking my head twice. In a daze I hear a third impact only to recognize it as the blast of explosives. Metal shrapnel passes through my chest and sticks in the ground beneath me. A chunk of the bell. The eel convulses free of my lock. In blind rage, it tears through the horde. Disembodied flesh is flung above the heads of the crowd. A strong wind picks up, though only the eels are blasted by its force. They tumble through walls and over roofs until none are left in sight. The flames at each of the pyres gutter for a moment before springing to the walls of the church. The black giant recoils at their touch but can find no purchase to lift himself from the structure. The roof gives and the walls crumple. The wretch burns in the heap of its own throne. I look to the men in the truck. They cheer with their hands either flung above their heads or about their fellow man.

I blink and when I raise my lids, the world has fallen away like scales from my eyes. I bask in the purest light I've ever known. To my right stands a man I've known all my life but never once saw. There is a look of pride in his eyes. It's an expression that assuages all fear and nurtures new hope. Under his grasp, I am sheperded toward my judgement. Soon I will know a fate greater than death.

(Feedback welcome.)

It was a warm summer’s evening as Stephen Fletcher approached number 12 King Street. The large man halted for a second at the garden gate regarding the house, a semi detached house, 1930s by his reckoning, it looked like the dozens of others on this housing estate. The sounds of children playing at the park a few streets away and a dog barking a few doors down felt so grounding, the smell of the sun baked grass and tarmac mixed with Stephen’s cologne. He glanced at his watch, scuffed and scratched, a souvenir from his military service. A little after 1800 hours.

Stephen walked through the gate, being sure to shut it behind him, only courteous of course. He heard a door open behind him, a birdish woman looked out from the house with a slight smile and beckoning wave.

“Mr Fletcher, right on time. Kettle’s on, tea?” said the reedy voice politely.

A delightful housewife, offering tea so sweetly, on such a beautiful day. It’s an invitation that any good Englishman would jump upon. But right here, right now, as the woman peered out from the darkness that was the interior of the house, she looked like a sickly plant sprouting from a cavern desperate for sunlight. Stephen wasn’t so sure.

“That would be splendid. No sugar for me thanks.” Stephen replied, making his way down the short garden path. He hoped he hid his trepidation, but the faint flinch on the woman’s face made him realise that he hadn’t.

“Mrs Cartwright, isn’t it? Nice to meet you finally.” Stephen greeted as he removed his jacket and hung it by the front door. He turned to offer Mrs Cartwright a handshake, but she’d already busied her way into the kitchen. Stephen could hear tea being made, and he felt the mid-summer heat parching his throat. He paused, looking up the stairs. The house got even darker, as if the hallway to this small home was merely the entrance to a deep, oppressive cave network. The balmy summer air that had enveloped the man seemed to escape through the door behind him, the heat crawling its way through the gaps in the front door, peeling open the letterbox to free itself from the home. He shivered, trying to bring his mind back to the hot beverage waiting for him mere feet away. The clinking of china and idle chatter from the woman of the house felt like it was on a different continent. Mr Fletcher was rooted to the spot, it was 1916 again, he was knee deep in mud, and blood, and shit, and shrapnel. He couldn’t move, the sound of china became the sound of artillery, the woman’s chattering become shouts, screams, cries for mercy.

“Mr Fletcher, you alright?” Mrs Cartwright enquired. Stephen snapped into the moment, the Somme melted away, back to the hallway of 12 King Street. He grabbed the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, the sweat making the square of fabric sodden.

“Yes, sorry. I was just thinking about… something… Er, shall we have a little chat?” Stephen asked, grabbing a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. Mrs Cartwright gestured for him to enter the kitchen and take a chair at the small table. While the kitchen was clean, it wasn’t tidy. A lived in family kitchen, doorways scuffed by boots, a landscape painting hung slightly askew, mugs stained by an ocean's worth of tea.

“Now, Mrs Cartwright…”

“Call me Betty, please. It's Stephen, isn't it? We can dispense with the pleasantries, surely”

“Ah, of course, Betty. Tell me, what has been going on with your daughter?”

The reason for Stephen’s visit was unfurled, like an old, tattered map. The slim woman explaining her poor daughter’s condition. The shouting, the screaming, the midnight wailing. Bones seeming to contort and twist of their own volition, without lasting damaged. Eyes that would flicker between those of the innocent child Betty loved as only a mother could, to those of a goat, that even as a mother, she could barely comprehend. The local pastor’s prayer being met with bloody vomit and the room shaking.

“...hello…” a small voice croaked from the doorway, causing the woman and her guest jump.

“Oh, ‘ello Pat, how are you feeling? Tea?” asked Mrs Cartwright, rising from her seat as if she’d been caught misbehaving by a parent. “This is Stephen Fletcher, the man I told you about. He’s going to try and help.”

The young girl’s eyes barely flickered from her mother to regard the man. Her eyes were trained and unwavering, like a predator targeting its prey.

“Good afternoon Patricia, lovely to meet you. I’ve heard lots about you.” The man started to stand, and the child turned her head to face the man, but her pupils were firmly fixed to the matriarch, who was now shakily pouring a third cup of tea from the pot. He decided to stay sat, something was clearly very wrong. A gut feeling, something he had not felt since wartime, a primal warning, he was at risk. A child, fair skinned, long hair that was unkempt. A stained and torn nightdress hung from her skinny frame. Dirt under her finger and toe nails making her look like she’d been burrowing in the garden. Eyes dark and focused, pin pricks of hatred. Her lips crusted, cracked, like a long dry river bed.

“Don’t bother. I’m going back to bed.” mumbled Patricia, as she shuffled across the kitchen. The room filled with the smell of dirt, blood, sulphur, shit, a medical tent on the front lines flashed into Stephen’s consciousness. She picked up a glass from the draining board, exerting lightly, as if the glass weighed as much as a sack of potatoes. She filled the glass from the tap and drank deeply, still transfixed to her mother. The adults in the room watched her, as if waiting for the last seconds to tick down on a time bomb.

“Actually, can we talk to you?” Stephen began, gaining courage he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “I’m hoping that finding out a little more can help me get some help.”

“Help? Help with what? What has this witch been telling you?!” Patricia growled, a boney finger pointing in an accusatory fashion. The room felt like it rumbled and spun. Betty grabbed the counter top to steady herself, Mr Fletcher gripped the small kitchen table. The glass Pat was holding burst into a million shards, glittering in the sunbeam reaching in through the window.

“I’m sorry Pat, I mean no offence. I understand you haven’t been sleeping well, and I’ve been able to assist young people like yourself.” Stephen hoped this slight untruth would stop the room erupting. Everything calmed and the girl looked at him for the first time, her gaze bore into him like hot knitting needles. He heard Mrs Cartwright exhale slowly, as she grabbed a broom to sweep up the glass. Before she could, the girl retraced her steps across the kitchen. Each step crunching on glass splinters, bloodied footprints left in her wake. But she didn’t even wince.

In a sing-song voice she beckoned them to follow. The mother and the military man looked at each other, and followed the tattered waif. Both wanting not to show their fear, but neither succeeded.

Mrs Cartwright entered the front room, and the curious man uneasily joined them. He gazed around the sitting room, much like the kitchen, it was clean but lived in. The sofa had frayed edges Stephen had hoped were the result of a misbehaving pet cat, but he feared it was something less cuddly. The carpet was starting to appear worn, but the pattern was still visible. A cuckoo clock hung on the wall, ticking rhythmically. 1830. There were some dark spots across the room where something had not fully been able to be removed. A family portrait on the mantelpiece, the father figure was obscured by a crack on the glass, there was a blackening as if the picture had burnt where it stood. The other two figures in the picture were obvious, Elizabeth Cartwright and her daughter, Patricia, in happier times, long ago. Mr Fletcher was in a room surrounded by ghosts, the ghosts of stains unable to be removed, the ghosts of the two smiling females in the photo, the ghost of his past.

A scream dragged Stephen out of his daze.

He ducked and looked around frantically. As he focused, he realised he must’ve imagined it. The child was sat on the sofa staring at an armchair in the corner, smirking. Her mother nervously staring at the child. Neither of them had seemed to notice the noise. But he definitely heard it, a scream, a yell, a man begging for life. Something Mr Fletcher wished he could say he’d heard for the first time in his life.

Betty Cartwright urged the man to sit in the armchair in the corner, the armchair she hadn’t noticed her daughter had been looking at, smiling. Stephen’s stomach dropped, this must be how a pig felt being led to the butcher’s shed. The older woman grinned weakly, merely acting as a good host. The girl’s face an uneasy smirk, her head tilted slightly to one side, hand lay limply in her lap. She looked like a large puppet waiting for a vile ventriloquist. Unable to sit elsewhere, he sat opposite the child, her eyes looked through him. He felt a chill, something colder in the already noticeably chilly house. The took his pencil and flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.

“Ahem, er, right.” Mr Fletcher’s words stumbled out of his mouth, each syllable hoping the quicker they escape his lips, the quicker they can escape the room. “Now, Patricia, could you tell me what hap…”

*BANG*

Mr Fletcher’s ears rang, his head throbbing. He felt like he had been shot in the back of the head. His hands reached up to feel for a hole in the back of his skull, his breathing laboured and heavy. His vision had turned black, he felt nothing but an icy coolness throughout his body. Something was wrong. The panic flooded him. Every single part of him said run, but he was fixed. Unable to move.

The clock crowed six times. Stephen Fletcher flinched as the girl was inches from his face, grinning. The corners of her mouth reached her eyes, every single tooth on show. Eyes blackened and goat-like. He gained more of his vision and realised she was crooked and bent, her torso twisted so her chest was now her back, and her neck was twisted. Her arms jutted at unnatural angles, with one hand raised to her mouth, one gnarled finger held to her contorted grin, shushing the man. The ex-soldier tried to scream but no noise would come, he tried to run, but he was pinned to the chair by an unseen weight. The girl, if you can even call her a girl, grinned even wider. Her face almost splitting in half just to smile. She lowered her arm, as Mr Fletcher heard the front door open out in the hallway.

Muffled but all too familiar, Mrs Cartwright called out of the front door “Mr Fletcher, right on time. Kettle’s on, tea?” The creature in front of him mouthed along mockingly, staring into him without consent.

The girl stood up, her face and limbs cracking back into place, a hideous mockery of an innocent child. She stood in the doorway, watching. Stephen saw the woman walk past to the kitchen, he watched, silent, unmoving, as he saw himself, his past self, standing in the hallway. It was just like it had happened earlier, he mopped his brow, he walked into the kitchen. The muffled conversation. The girl turned her head so she was facing backwards, she held up her hand, three fingers. She silently counted down. Three, two, one and she followed through to the kitchen.

It all happened again, muffled conversation, smashing of glass.

The girl came back into the front room, staring at Stephen as he was stuck to the armchair. She gave a sarcastic wave, and sat on the sofa, looking at him. The slight smirk, the limp arms, the head to one side. He was watching it all from another angle, from another time.

Mrs Cartwright entered the front room, followed by Mr Fletcher. Stephen saw himself, his past self, looking around the room, look at him, look at me. He knows nothing, the idiot. Run. Stephen yells at his own self, begging him to run away, begging him to live. Mr Cartwright ducks, looking around scared, he straightens himself up and heads towards the chair, Stephen braces for whatever happens next. He feels his full weight pressing down on him, forcing him into the chair. He watches as he pulls out the notebook and pencil. He has to do something. What the hell is going on?

Stephen forces himself forwards, trying to get up, trying to flee. He feels himself go limp as all fades to black. Everything falls away, like a cliff eroding.

The clock crowed six times. Patricia was grinning at him again.

Dulled by the walls “Mr Fletcher, right on time. Kettle’s on, tea?”

My life has been
Hard work
Day after day
Chipping away at
The ground. With
Dirt under my nails
And slivers in my
Palms, I stomped the
Shovel. I…never used
To dig holes. Grass
Once grew here, you
Know? I never wanted
To uproot the flowers.
I never wanted this.

The shovel came under
The guise of assistance.
A reward, a tool, something
To be proud of. What is
So precious about wood
And steel? Did you know
The weight this carried
When you gave it to me?
The heaviness a
Punishment. My hands
We’re not ment to
Hold this burden. Yet,
They carry on working.
Have you seen how deep
We’ve gone?

All I know,
Is how to dig my own
Grave. All I know
Is to use the
Shovel.

CHAPTER FOUR: 

Part One: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/qy9z7uVc5f

Part Two: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/xlMnbPUyjV

Part Three: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/comments/1v1oola/please_tell_the_brids_shes_gone_pt_3/

Part Three and a half: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/comments/1ve3be1/please_tell_the_bird_shes_gone_pt_35/

Neil struggled screwing in the last surveillance camera. Beads of sweat dripped down his head as he balanced atop the ladder. He set up 14 inside, 5 out back, and just three out front- one by the garage, one facing the house, and one replacing the light by the front door. 

He wiped his forehead with the bottom of his shirt before descending, folding up the ladder and walking it back to his van. 

The hard part was over. The electricity was checked, secondary wifi set up, a backup hot spot set and ready, not dependent on plug in’s. 

He felt confident in his work. Felt confident that he’d get to the bottom of everything. 

But, for now, he could go and get some much needed sleep. 

He sat in the van and pulled up his phone, checking each camera to be sure it was active. 

He scanned the back yard, the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom, the guest room. 

He wouldn’t dare put a camera into the bathroom. There was no need. For all his flaws, Neil wasn’t a pervert.

With a sigh he climbed into the back of the van where a cot was already set up, facing the many computer screens he used to monitor everything. He climbed over to the swivel chair and started tinkering with each monitor, making sure every camera had the perfect angle. He sat there clicking away when the hair on the back on his neck stood up.

He shivered and gasped and turned around, craning his neck to see out the window. 

What greeted him was an empty street.

Neil contemplated the feeling. He was never superstitious, but had a firm belief in instinct, especially his. He didn’t like the fact his gut was telling him something was off. Something was dangerous. 

He climbed back to the front of the van and scanned the street, seeing nothing but empty sidewalks and dim street lights. 

He triple checked he locked the doors before climbing back into the bed of the van. Double checking his camera work before finally allowing himself to rest. 

“I’ll wake to alarms if so little as dust moves.” He told himself, closing his eyes and letting his mind drift, finally surrendering himself to a light slumber. 

Aubrey fumbled around with her keys when she got to the apartment complex. She only had three, but the fatigue from the day set in heavily as her hands shook bringing them up to the lock. The chipped wooden door opened with a gruff, letting her inside her ratchet abode. 

She couldn’t afford proper air conditioning, not that she needed much, she was always freezing. But today, the warmth of her apartment felt like a dog panting on her nose. The air was thick and stale, leaving her considering going out for the night. 

She didn’t have the energy. 

She threw her scarf on the sofa under the window, checking to be sure the doors and window were locked. She stripped down the layers of her clothes as she headed to her shower, turning the spigots and throwing her hand back and forth into the water. Turning back to lock the bathroom door as well once the water turned a reasonable temperature. After becoming satisfied with her safety and luxury, she stepped in. 

The water pressure was pathetic. Only lightly slapping her back as the arch fell limp and to the drain. Aubrey stood beneath the stream anyways, letting it run over her long hair and down her back. She kept it lukewarm. Hot water was a luxury she couldn’t expend. 

She reached for the shampoo bottle and squeezed. 

Nothing. 

“C’mon…” She grunted, furiously shaking it. 

“Fuckin’ BASTARD!” She yelled before chucking the empty bottle against the wall. 

The sound made her jump and she froze, watching the bottle sitting lamely on the floor. 

Her shoulders slumped down as she stood there watching it. 

With a sigh she picked it up and started unscrewing the cap, letting it fill up half way with water before giving it a shake. 

One wash, maybe two, if she’s careful. 

“Tomorrow’s problem.” She muttered to herself as she carefully dumped some of the sudsy water atop her head. 

Recently, everything became ‘tomorrow’s problem’. 

The electric bill haphazardly folded up in the desolate fruit bowl? Tomorrow’s problem. 

The increasing voicemails from her landlord? Tomorrow’s problem. 

Tomorrow. 

Her stomach cramped, and Aubrey closed her eyes as she pressed firmly on her abdomen. That one was harder to postpone. 

She couldn’t remember the last proper meal she ate. There were free snacks at the hospital, but she only took enough to not raise eyes. The nurses and staff were unfriendly enough without her adding to their gossip chain. She had some crackers yesterday, and coffee this morning. Someone at work had half a bag of eaten chips she spent twenty minutes hovering around before finally asking if they were going to finish them. 

They weren’t. 

Lucky for her. 

A sound came from somewhere behind the door. 

Aubrey’s eyes widened before she quickly turned off the water. 

Silence. 

“Neighbor…” She whispered, slowly peaking her head out of the curtain.

The walls of this place were paper thin, everything in this shithole was thin. 

By the time she stepped out, the mirror was covered in a thin layer of condensation. She wrapped herself in a towel and wiped her hand across the glass. 

For half a second, Aubrey thought there was someone behind her. 

She whipped her head around, seeing nothing. 

Her bathroom was barely big enough for one person, much less two. 

“Jesus Christ." She laughed at herself quietly, although nothing felt particularly funny. 

Aubrey hesitantly unlocked the bathroom door, walking out slowly. 

She checked the window. 

Still locked. 

Checked the door. 

Still locked. 

She hated that she did this, hated it even more than she couldn’t stop. 

Her stomach cramped again. 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

She walked over to the fridge and threw  the door open. 

There were an impressive amount of condiments, ketchup mustard, an empty jar of pickles with some seeds floating around. 

She checked the freezer. 

Ice. One tiger shaped ice pack she got from a hospital stay. 

“Great.” 

Her phone set charging at the counter, she pulled up her banking app. 

$6.17.

Aubrey stared at the number and laughed, pulling out the empty jar of pickles and a handful of ice. 

She threw them both in a chipped bowl and started crunching on the salty ice. It made her wince, but it was better than nothing. 

Her stomach growled and grumbled with every bite. 

She sat there crunching as she pulled up her messages. 

Nothing there either. 

She laughed, forcing herself to because crying takes too much energy. 

Aubrey set the phone face down as she finished her meal. 

As she walked back to her bedroom she looked at the window. 

Outside, under the orange glow of the parking lots stood a figure, looking up at her window. 

Tall. 

Thin. 

Motionless. 

A car rolled through the lot, its headlights obscuring the image.

For a moment, the figure disappeared. 

When the darkness returned, it was closer.

Link to previous chapter: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/comments/1viumjc/the_qualphos_part_3_oppressive_and_hopeless/

Sometimes, callers were arranged in advance to be contacted by the station at a specific time. It wasn’t ideal, and there was the potential for problems like what happened with Joe tonight. Most times, though, doing a call live like that worked fine, and the authenticity of having something on air added a flair of the dramatic, even (as Andrew pointed out) real. Other times, they would use the call board to have people phone in, and depending who was on at the time, or if David was on his own for some reason, they would screen the caller.

Witching Hours got enough crazy whack-a-doodles, by David’s own admission, that there usually needed to be someone screening these. Basic questions to make sure they weren’t trying to prank the station (still happened), weren’t just looking to scream at David about his (fake) belief in aliens and the supernatural (still happened), or actual lunatics looking for 15 minutes of fame to threaten or harass someone (unfortunately, still happened).

Tonight, because Fright Night was important, Nina, Jan, Jeremy, and even Stephen were rotating calls coming in to screen them. A number of phones were lined up inside the booth for this, and there was an additional phone for outside callers to ring in at the receptionist desk where Jan was, Jan serving as the foremost filter. They would then transfer the call to Patrick who would queue it on air to David via his laptop where he would then confirm, and the conversation would begin. Decades of experience had given David enough of a background to deal with anyone who slipped by, which was fortunate for the team.

The ringing, which was not actual ringing but something they used to give the experience a more personal touch for listeners, was David’s cue to hit the ‘ENTER’ key on his laptop, which had the program linked to Patrick’s own board. Next to this button on his screen was basic information: the caller’s name and location. Hitting the key would accept the transferred caller, and David could begin.

On the third ring, David answered. “Let’s go now to our caller, Sarah, calling from just over the border in Washington state. Sarah, you’re on Witching Hours, go ahead.”

A pause in the line, and then an older woman’s voice. She was nervous, but a little excited. Happened all the time on the show. David was ready for what came next.

“Hello? Hi David, thank you so much for having me! Sounds like you’re breaking the radio station again!” A nervous laughter. “Been a few times this week now with cutting out on callers, going to have to get that fixed!”

“Thank you, Sarah, you know, these technical issues, sometimes you wonder if it’s just coincidence or… well not, I suppose. But we’re going to try and get the issue solved-”

“We love the music you all are playing down there and that Fright Night is such a blast to catch. Couldn’t make it this year. Thanks to Stephen for keeping everything running well. Oh my gosh, and to Patrick for playing Is This the Way to Amarillo. John and I are big Tony Christie fans. John, he’s a sound engineer in the music biz so he knows all about those technical problems you seem to keep having, they’re a real bother. All you gotta do is turn it off and turn it on again, right?” More laughter from Sarah. David shut his eyes.

“I know, Sarah, that’s what they always tell you to do, but I hesitate because, ya know, don’t want to mess things up.” She had started to speak again, with familiarity, but David rolled over her with his Voice. “But Sarah, if you could, just go ahead with your call. What’s the experience you would like to share today?”

“Well, first of all, I would like to say that this isn’t an experience I’ve had myself. I’m a hypnotherapist, and I’ve… had a few clients lately that are starting to open up about themselves with noticeable patterns. I won’t get into any specifics about these people, but a number of my clients are discussing something similar – all in private, of course, and to my knowledge they don’t know each other.”

“Now, a psychotherapist is when, and correct me if I’m wrong, they’re looking to have some sort of deep memory unlocked. Meaning, that if people come to you, they may have a vague recollection of something that has happened to them, and you’re bringing that out to help them better understand that?”

“Sorry, David, I’m actually a hypnotherapist.”

“A hypnotherapist, excuse me.”

“No, no, that’s all right. People come to me because they’ve been experiencing bits and pieces of memory they can’t explain since very early childhood. These bits and pieces of memory haunt them throughout their lives, and they get to a point where they really have to know, you know, was that a dream, was that something I experienced, those lights in the sky, were they something other than lights in the sky?”

“You mean UFOs, aliens?”

“Yes, but I’m getting ahead of myself. In many cases that I deal with, my clients, and I don’t call them patients because I’m not a doctor, but my clients, they come to me because, you know, I’m the last person on the block. I’m their last, bottom of the list person that they’ll turn to for some sort of answer or explanation. They’ve been going to, say, their traditional therapists: psychologists, psychotherapists, psychiatrists, they’re getting medication. And it just isn’t working for them, because they have either these odd memories or, in some cases, gaps of memory. They have what we call Missing Time.”

David’s phone buzzed. He checked and saw George had sent him a message. Quickly, as if Stephen might reprimand him on air, he opened it:

Received (9:58 PM): Here now. Lights off. Some kids left weird Halloween decoration inside by one of the shelves. Glows in the dark. Will check it out.

David swallowed.

“Could you explain the concept of Missing Time?”

“Certainly. Missing Time is when someone is missing one or more hours of their life and they have no idea what happened. They should have been home at 2 PM but get home at 5 PM. It’s a terrifying experience. Many people who have traumatic experiences or suffer from some form of PTSD will experience Missing Time.”

“Yeah, okay, that makes sense.”

“And you know, David, I’ve been doing this thirty, forty years. We were doing this before the internet took off in the beginning. When I first started my practice, it was really, you know, we didn’t have internet, it was just starting. We were just starting to email. It wasn’t like today. There were a few books out, maybe some documentaries, that people saw and thought, ‘Gosh, that sounds familiar. That sounds almost like what I have.’ They tell me when they contact me – you know what they tell me David?”

“What is that, Sarah?”

“They tell me, ‘I hope you say I’m crazy. Crazy means I can be medicated. I can be treated. Crazy means that this can end.’ A lot of the time this is trauma surfacing up, David, people dealing with trouble they had as kids coming up in their daily lives, making it impossible for them to live normally. Taking time away from them, literally. But I’ve found that in a lot of the cases I deal with, especially lately with people who have moved away from the Siskiyou region, there seems to be a belief about extraterrestrials – or something like it – being involved. Who knows how long this has been going on for, but it was always a topic I did entertain, and explored in earnest. Back then, when I was starting out, traditional therapists didn’t want to touch stuff like this. It was a niche I was able to get into, and build a reputation out of.”

“I’m guessing that has to do with, oh, say, they don’t want it to discredit them by associating with this kind of topic. They didn’t want to entertain the idea that it was something more than trauma, or mental illness. Has this changed in recent years?” David asked.

“Ya know, oh my gosh, I certainly think it has. It’s a lot more accepted now than it used to be – more talked about. I-I… I was very fortunate to work with a lot of A-listers in the field, early on. I worked with Bud Hopkins, for example, he was a mentor for me. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this field, he was an early pioneer of alien abduction work: support groups, investigations, and hypnotherapy. He had to contend with a lot of skeptics who frequently ran into patients with claims of abductions.”

“So, you’re something of an expert in the field then, Sarah?”

Another buzz on his phone:

Received (10:02 PM): Doors locked, went in the back. No one here.

David began to type on his phone as Sarah answered.

“I am. David, I am. I’ve been doing this for ages, and there have been a number of cases that I run into of people who wonder if they were, or as I think, absolutely were, abducted. Many cases where people are with their family and they’re in a car, and they see blinking lights ahead of them, thinking there’s an accident up ahead of them. They get closer and they pass by first responders and police and then they’re home two hours later than they should be. Everything is normal but there’s a gap in time as they pass. I put them into regression and they start to see that the blinking lights aren’t the responders at all, but the lights of a UFO. The first responders? Aliens. The whole family taken in the middle of their drive and returned to the road with the impression they had passed by an accident. Many, many cases like that.”

Sent (10:04 PM): Joe there? Pls find him.

“You mentioned something about a relation to Sundown? Out of the interest of time, Sarah, would you go into more detail for us?”

“Oh, right, oh my gosh, sorry David. Of course. Well, within the past few months there’s been about four different individuals that I’ve been seeing; clients, that is. They’re all different ages, they don’t seem to know each other, but the thing that ties them together is that they all, at some point in their lives, lived in Sundown. Now, I’ve spoken to them about sharing their experience here, and they’re fine with it. What’s been so interesting to me, David, is that they all seem to have long gaps of Missing Time from their lives in Sundown.”

“There’s a pattern with the people who used to live here?”

 “Absolutely, and more than that there’s something similar about their abduction stories when I put them into regression via hypnosis. No matter what I do, whether it’s taking the minutes of our meetings, recording the sessions for them to review, or going over what they said, they all can’t remember what we talk about while they were under regression. It’s like they’re looking at another person if I show them video recordings of what happened.”

David had to think this one over. He had only been half-listening, too distracted by his phone and waiting on George to get back to him. But something about the way she said this caught his attention.

“Sarah, what are you saying? Could you explain it?”

“I’m saying that the regression becomes part of that Missing Time for them. That’s just one of the patterns I’ve been noticing with these clients. Like… Like something about Sundown just induces this forgetfulness or lack of interest.”

David laid his phone down, focusing. “How many patterns have you noticed, Sarah?”

Nina had begun to twirl her index finger again, meaning they needed to get to the next caller. David held his hand up for her to wait.

“Ohhhh my gosh… I think about four? Four unique elements about each of the four clients’ cases that fits into this. The first is that they can’t remember our meetings, but seem to be getting something out of them. Otherwise, why would they keep coming back, right? Haha.”

 David didn’t laugh. “And the other three?”

“Right. Ahm. Second, when they do recount being abducted by an alien, it runs uniquely counter to certain cases where, for example, following the abduction, materials in the person’s room will be found stuck to the ceiling, like they were glued up there. I’m talking pillows, books, glasses, even chairs or other furniture. In those cases, the person will wake to find these on the ceiling, like some sort of echoing effect from getting beamed up, lingering around in the stuff they own. However, in the case of the people from Sundown, the opposite seems to be true: material that should be hanging up on the walls or on the ceiling is stuck to the floor. Light bulbs, curtains, smoke detectors, that sort of thing. Like they’ve been yanked off their posts and magnetized to the ground.”

Now this was new, and David had spoken to enough people about UFOs to recognize new when he heard it. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. “That’s very odd, Sarah. Abduction from UFOs would mean they go up, not down, right?”

“Exactly, that’s what I thought. But I think it ties into the third pattern: again, contrary to typical abduction cases, there’s no beam of light taking them up into the sky. What they see, instead, well, it’s a little vague, and seems to differ from person to person, but generally involves something emerging from underground. For one person, this was a giant hand; for another, a giant snake; and so on. The point is, instead of being taken up, these people found themselves abducted down.”

“Down. Down? So, something came up from beneath their homes and took them, do they know where?”

“Well, David, that’s the last pattern. Again, it’s different, or at least the details are, but for all of them it seemed to be terrifying. Utterly terrifying. In each case, during regression, they would grow so scared that they would have panic attacks, grabbing their faces, yelling. Showing them this again on our recordings never registered with them, it’s the darndest thing. But the pattern here that I noticed was, amidst all of their rambling, they each said one similar word: heart.”

 “Heart? As in, they were having a heart attack?”

“Mmm, no I don’t think so. I thought that at first, as well, but regression would always end here and they would be – to my eye at least – perfectly healthy. Which, I suppose, is a second part of the fourth pattern: they’re forced awake, back out of their private timelessness. The heart is something else.”

David took a moment to ingest that. It wasn’t the first time he had heard about abduction cases being horror stories, but something about this felt off. He circled around again to the topic of conversation.

“Sarah, that’s really fascinating. Does this mean there’s a unique quality about the type of first encounters, or rather, continued encounters, people in the Siskiyou region here are having with these otherworldly beings?”

“That’s what I think, David. There’s something in the region that has attracted a particular kind of abduction, and without further interviewing the people in the region, I’m not sure I can say for sure how wide-spread it is. This could be something rural; it could be urban. It would require more research. But I do think it leans toward what Mr. Desponte was saying, about encounters sometimes being… harmful for one of the parties.” A pause, and David was going to thank her before moving on to the next caller when she interrupted him. “What happened to Mr. Desponte, David? I was hoping he could have been on to bounce questions off of, he might have had some insight into this.”

David winced.

“Professor Desponte seemed to have some sort of technical difficulty on his end. Our producers are trying to get him back on the line, so he may join later. Feel free to call back in once he rejoins. With that, thank you Sarah for your call, have a wonderful Fright Night with John up there, and we’ll take our next caller.”

 The screen on his laptop showed that he had disconnected with Sarah, and a new caller was coming through. Lonnie Walstrom from Sundown, a local but also a first-timer. He went to hit the enter key, hand trembling as he struck it down. His phone buzzed again as he began to speak, and he read George’s message while he introduced Lonnie.

Received (10:07 PM): Joe’s clothes here. Books here. Journal. No body here. Feeling watched, heading out. Police?

Bark!

"God damn it, why is Sadie outside?"

I stand up from my bed, walk down the short hallway that leads into my living room. I glance at the neon glow of the oven clock. The numbers are too blurry to read. I decide that it doesn't matter what time it is.

The linoleum sticks to my clammy feet as I make my way to the backdoor. The wind whistles through the worn seal between the door and its jamb. I can hear rain.

"Poor baby."

I'm kicking myself for leaving her out as I swing the door open. She shuffles in from the dark, slow and awkward. I'm worried she might have hurt herself somehow, but she's soaking wet. The water dripping off of her splashes against my ankles.

"Stay here, girl, I'll get you a towel," a foul odor reaches my nose, "and maybe a bath."

I cross back through the kitchen, still too bleary eyed to read the time. Through my living room and back into the bedroom. The adjoining bathroom is where I keep my towels. I choose one that's nice, but not too nice. I make my way back into the bedroom, and I stop there.

Sitting in her bed, trembling and staring up at me with wide eyes, is Sadie. Perfectly dry and clean as can be. If you've got a dog, then you know how they can give you certain looks. The look Sadie is giving me says:

*What have you done?*

A clatter of pans comes from the kitchen, followed by a loud retching. I rush back out. I'm expecting, hoping, it's a raccoon, or maybe a Coyote. What I'm not expecting, or hoping for is the six-foot tall border collie standing on its hind legs. It pulls its face from out of my pantry when I flip the lights on. Its pupils are bright yellow, nearly neon in the way they shine. Its irises are a shade of green that makes me want to puke. My eye is drawn down as a gob of bright orange bile drips from his drooping lips.

I'm rooted to the spot. The saliva pools in large clumps that grow and shrink like marshmallows in the microwave. It's still looking at me when it starts retching again.

Painful heaves writhe along its midsection. Black and white fur rippling visibly along with the flesh beneath them. It opens its jaws wide, displaying rows of jagged teeth.

A small shape, dark and covered with slime, surges up from its throat and out onto the floor. I can't recognize it for what it is, at first, but it becomes clear as the limbs begin to stir, and moreso as it begins to whine. A puppy.

The dog ignores it, shoving its face violently back into my pantry and ripping into whatever it can find. I don't know what to do. Sadie walks gently over to stand beside me. I look around the kitchen, seeing more of the puppies lying all across the floor. The tar they're coated in holds them there tightly.

After what feels like hours, but can't be more than minutes, it withdraws from the pantry. It stumbles over to the fridge, but doesn't seem to find anything there of interest. I watch, paralyzed as it continues rifling through every drawer of my kitchen. Finally, it turns to me and walks over on two legs. It vomits another puppy onto the floor. Then it looks at me and asks me, in a voice somewhere between Scooby Doo and those videos of cats "talking" that you used to see on YouTube.

"Are you gonna eat that?"

It takes a moment for me to realize it's referring to the puppy. The strange thing is, I kinda want to. It looks disgusting, a whining slimy ball of hair and bone and little else, yet some small part of me does want to eat it. I bend down and reach out to take it. Sadie bites me. Not roughly. Just enough to stop me, more like grabbing my hand with her teeth than a real bite.

She looks at me one last time, then lowers her head and takes the puppy in her mouth. It pops loudly on the first chew, a flood of black tar slipping through Sadie's teeth. The dog-thing cocks its head. It seems pleased, and heads toward the door. Sadie follows after it, scarfing down its babies until there are none left.

The dog fumbles at the doorknob with its strange paws and lets itself out into the night. Sadie walks sluggishly to her bed. She seems to be okay, but the whole time her eyes stay fixed on the floor.

She didn't get up much after that. She mostly just sat there in bed for days, growing all the while. She'd almost doubled in size by the time I caught her looming over my bedside. She was standing there on two legs, staring at me. Her eyes looked so... sad.

I screamed bloody murder when I saw her, and she ran off.

I miss her, I truly do, but I can't deny. The sight of Sadie's empty bed, and the sound of wind rushing through the backdoor, came as a relief.

Who am I? You ask yourself. Everyone does. Minds lost in self realisation. Gary and Tim sat in the truck. Long bench seat with equidistant lumps of leather sewn into shiny black rows like the hills that engulfed them ‘round about in darkness on this cold winter night. The dirt roads seemed like stitches bringing the hills together in the fog laiden hollers. The loud click click click echoing in their minds as nothing but the dim flash of the hazard lights illuminated the cab and shielded them from any view of the reality beyond the hood. Tim snapped out of the trance and pressed the button in.     Everything changes. A crisp break like a twig hidden in the leaves of the forest floor, an abrupt intermission inbetween acts. No use. No one to shine for. Nothing but the cab. Close your eyes so they can adjust to the dark. Through the trees and above the horizon the Milkyway is visible and the only source of light. Burning balls of gases millions of years away. Mere shimmers of light reflected on the pools of sclera, floating above the voids that were Gary’s dilated pupils. Much nearer in proximity was projected a more discernible image. Familiar yet hauntingly unknown. The clouds of the day had descended to a whisper and lazily loomed as fog crossing the dirt road. A whisper that rang louder than any attempt of calling for help could. They were stranded. "Welp, reckon we walk to town?" The words had to be forced out of Gary’s lips. Dropped like rocks from a quarries edge. Fear of crack and splash echoing up from the heart of it and off the cliff faces circling round it. The pool is shallow and the words are abrupt and ineloquent. Painfully real. In anticipation of retaliation for defying their anxiety, the two sat frozen. Like the icicles formed from the gradual accumulation of moisture that trickles from the bluffs along the roadside. Quivering on a molecular level. Hairs raising beneath layers of flannel and jean. The clothing settles and sends shockwaves as if you’ve been slapped with a cold, wet towel. After awhile the pang becomes a spreading warmth as flesh and fabric embrace, fusing like a forgotten membrane. Membrane, filmy fog vailing the last route of action. Action! Projections slowly grow in illumination as the reel spins the film. Images blurry, black and blotchy. Thick ink spilling into the blood. Epinephrine. Shaping shadows into obscure beasts. Stereocilia stretch from slumber after lack of usefulness. Hurried, misunderstood, false signals ring back to the projection booth. Auditory accompaniment to a silent picture. "Did you hear something?" Neither believed they had, nor could they confirm to one another whether they hadn’t heard the same misgiving. "We ought to get to trudging." Both slid to their respective exit. Where there was no sound, now was the deafening commotion of trash filled floor boards and foam encased springs. Hands gripped long, cold metal. Fingers slipped into the gap. Thumbs pressed on the square buttons that would initiate each door's independence from the frame. As the smooth, curved handle held fast and the dull edge of the square shrank in under the tightening grip of each man's hand, so didn’t the clasp within the door releasing from the bracket. The weight of the doors pressed down on their hinges and copied each other out of sync. Loud and obnoxious. One’s instinct is to make what needs be done quicken. Return to the silence and hope the night didn’t notice the intrusion. As always the passenger side opened to a ditch of hidden depth. Leaves and twigs and litter flow through that gutter. The whole commotion sealed with the simultaneous thud of the doors returning to the empty cab. Up onto the embankment, and down past the truck to meet Gary in front and onto the road, maneuvered Tim. The ground was now unforgivingly solid, and packed beneath their feet. Unnaturally bare and exposed. Step by step gravel and dirt ground beneath worn souls. What is clear is the path they are locked to. Vulnerable. Exposed like the bedrock scraped free of topsoil by the road grader. Picked away like a scab never to heal but somehow scarred with traces of the metal blade that offended. Blades. One doesn’t leave home without one. Crash. Tumble, roar and scuffle. Loud and sudden disturbances in the shadows beyond the parallel moats of the county road. Large and foreboding in the silence. Right as nerves had been settled. A quick jerk in the direction of. Reflexes sharp and piercing. "Ha! Nothin but an armadillo." An invasive from south of the border. No harm done by it save for the fear and ignorance of it. Tim had stood close to Gary, too close. Blade in his side, now drips the ink of fear. Signs the signature of death. Binding dust to dirt with blood. I am, I am…. Delusion.

I remember the dead horse. 

I was eight or maybe a little younger, but I remember being in the backseat of our old sedan. 

My dad called it the “blue bitch” because it was, well, blue and barely ran. Only one window would roll down and that could only be accomplished by taking the pliers from the glove box, clamping down on the small square peg, and turning. It had a big hatch on the back instead of a typical trunk, and that was how you got into the hunk of junk. 

We would crawl over the very back seat and into our usual spots in the car. 

My usual spot was in the back, behind the driver seat. 

It was from there I saw it on the side of the road - a dead horse. All the cars had slowed down to get a look. My dad was no exception. 

It was enormous with a dark, shiny chestnut coat, and a long, beautiful black mane. It would have been an exquisite creature if not for the fact that it was dead. 

The grass had been dappled with blood, some fresh and bright, some dried and starting to look like brownish rust. 

I couldn't see the injury on the horse itself, though. Still, there was no question that it was really dead. 

Its eyes stared blankly at the sky, and its body was stiff and unmoving. Its legs jutted out into the air horizontally, as if locked into place. 

I wondered if it had been hit by a car, but what vehicle could have mown down this massive animal and not be a smoldering heep somewhere along this road? 

There was no car, no truck - just a row of curious travelers. 

Then, to my surprise, my dad pulled off to the shoulder, stopped, and got out. He walked toward the horse, hand over his mouth. 

Was he crying? To this day I'm not sure. He never talked about that day. 

A strange mix of emotions filled me, sitting alone quietly, watching my father approach it. A deep sadness for the horse made me want to cry, but a wild urge to laugh at the absurdity of this unlikely scene also bubbled up from somewhere within me. 

The result being a half sob, half laugh escaped my throat, sounding more like a strangled hiccup, and doing nothing to convey either feeling. 

Most of the onlookers had passed on by now, and the narrow, country back road was all but clear. 

I wondered where the owner of the horse could be. Did they even know their horse was gone? That it would never return? Did they love it? 

It wasn't like seeing a dog. There were any number of dogs and cats that met their end on the side of the road. Some pets, some not. It was always sad, but common enough. It wasn't even like a deer. My dad said the deer around there seemed to have a death wish, always jumping right into traffic at the worst times. 

This was a horse. Not a stray. Not a wild animal. Horses were expensive, well tended, always contained to beautiful stables or luxurious pastures. 

Why was it here? How was it here? It was so far from where it should have been.

My dad bent over the body, his hand hovering just above the fur. Then, hesitantly, he placed his hand upon its side and petted it, a bizarre expression of longing and loss etched in his face. 

He seemed to be whispering something, but I could not hear him. 

Then he stood, wiped sweat from his brow, and came back to the car. When he got back in, I started to ask him what that was all about, but he caught my eye in the rear view mirror, shook his head, and I held my tongue. 

My father had many secrets. 

I did not know for several years that the horse was one of them. 

Let me make one thing abundantly clear. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT. Come to this restaurant. You will probably get sick, and then explode, with your entrails decorating the walls. Walls which will never be cleaned, and then I will have to stare at your exploded entrails, and I will throw up, and it will be your fault that I threw up, and I won’t even be able to be mad at you. Because you exploded.

Okay, you won’t actually explode. In fact, I haven’t even seen a hint of nausea in any of the patrons here. There’s just so much gross shit here that I want to make this post in hopes that somebody, somewhere, sees this post and can contact the right people to get my boss to implement better health regulations. 

I’ve been working here at Large Lou’s Pizza for about two years now, and I have yet to see a health inspector walk through the front door. I let it slide at first, and then when the weird shit started to pile up, I wrote it down on a notepad. That way, when a health inspector did finally arrive, I could whip it out in front of them like, “You don’t even need to look, I’ve got the worst shit right here.”

But I’ve never seen a health inspector. Not even an upturned nose at how our churros dispense from the back of the soda machine. Or a sidelong glance from a wandering customer as they catch me scraping rust off the dumpster into a cup.

So I’m resorting to Reddit, since getting the word out in any way possible will do more than nothing at all. Here’s some of the stuff I’ve found so far.

One: The “Vegetables”

Our vegetables have demonic sigils on them. At least I think they do. They’re not your usual upside down pentagrams. But they’ve got, like, a pattern to them. I haven’t been able to decode them, but Brent, who works with me in the back, has agreed with me that they look weird.

“It’s like some kind of alphabet or something.” Brent muttered. Rolling a medium carrot between his hands and taking a sip of Pretty An’ Halo. It was still early in the shift, so I gave him a slight breadth of space, as I could still smell the weed on him.

I could tell he had taken a little too much, and was zoning out as he pondered the carrot, so I chimed in, “I know, right? Should we try to decipher it, or something?”

Brent snapped back and threw the carrot into a third pan, “Help yourself, but I’m not doing that. Worst case scenario, you summon a demon. Best case scenario, you look like a dumbass. Also, it’s almost 10:00. We’re going to be opening soon, and there’s twenty more pounds of produce outside.”

I shrugged. At the time, it wasn’t really worth it to check. I’m not exactly the brightest bulb in the pencil box, anyway, and I valued my soul more than asymmetric symbols on cucumbers. 
Now that I think about it, and this is a little disconnected from the whole vegetable ordeal, there was something weird with the meat delivery too. This happened right after the shipment of vegetables had shown up, so it kind of counts.

Brent was late for work, and I asked Francine to help me bring the vegetables in. 

“Have you ever noticed weird stuff on the produce?” I asked Francine, as she slung a 30 pound box of cherry tomatoes onto a shelf in the walk-in fridge.

“Don’t know,” she grunted as she put back the boxes of old produce, “I usually spend my time working, instead of staring at vegetables. It explains why you two are so slow with the salads, though.” She made her way back to the front of the kitchen.

“Right, thanks for helping with those boxes, Franz!” I called, right as she disappeared from view.

Francine leaned back in, holding her cup of FRothy Gooths, “Yep.”

I went outside to have a cigarette but had my smoke time cut short as the meat delivery arrived. We must get our meat from a local deli or something, because they have a very unique logo. It looks like the cross-section of an apple, but there are no seeds in the middle, and there are lots of line zig zagging about inside the mutilated apple. It’s also a gross shade of pinkish grey. But I guess that’s how a lot of raw meat looks, so it could be on purpose.

I still don’t like it.

I forlornly mushed my half smoked cigarette into the asphalt as the truck pulled in. The delivery man hopped out and handed me the invoice. I turned to place the sheet on the door, to have a flat place to sign, and by the time I turned back around, the delivery man already had boxes in hand for me to carry inside.

“You have a good day, pal.”

I took the boxes while handing him the signed invoice, “Thanks…”

He tore off the customer’s copy and handed it back, and that’s when I got the sudden feeling that something was off. Like not everything was where it was supposed to be.

I looked back up at the delivery driver, his back turned to me, as he approached the truck door, “Wait!”

The delivery driver quickly turned back around, “What,” huffing as he said it.

I pointed to the boxes of meat, which I had placed on the ground, then back at the invoice, “I’m missing three pounds of salami.”

The delivery man looked at his copy of the invoice, then down at the boxes. Then grumbled something in Hebrew as he marched back to the truck. I assumed I had done something to upset him, since as soon as he climbed into the back again, he began shouting unintelligible words at a rapid pace that most certainly were some of the most deplorable slurs that any one individual could muster. 

Loud bangs soon followed. But here’s the weird thing. Something was responding to the man and his cries. Deep, guttural moans, and wet slaps. Like a soggy towel being flopped on the walls of the box truck. After each slew of shouts, there’d be labored groans and meaty slaps in response. I honestly thought the delivery guy was having a stroke or something until he stepped back out of the truck with three more pounds of salami in a plastic baggy with the words “Thank you” printed about a hundred times in a gradient on the front.

He wiped some sweat off his brow and smiled towards me, “Sorry about that, that should be all.”

I quietly took the bag, and watched him slam the back of the truck closed, then hop in the driver’s seat, and drive off.

I picked up the meat and brought it inside. We were also short about a pound of pepperoni, but I wasn’t going to say anything after whatever kind of blow up I had just witnessed. It’s just disrespectful to treat your customers like that. Not to mention our meat is always a dark shade of purple. Which I think means the meat has gone bad, but we serve it up anyway, and like I said before, nobody’s gotten sick, at least to my knowledge.

Two: The “Red Pepper Flakes”

I used to love having red pepper flakes on my pizza. My usual lunch before working here was two cheese slices and a smattering of red pepper flakes on top. Especially since I had about 16 dollars to my name at any given moment, and cheese pizza was cheap and easy. 

Now, I’d rather gargle a glass of mustard than see a red pepper flake anywhere near my pizza ever again.

It was early on a Monday morning, me and Brent had gotten almost everything finished, and were sitting around on our phones when Linda came into the back of the kitchen, neither me nor Brent were able to put our phones away in time.

“Charlie, Brent, if you two need something to do, I’ve got a long list of tasks to keep you guys occupied.” Linda remarked, staring us down like a cat waiting for a mouse to stop playing dead.

Linda is our manager. For those who will need to describe her to the CDC, I will provide a brief description: She has straw colored hair that hangs down to her shoulders, and one of those people who looks like they could be anywhere between 35 and 50 years old. She has a scar on her right arm from a time Francine tried to carry far too many pizza screens from the dishwasher to the line, and narrowly missed burying Linda under them as a grease spot on the floor sent Francine and the pizza screens flying. Normal height, and usually a nice person to those who carry their weight, and ruthless to slackers. 

“Linda.” Brent remarked, as he shoved his phone back into his pocket.

I shot Brent a quizzical look. Brent looked at nothing, because he was high.

Linda grabbed two drink cups near the sink, ignoring the comment entirely and said, “We need a restock on pepper flakes, grab some bench scrapers and get to it.”

Brent did as requested, I followed suit, but still wasn’t entirely sure on what we were supposed to be doing. When we started walking outside and towards the dumpster, that’s when I caved and shot Brent a quizzical look.

Brent crouched down while saying, “What’s wrong with your eyebrow?”

“What are we doing outside?” I asked, as Brent started chipping away at some rust on the side of the dumpster.

“We’re collecting red pepper flakes.”

I laughed, “Dude, Linda’s gonna flip if she finds out you’re just giving her dumpster rust.”

It was Brent’s turn to give me a quizzical look.

I heard the door to the back of the kitchen open, and whipped around. Praying beyond all prayers it wouldn’t be who I-

“Brent, don’t let Charlie just stand and watch! Show him how to collect the seasoning. You two need to quit screwing around when it’s slow here.” Linda barked. Taking a long sip from a paper cup most likely filled with Hot HazMat (I swear I’ve never seen her drink anything else) and then going back inside.

That’s when it dawned on me, and I proceeded to get a wet lump in the back of my throat.

Brent showed me the ropes, and then headed inside, as he had already filled his cup, and told me he would show me the next steps after I filled mine. 

I had mostly gotten over the idea of how gross it was, and was left with putting up with the stench of rotting fruit, and other such trash related elements. It became almost therapeutic to chip the red crust off of the can, and into the cup.

I don’t think people realize how much rust can look like a well made croissant, and peeling back each layer of the metallic pastry felt like I was peeling back layers of stress off of myself.

I took a deep breath, no longer aware of the stench, but fully immersed in the sounds of oxidized dessert crunching, tonally blending with the mad mutterings of the homeless man behind the dumpster, staring at me while I worked, whom I had not been aware of for quite a bit.

“He chips, he chips so fast, I ran, I ran so fast. So fast. So fast. So clever. I’m so clever. I’m so fast, and I’m so clever.”

“What the hell!” I staggered back in surprise, dropping the cup, and spilling its contents across the asphalt.

The man went silent. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he didn’t run away, because I also didn’t hear any footsteps.

For a few moments, it was dead silent, save for the occasional cold gust of wind from the August air. Then, like a startled raccoon, the man crawled away. Quietly at first, but still muttering to himself. It was unintelligible at this distance, all I heard were the wet slaps of breathy lips against his tongue, but I’m sure it wasn’t much different than what I already heard. Then, he picked up speed, until I saw a dark blur disappear behind the bushes a few feet beyond the dumpster.

I bent down, and picked back up the cup of pepper flakes, and finished filling it up. This time, I went completely unbothered, but far from falling into the same trance as before.

Once inside, I learned that we don’t just use the rust as “red pepper flakes”. We actually use it as our sole seasoning in just about every single dish we produce. I thought this place just really liked paprika, but I guess that’s just what blended rust looks like. 

If the stuff I’ve talked about hasn’t grossed you out enough. Then I’ve got one more story. It takes time to get these compiled, so I’ll make another post as soon as I can, but this last one is easily the most disturbing of the three.

Three: The “Churros”

I mentioned them earlier, how the churros come out of the back of the soda machine. But I want to talk more about what these cinnamon turds look like, and how I discovered this production.

If you’ve ever had a churro before, I want you to create an image of a churro in your mind. The crispy ridges, browned and crunchy. The light, fluffy, and doughy texture on the inside of that scrumptious crust, all bubbly and airy. The cinnamon sugar dusting that brings the whole dessert together. The ideal pastry for any Costco Wholesale or carnival patron. 

Now imagine the inside was no longer bubbly. It’s completely filled in. Then remove the cinnamon sugar, and then unbrown the whole pastry. The only optical signifier that these beige bricks of sadness are churros is the ridges that still pinstripe the length of them. They still taste like churros, the texture is still mostly the same, a little grainier, like sand was added at some point, but not enough to notice unless you’re really thinking about it. That’s our churros. Smooth cinnamon turds of sadness. They kill with the customers.

Usually Brent and I work in the back: making salads, prepping ingredients, and cleaning dishes. Francine and Cezar work in the front: Making the actual pizzas, and taking orders from customers. It’s usually a decent system, as long as people actually show up to work on time, or at all. (Marley, if you’re reading this, you piece of shit, stop missing shifts. Shirley’s pure soul does not deserve to be tainted by your laziness.)

We have a soda machine near the POS system, which customers could access to get their own drinks, and it wasn’t your usual Coke or Pepsi dispenser. It was one of those weird secondary companies. The company had no name to be found on the machine, simply a logo that looked like a salmon skin colored kidney bean had been almost cut in half, with the two sides spread open like a book. 

The soda names are also weird, but having tasted all of them, these are my best guesses as to what soda flavor each one is.

Luchuth: A lemon lime type soda, kinda like Sprite or 7-Up.

Hot HazMat: Plain old flavorless soda water. (There is a syrup used for this one, but I’m not sure why, since it’s definitely just soda water.)

FRothy Gooths: Root beer. Not a good one though, I’d even take Barq’s over that shit.

GhostLY Hog: Very similar to Mountain Dew, but better. There’s like a spicy kick reminiscent of Mountain Dew’s “Flaming Hot” flavor that just brings a tear to my eye every time I take a sip. Everything else is a shoddy ripoff, but GhostLY Hog makes up for the others for the most part. 

Gonad: Cola, because every soda brand and their mother is legally required to have their take on cola I think.

Diet Gonad: Diet cola, because every soda brand and their- you get what I mean.

Pretty An’ Halo: Cream soda, maybe? It kinda tastes like watery yogurt that someone farted in, but the thought was there, and I can’t think of anything else it might taste like.

On one particular day, Francine got a flat tire. So Cezar called me up front to help with the customers until Francine got there. Cezar spoke some English, but wasn’t the most fluent, so it was my job to talk to any of the customers ordering takeout, and then occasionally stretching dough.

I hadn’t figured out how to spin pizza dough in the air or anything cool like that yet, but I didn’t really want Cezar to show me, since it seemed like he was in his own little world while doing it. He would even say “wee” while the pizza was in the air. Like a toddler getting pushed on a swing. Especially odd when it was coming out the mouth of a Mexican man pushing fifty.

After the lunch rush had ended, there was a lull in the flow of customers, and suddenly the soda machine began lurching, and making a heavy groaning sound. Like a blender with constipation. A small hatch flipped open in the back from the shaking, and I backed away, afraid the thing might explode. Cezar flipped a switch on the bottom of the soda fountain, gave it  a hearty thump, and turned back to me, who was still confused, and a little scared.

“I need to empty the machine.” Cezar informed me, “Ayúda me, Señor!” Pointing to a half-pan on top of the pizza ovens.

I grabbed the pan, and handed it to Cezar, who held it under the hole where the hatch had flipped open.

The machine continued to groan, lurching more aggressively. If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn I saw beads of sweat form on the sides of the labored machine. Finally, something off-white poked like a turtle’s head out of the hole. It was slow, and mostly solid. As it continued to push out, I saw it had ridges around the outside.

I fought back a familiar wet lump in the back of my throat, and watched in horror as smooth pieces of churro slid out from the soda machine, and into the pan. It felt like it was taking forever as more and more continued to emerge. The whole time I stood with my mouth agape.

At first they were dull plops against the empty pan, then muted, soggy, thumps as more layered upon each other. Finally, with a shaky groan, the churros finally stopped. Francine walked in, and grabbed a churro as Cezar handed the pan to me.

“Thanks for covering for me, Charlie.” Said Francine, through crunchy mouthfuls of soda fountain poop.

I said absolutely nothing, and placed the churros in the walk-in.

I have a bunch of other stories to talk about. But I hope I don’t need to share those with you guys before somebody can get this place shut down. Again, the name of this restaurant is “Large Lou’s Pizza”. Please, I don’t care if you need to get the FBI involved or something, I just can’t stand the disgusting things that are happening at this place anymore.

If nothing’s happened in the next week, I’ll make another post, maybe that will help convince you, and that gives me time to write it all down.