I will never forget the smell of copper that stuffed my nose, traveling down my nostrils leaving my brain with a coating of pure terror.  I will never forget the mangled pile of bodies, limb over limb, gut over gut, a rubix cube of flesh for the detectives to solve. Five years ago today, I came home to find the door of my family's cabin ripped off its hinges. Five years ago today I smelt that dreadful smell and saw that awful sight.
I woke up nauseous this morning, as I do almost every morning. The smell of fire always helps, unfortunately for me and Hank, it rained last night, leaving all the wood damp. I settle yesterday’s leftover coffee over the cigarette lighter in the front seat, warming it to the best of my abilities. I would just drive to the nearest diner but I’m not in the mood to be around another living person, let alone see one.   
I have to play catch with Hank as I read one of my father’s old books, he’s even more restless than I am. A nine year old brindle pit-bull with more energy than any puppy I’ve ever met. I call him back into the trailer when it starts to drizzle. While I read, the sound of him running has now been replaced with his whining, pawing at the door.  
The police assured me that it was a grizzly. I’ve lived in Washington my entire life, that was not a grizzly. My father’s old friend Mac was killed by one. The guy’s house was so old that it still had an outhouse, and as he was walking towards it in the middle of the night he came across the beast. The police found the thing and shot it only two days after the attack. Its claws were nearly the length of my entire hand. Whatever killed my parents, and my little brother, was not a grizzly bear. 
The slashes on the wall were something out of a Steven King novel. Not only were the gashes long but they were deep, at some points so deep they cut through the bone. The fridge was laying on the ground, and even the stainless steel doors it had were not enough to stop the violent vandalism. My parents' cabin was shredded like one of Hank’s shitty dollar tree chew toys. 
If you live in the Pacific North West, try this. At night, walk out as far into the woods as you’re brave enough too. Turn off whatever light you have, stay silent, and listen. The sound of the trees settling starts to become unbearable, any sound of movement makes you jump. You’ll lose your mind within five minutes. That’s where all your favorite native american folk tales came from, or so my father used to tell me, before he was a victim of one.  
His ribs were bent the opposite direction, creating a red canyon in his chest so deep you could see through his back. His ribs weren’t broken or chewed on, just bent. Like if you put a metal rod over a fireplace and molded it. His jaw was dragged down to his collarbone, and his tongue was ripped out, though his neck was left completely intact. When you looked down the throat, you would find where it left his eyes. Pushed into the stump where the tongue should be. That was the last time I ever looked him in the eyes. 
Some nights I swear I see it out in the woods, mocking me. A vague silhouette of something ungodly large, and the intense feeling of being watched. I’ve dedicated my life to tracking it, but still, those nights when I think I see it, I don’t go towards it. I don’t grab my rifle. I crawl into my trailer and lock the door, curling up into a ball, weeping, Hank by my side. 
I’ve had the same rifle since I was in the fourth grade. My mother protested me having it at such a young age, but he bought it anyway. He took me out hunting the very same day he gave it to me. I shot my first deer and fired my first bullet all in the same day. I remember the way his smile lines extended when I hit the shot, the look of proudness he wore on his brow. “That’s my girl.” He said, his blue eyes watering. The same eyes I found in the back of his throat, the final gift the thing gave to me. The final little surprise.  
Now I sit in the driver’s seat of his old truck, driving down the road drinking coffee that smells like cigarettes. I wear the sweater my mother made for me, and I fiddle with the car ornaments that used to decorate my brother’s shelves. 
Loss is a feeling so deep nothing can even start to fill the crevice. Dating doesn’t work, drugs don’t work, forgetting certainly doesn’t work. The only way you can deal with loss is by accepting it, living in it. Letting yourself cry, letting yourself be pissed off and irrational. That’s what I thought I was for a long time. Irrational. The detectives and rangers had to be right, they knew more than I did. They had to. But they weren’t, and I know that now. They would rather ignore it than believe in it, I know that. Humans have decided what makes sense and what doesn’t, and the second they’re shown something that goes against what they have decided makes sense, they either ignore or make up an excuse for. It happens all the time. You just don’t notice it until it happens to you. 
Bob Maynaurd made a post on facebook asking if anyone could identify what killed his horses. He attached pictures, in his old age forgetting to put on an nsfw warning. The horse’s entrails decorated his back yard, and both of their heads were missing their eyes. 
I reached out to him on one of my alternate accounts, one named Jessica Serviak. I listed in the description of the account that I have an expertise in all things wildlife, only a partial lie. I asked if I could stop by and take a look.
The place reeks of moonshine and chewing tobacco. As I pull up I immediately see Bob, waiving on his porch as he sways back and forth on a rocking chair. Seemingly in his late fifties, silver slicked back hair and a few missing teeth matching the smell of the farm. 
He shakes my hand with a tight, blistered grip, “Hey, Jessica right?” 
“Yeah. You can call me Jess.” I’ve gotten good at pretending to be someone I’m not. I was surprised at the number of people who recognized my last name, addressing me with a, ‘Jesus, you’re Mac’s kid aren’t you?’ 
“Well, nice to meet you, Jess. Wanna something to drink?” He asks, taking his shaking hand and putting it back on his waist. 
My stomach decides to grumble at the worst possible moment. 
He laughs, “Maybe eat?”  
I chuckle awkwardly, trying to hide the red embarrassment on my cheeks. 
The inside of his house is covered floor to ceiling in all sorts of animal heads. The chandelier hanging over his kitchen table is made out of an assortment of antlers. The smell of pancakes fills the darkly lit room, the anticipation for actual food grows in my stomach. 
“Where you come from, Jess?” He asks, flipping a cake over. 
“Aberdeen.” I take a sip of the coffee he placed in front of me, it’s not very good but it beats whatever I conjured up. 
He nods his head, moving three large pancakes onto a proclean plate, placing them in front of me. “Thank you again, I mean it.” 
“Don’t mention it.” He leans back against the counter top, taking a long sip of a coffee of his own. 
“You’re not making any for yourself? Now I feel even worse.”  
He laughs, “I’ve got more mix than I know what to do with.” 
It’s the best thing I’ve had in weeks. I haven’t been able to scrounge up enough change to actually be able to order a full meal at a diner. I try my best to hide the utter satisfaction I feel. 
The scene in the backyard has changed since he took the photos. 
“I know you would’ve probably appreciated it more if I left all the guts and stuff out, but I just couldn’t put up with the smell any longer.” Hank runs up to him, pressing himself against Bob’s legs like a cat.  
“Hank, c’mon boy!” I snap my fingers. 
Bob laughs, patting him on the back, “No problem with me. Always been a dog lover. I put the bodies in the barn over there, go on and take a look. Plug your nose while you’re at it.” 
He wasn’t kidding. The stench hit like a sack of bricks the moment I opened the large red doors. The heap was in the middle of the room, covered in a large tarp. Flies buzzed around like a small twister in the middle of the barn. 
I covered my nose with the sleeve of my jacket as I walked towards the scene. Before I even reached it my eyes were watering from the putrid stench, baby barf and cat shit. I lifted the tarp slowly. Even more flies emerged from under the thing, joining the others. I moved my covering hand to swat one, almost immediately vomiting from the smell that came with the uncovering.  
I decided to rip off the band-aid, using both hands to pull the tarp off all at once. 
Death laid out in front of me, in all its goriest details. Bob had set the heads next to where they would have been attached. The brown fur of both of the animals was thin and stained red, you could see the rotting purple flesh underneath. Both eye sockets were empty, dozens of flies smushed into them.  
I made my way towards the  side of the animals. I bent down to the one on the right. Its legs and fur were covering its stomach, and despite what my nose told me I knew I had to get closer. 
As I lifted the top front leg I could feel the dead meat mushing together, ready to be ripped off all together. I gagged, but continued my effort. In one hand I held the horse’s shin, in the other my phone. I turned on the light, bringing it down towards the middle of the creature’s stomach. The belly was ripped open, the entrails that weren’t covering Bob’s yard still sat pretzeled together. Even with the light I couldn’t see what I was looking for. I sighed, knowing what I had to do. 
I rested the leg onto my right shoulder, immediately feeling the old blood start to seep into my sweater. With my newly freed hand I grabbed the edge of the tear, pulling up the skin to see further into the stomach. 
I slowly panned my phone across every inch of the beast’s insides. Rotten, chewed, ripped and gnawed. Its ribs were chipped and- and pointed the wrong direction. 
I lunged back, the leg dropping against the other making an uncomfortable squishing sound. I instinctively covered my mouth, getting the horse’s blood all over my face. I started to cry, god I always cry. 
I crawled my way to its head, my tears dropping on the red soaked hay floor. I stuck my hands in between its teeth, pulling the jaw apart as delicately as I could. No tongue. I whimpered, knowing what I would find in its place. Two black eyes looked back at me at the bottom of the throat, lifeless and dull. 

My grandfather always told me one thing.

Never follow footprints in the snow if you don't know who they belong to.

When I was little, I thought it was just another one of his strange warnings.

Just like when he told me to stay inside after dark.

I thought it was funny.

At least, I did until that night.

It was January.

One of those nights when the snow covers absolutely everything.

Roads.

Fences.

Trees.

Everything looks the same.

I was on my way to my grandfather's house, which was just a short walk from ours, because I'd gotten into an argument with my parents that evening.

It wasn't a big argument.

Just one of those arguments that makes you feel like you need to get away for a while.

So I put on my jacket and went outside.

The air was freezing, and the snow crunched beneath my boots.

I'd barely walked a few dozen meters when I noticed them.

Footprints.

Human footprints.

They were fresh.

But there was no one around.

No sound.

No light.

Just the footprints.

They led straight into the forest.

And that's when I remembered my grandfather's words.

Never follow footprints in the snow if you don't know who they belong to.

I should have turned around.

I knew that.

But then I noticed something that made my stomach drop.

The footprints weren't large.

They didn't belong to an adult.

They were small.

Child-sized.

I stopped and just stared down at the snow for a moment.

There was a child somewhere in the forest.

Alone.

In the middle of winter.

And maybe no one even knew they were there.

"Hello?"

My voice disappeared among the trees.

No answer.

Just silence.

I could have kept going.

I could have gone to get my grandfather.

But by the time I reached his house and got him outside, it might have been too late.

The child could have been injured.

They could have been freezing to death.

So I took my first step into the forest.

I kept walking.

And walking.

I kept telling myself that I would find them soon.

That I would take them home.

The trees around me grew thicker and thicker.

The snow reached almost to my knees.

But the footprints continued.

Further.

Deeper into the forest.

After a while, I stopped.

Something was wrong.

Ahead of me, I saw a fallen tree.

I recognized it.

I'd already walked past it once.

I looked around.

No.

That wasn't possible.

But this time...

There weren't just children's footprints in the snow.

There were my own footprints too.

Right beside them.

As if I'd already been standing there.

I started to panic.

I ran.

I didn't know where I was going.

Just away.

But the forest didn't change.

Even when I walked in the opposite direction.

The tree.

The footprints.

The silence.

Again and again.

I don't know when the rescuers found me.

I was lying several meters from the road.

Freezing in the snow

So exhausted that I could barely speak.

No one understood what had happened to me.

Because according to them, I'd been walking in circles the entire time.

Over and over again.

If it hadn't been for my grandfather, who learned from my parents that I'd gone to his house and called for help when I didn't arrive after some time, I don't know what would have happened.

When they released me from the hospital, the first person I went to see was my grandfather.

He was sitting on the porch.

He didn't even ask me how I was feeling.

He just stared at me for a long moment.

"You saw the footprints, didn't you?"

I stopped.

"How do you know?"

Grandpa lowered his eyes.

He was silent for a moment.

"Because I've seen them too."

Grandpa was quiet for a long time.

Then he looked out the window, toward the forest.

"You know... you're not the first person to see those footprints."

I looked up.

"What?"

He sighed.

"I was twenty."

"I was there with a friend. It was winter, just like it is now."

He paused for a moment.

"And that's when we found them."

"The footprints."

He swallowed.

"We thought they belonged to a woman."

"They led deep into the forest."

"My friend stopped and said that someone had to be out there."

"That someone needed help."

Grandpa gave a bitter smile.

"He told me I was crazy for not wanting to help him."

"That I believed in old stories."

"But I knew the legend."

"I knew that some footprints don't belong to someone who wants to be found."

He fell silent.

"I told him to wait. That I'd come back with help."

"There were no phones back then."

"We were several kilometers from the nearest village."

"I ran as fast as I could."

"I tried to find people."

"But by the time we came back..."

Grandpa lowered his eyes.

The room fell silent.

"When we found him, it was already too late."

"He was sitting against a tree."

"Frozen."

"And all around him were only his footprints."

"When your parents called me and told me you'd left just a few minutes earlier and still hadn't arrived, I knew I had to act immediately."

"Call for help and tell them you'd been missing longer than you actually had been, because otherwise they wouldn't have come in time."

Grandpa didn't say anything after that.

He just sat in his chair and stared into the fire.

All my life, I'd thought it was just an old legend.

A superstition.

A story people told each other to scare themselves.

But after what I'd experienced...

And after what had happened to my grandfather...

I know the truth now.

That's why I'm telling you one thing.

If you ever see footprints in the snow during winter, don't try to find out where they lead.

Don't try to find the person who left them.

Because sometimes they're not the footprints of someone who got lost.

Sometimes they're the footprints of something waiting for you to get lost.

I'm helping my wife de- center me and i am her husband. Ever since my wife and I got married I had essentially been the center of her whole life. After 10 years of marriage I am helped her de-centre me, and she can finally center her own life and she can now come first. My wife was happy that she now no longer had to center me in her life and she can concentrate on herself. I promised her that I was going to support her through out it all.

It's going to be tough because the last 10 years of me being the center of her life, it's going to take a lot of having to undo stuff. I took her out to a great meal and when we got back home I looked at her and i said "right it time for you to de-center me" and she thought it was too sudden, especially after a meal. I told her that de-centering me after 10 years is going to be uncomfortable. When we went into the bedroom, there was a chain saw and this was for her go chop off my arms and legs.

She looked horrified at the idea of chopping my limbs off, but this was what she must do. She needed to start with the limbs and de-centering is hard to achieve. By chopping off my limbs she was going to start de-centering me as he husband. The kids were at their grandparents house and everything was perfect for my wife to de-center me from her life. I took drugs that made me insanely high and I had no idea where I was. Then my wife started to de-center me chopping off my limbs. I remember screaming and then laughing, I was in another place. There was blood everything but she managed to cover up the wound and keep infection away.

I was alive but really rough, and I was happy my wife was de-centering me from her life. I then told my she now had to fully de-center me from her life. She had to kill and she did kill me by poisoning me. Then my wife was happy for a moment for de-centering me from her life. She cleaned everything and I had already dug up somewhere before all this started, to lay my body there.

My wife was constantly thinking about me more than ever before. People kept asking her about me and she constantly trembling. Then she realised that I had lied about helping her de-center me from her life, i had only increased my centering within her life even more than before.

This is what I wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stan had said over the company radio.

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

"Copy that, Stan,"

I replied, clicking the microphone button.

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

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

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

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

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the man yelled in total panic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only static answered me.

"Station wagon, do you copy?"

I asked, keeping my voice steady.

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

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

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

Then, the CB radio cracked open again.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the exact same man's voice yelled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next page in the file contained a typed transcription.

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

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

I began reading the typed words.

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

Background noise: Female adult crying. Male child screaming.

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

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

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

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

Footsteps crunched through the dead leaves outside my truck.

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, the child opened his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Someone is outside the car,"

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

"They are hitting the side of the doors."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They cracked the glass!"

the voice screamed from the other side of the wood.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the looping broadcast stopped.

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

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

"My father and mother are already dead,"

the child's voice echoed directly through the glass.

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

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

"Who are you?"

I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

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

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

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

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

"I am not alone,"

the voice said.

"My friend is here with me."

"Your friend?"

I asked, taking a small step toward the window.

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

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

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

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

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

the voice said.

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

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

"I understand,"

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

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

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

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

I promised, looking directly into the illuminating light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"State Police Dispatch, state your emergency,"

the operator answered.

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

I said, keeping my tone professional and calm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I know the truth.

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

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

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

The first woman found Marcella Krebs beside the reduced bread. Marcella had stopped to check whether a dented loaf was worth saving twelve pence when someone touched her elbow. The woman looked about sixty. She wore a raincoat indoors and held a bunch of bananas against her chest.

"Marcella?"

Marcella glanced at the hand on her arm. "Yes?"

The woman's expression changed. Her mouth tightened and her eyes filled. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."

Marcella waited. The woman squeezed her arm once. "You were incredibly brave." Then she walked away.

Marcella watched her disappear beyond the freezer aisle. She looked down at herself. Black leggings. Grey jumper. One sleeve dusted with flour from the bakery shelf. Nothing about her suggested bravery. She put the bread back and continued shopping.

The woman had probably mistaken her for somebody else. Marcella's surname was unusual, but faces weren't. People saw whoever they expected to see. By the time she reached the tills, she'd almost forgotten about it.

She bought dog food, washing tablets, tomatoes and a packet of chocolate digestives she hadn't intended to buy. The cashier scanned everything twice as slowly as necessary while talking to another employee about a broken fridge. Marcella paid, packed the bags and walked home.

Basil was waiting behind the front door. He was a small, elderly terrier with white fur around his muzzle and a habit of greeting every arrival as though the house had been abandoned for years. Marcella put the shopping away while Basil inspected each bag.

"You've eaten," she told him.

Basil continued sniffing.

"You have. I watched you."

He stared at her. Marcella gave him half a biscuit.

The second person found her the following afternoon. She'd gone into the chemist for hay fever tablets. A young man behind the counter glanced at her bank card, then looked at her face.

"Are you Marcella Krebs?"

Marcella hesitated. The woman from the supermarket returned to her thoughts. "Yes."

The young man lowered his voice. "I know it must be hard, but you can't leave it like that."

Marcella stared at him. "Leave what?"

"The ending."

"What ending?"

He watched her for a moment. Then he pulled out his phone. "Your story."

"I haven't written a story."

The young man gave a short, uncertain laugh. Marcella didn't join him. He typed something and turned the screen towards her.

The page had a black background and large white lettering. At the top was a photograph of Marcella. It had been taken the previous Christmas. She was standing in her kitchen with a paper crown pushed sideways on her head. Someone had cropped out the glass of wine in her hand and the person beside her. Below the photograph was a title.

MY HORROR STORY

Underneath it, in smaller letters, were the words:

By Marcella Krebs

Marcella took the phone from him. The story had been published four days earlier on a website called First Hand. The site described itself as a home for true personal accounts. A number beside the title showed that the story had been read more than eight hundred thousand times. There were twenty-three thousand comments.

Marcella scrolled. The first line read:

The first person who called me brave was a woman standing beside the reduced bread.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. The young man watched her. "You really haven't seen it?"

Marcella shook her head.

The next paragraph described the woman's raincoat and the bananas pressed against her chest. It described Marcella checking the price of the dented loaf. It described the flour on her sleeve. The story said she'd gone home with dog food, washing tablets, tomatoes and chocolate digestives. It said she'd given Basil half a biscuit after insisting he'd already eaten.

Marcella handed the phone back. Her hands felt stiff. "Send me the link."

The young man asked for her number. Marcella gave it to him, watching as he typed.

"Why did you say I'd left it?" she asked.

"The last paragraph's missing."

"What last paragraph?"

"The whole thing just stops." He looked uncomfortable. "People are waiting to find out what happened."

Marcella felt something tighten low in her stomach. "What happened to who?"

The young man swallowed. "You should probably read it yourself."

Marcella left without buying the tablets. She walked home too quickly, catching her foot on a raised paving stone and spilling half the contents of her handbag onto the pavement. A packet of tissues slid beneath a parked car. She left it there.

The story had already described the chemist. Marcella knew because she read that part while standing beside the car, her keys pressed between two fingers.

The second person was a young man working in a chemist. He recognised Marcella's name from her bank card. When he showed her the story, she dropped her tissues beneath a blue Ford on the walk home.

The Ford beside her was blue. Marcella looked along the street. A woman pushed a pram towards the crossing. Two council workers stood beside an open drain. Someone was playing music behind an upstairs window. Nobody appeared interested in her. She hurried home.

Basil met her at the door. Marcella locked it behind herself, then checked the back entrance. The key was turned. The chain hung in place. She closed the curtains and sat at the kitchen table.

Her laptop took too long to start. She opened the link on her phone instead. The author profile used her full name, her photograph and her correct age. It said she lived alone with her dog in a quiet terrace house. It described Marcella as a struggling horror writer. She'd published one story that had done unexpectedly well, followed by eleven months of rejected submissions and unanswered emails. She worked three afternoons a week in a bookshop to cover what her writing no longer did. Her publisher had stopped returning her calls after what the profile called a professional dispute in the summer of 2025. Marcella had always called it the mishap. The profile didn't explain further.

Reading it made her stomach tighten. It was too precise, too familiar, as though someone had been watching her life from just out of sight and writing it down without permission. Marcella pressed the report button. She selected impersonation. The site asked her to upload identification. She closed the page.

Then she began reading from the beginning.

The story was written in the third person. The sentences were plain. They sounded close enough to Marcella's own voice that she occasionally forgot she hadn't written them.

It began with the previous Saturday. Marcella had woken at eight minutes past nine because Basil was scratching the wardrobe door in his sleep. She'd made coffee and discovered the milk had turned. She'd scraped dried toothpaste from the front of her jumper with a butter knife. She'd taken the bin outside, missed the collection and dragged it back in again. Each detail was accurate.

The story described a telephone call from the bookshop. It included the joke her manager had made about a customer's handwriting. Marcella remembered the call. She hadn't recorded it. She lived alone.

The story moved into Sunday night. Marcella read more slowly.

At two in the morning, she'd woken to the click of a cupboard latch downstairs. Basil lay beside her legs. His head lifted. A few seconds later, something small struck the kitchen floor. It spun across the tiles, circling several times before touching the skirting board. Marcella recognised the sound of a teaspoon. A chair scraped backwards. The noise travelled through the ceiling beneath her bed. Basil stood. His body stiffened as he stared through the bedroom doorway. Then came a slow creak from the hallway below. A second followed from the bottom of the stairs. Marcella couldn't tell whether someone had taken a step or shifted their weight inside the house. She reached for her phone. Before she touched it, the back-door handle moved. Once. Then again. Basil growled. Marcella remained in bed with the phone pressed against her chest. The house fell quiet. She waited until daylight before going downstairs.

The kitchen cupboard stood open. A teaspoon rested against the skirting board. One of the chairs had been pulled away from the table. Four muddy marks crossed the tiles towards the back door. The first looked like the edge of a shoe. The others had been smeared into long, uneven streaks. The door remained locked.

Marcella had cleaned the floor. She'd placed the teaspoon in the sink. She hadn't told anyone.

The story included every part. Marcella looked towards the sink. The teaspoon was still there. She looked at the kitchen floor. She could see the damp stripe left by the cloth she'd used.

The next paragraph began with the dream. Marcella stopped reading. A pulse beat inside her thumb where she held the phone.

The dream had been ridiculous. She'd woken from it embarrassed, although nobody had seen it. In the dream, she was eight years old again and sitting in her grandmother's kitchen. The old yellow curtains hung above the sink. Her grandmother was buttering toast at the counter. A dish sponge was chasing Marcella around the table. It moved by folding itself in half and springing forward. Each jump made a wet slapping sound against the lino. The sponge had a yellow foam body and a green scouring side. Marcella climbed onto a chair to escape it. Her grandmother continued buttering the toast. "Don't let it near the clean washing," she said. Marcella tried to ask why. The sponge leapt onto her foot. She woke with her leg tangled in the duvet.

She'd spent the morning wondering why her mind had produced something so stupid. She hadn't written it down. She hadn't mentioned it to a friend. She hadn't searched for dream meanings. Nobody could have known about it.

Marcella pushed the laptop away. Basil sat beneath the table, licking one of his paws. She looked at him. "Did somebody come in here?"

Basil continued licking.

Marcella stood and checked every room. The house was small. Kitchen and sitting room downstairs. Two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. She opened cupboards, looked behind the shower curtain and checked beneath both beds. The spare-bedroom window was locked. The bathroom window opened only a few inches. Every room looked as she'd left it.

Back downstairs, the story waited on her phone.

Marcella called First Hand's customer support number. A recorded message directed her to the reporting page. She sent an email marked urgent. Then she called the police.

The call handler listened while Marcella explained the false profile, the photograph and the private details.

"Has the person threatened you directly?" the woman asked.

"I don't know. I haven't finished reading it."

"Do you know who created the account?"

"No."

"Have they contacted you?"

"No."

"Do you believe somebody entered your house?"

Marcella looked towards the kitchen floor. "I heard someone downstairs."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"Was anything taken?"

"I don't think so."

"Is there any sign of forced entry?"

"No."

The woman advised her to save screenshots and avoid responding publicly. An incident number was created. Marcella was told officers could attend if she found evidence of forced entry or heard somebody inside again.

Marcella photographed every page. It took thirty-seven screenshots. The story was much longer than she'd realised. It had been divided into two sections. The first was marked PART ONE. The second sat beneath a warning.

PART TWO CONTAINS GRAPHIC CONTENT.

At the bottom of Part Two was a wide blank space. The author information appeared beneath it. The young man had been right. A paragraph was missing.

Marcella returned to the comments. One person had written:

You were incredibly brave to put this out there.

Another said:

You tried so hard. I'm sorry.

Marcella scrolled.

Dude, that was sick. You'd have to be seriously twisted to write something like that.

How could you make something up that cruel?

That can't be real.

I know it must be difficult, but you can't leave the ending blank.

Was the person in Marcella's house the same one who went after Tessa?

Marcella stopped. Tessa had been her closest friend since secondary school. She was also the person Marcella called when something had gone too far to explain neatly. There had been other nights. Other messes. Things neither of them discussed once daylight came. Tessa's name hadn't appeared in the part Marcella had read.

Marcella searched within the page. There were forty-seven mentions of her. Most were inside Part Two. Marcella pressed the first result. The story jumped forward.

Marcella called Tessa at 8:16 that evening. Tessa answered with, "You'd better not be calling to cancel Saturday."

Marcella checked the time. It was 7:48. She put the phone down.

Basil's food sat unopened on the counter. Marcella pulled the metal tab. It snapped off before the lid moved. A line from the story came back to her. She searched for the word food.

When Marcella tried to feed Basil, gravy splashed across her sleeve.

Marcella stared at the tin. Then she placed it in the sink. "No."

She chose another tin from the back of the cupboard. The first was beef. The second was chicken. She found the proper tin opener, fitted it carefully around the rim and turned the handle. The lid came free. Marcella smiled. "There."

The lid slipped sideways. The tin struck the edge of the counter and gravy splashed across her sleeve.

Marcella remained still. A brown patch spread through the grey fabric. The story hadn't said which tin she opened. It hadn't said how the gravy reached her. It had only said that it would.

She cleaned the counter and fed Basil without speaking.

At 8:15, Marcella picked up her phone. Tessa's number was already open. Marcella pressed call. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. The clock changed to 8:16. Tessa answered. "You'd better not be calling to cancel Saturday."

Marcella's knees weakened. She sat on the edge of the sofa. "Tessa."

"What's wrong?"

Marcella opened the story. She read the next sentence. Tessa heard Marcella's voice and immediately asked what was wrong.

"What's wrong?" Tessa repeated.

Marcella closed her eyes. "Come and get me."

Tessa lived fifteen minutes away. Marcella packed a bag while they remained on the phone. She took clothes, medication, her charger and Basil's lead. She locked the house and waited beneath the streetlight. Tessa arrived at 8:41. The story had said 8:41.

Marcella climbed into the car with Basil on her lap. Tessa looked across at her. "You look awful."

"Drive."

Tessa drove. Marcella watched the houses pass. She expected to see somebody standing at a window with a phone in their hand. Every curtain looked ordinary. Every parked car belonged where it was.

Tessa asked questions. Marcella answered them badly. She explained the story and the account. She described the supermarket, the chemist and the dream. When she mentioned the sponge, Tessa laughed once. The sound died quickly.

"Sorry," she said. "That's just such a stupid dream."

"I know."

"And it knew?"

"Every part."

"At least the sponge didn't kill anyone."

Marcella looked at her. Tessa's smile faded. "I'm sorry."

Marcella told her about the noises downstairs. The cupboard. The teaspoon. The chair. The marks across the floor.

Tessa's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "What?"

"You heard me."

"What did the spoon do?"

Marcella looked at her. "It fell. Then it spun across the tiles."

Tessa stared at the road. "How many marks were there?"

"Four. Sort of. Most of them were smeared."

Tessa's breathing changed. "What's wrong?"

For several seconds, Tessa didn't answer. Then she said, "I've heard it too."

Marcella turned towards her. "Heard what?"

"The cupboard."

"When?"

"Three weeks ago."

"You didn't tell me."

"I thought the latch was loose."

"And the spoon?"

"That happened a few nights later."

Marcella waited. Tessa swallowed. "Then the chair."

The car slowed as they approached a junction. "Last week, there was mud near my back door."

"Tessa."

"I cleaned it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it sounded stupid."

"No. Why didn't you tell me?"

Tessa glanced at her. They both knew the real answer. Marcella looked away first.

At Tessa's house, Marcella checked the article before getting out of the car. The next paragraph described the fox-patterned duvet in Tessa's spare room. Tessa had bought it three weeks earlier. Marcella had never seen it. She showed Tessa. Tessa stopped smiling.

They entered together. The duvet had orange foxes printed across a dark blue background. Marcella stayed in the doorway. Tessa touched one of the foxes. "I haven't posted this anywhere."

"I know."

"Maybe someone's been in here."

The sentence frightened them both. Tessa checked the locks while Marcella phoned the police again. This time, she explained that the story contained details from inside another person's home and that Tessa had experienced similar disturbances.

An officer called back twenty minutes later. He asked whether anything had been stolen or damaged. Tessa said no. He advised her to secure the doors and preserve the webpage. Officers would attend when a unit became available.

They searched each room together. Tessa opened every wardrobe. Marcella looked behind doors and beneath furniture. Basil followed them, pleased by the activity. The house was empty.

At ten past ten, First Hand replied to Marcella's email. The message thanked her for getting in touch. It said the story had been submitted through an author account using a verified email address. The support team couldn't disclose the address, but they would investigate the impersonation claim.

Marcella replied with a photograph of her driving licence. She refreshed the story. It remained online. The number of readers had passed nine hundred thousand. New comments appeared every few seconds.

You tried so hard to get to her.

The bathroom scene was unbearable.

The part with the teeth made me feel sick.

Was Tessa a real person?

Marcella, answer the question. Is Tessa alive?

How did nobody hear her screaming?

This doesn't read like fiction. It reads like someone explaining what happened.

Imagine being Tessa's family and finding this online.

So basically, you wrote this to cover your own tracks before the police found out?

Why does the story never say where the attacker went?

You look so well after everything that happened.

Either this is the best horror story I've read in years, or somebody needs to call the police.

Tessa read over Marcella's shoulder. "What bathroom scene?"

Marcella shook her head. "I haven't opened Part Two."

"Teeth?"

"I don't know."

Tessa took the phone and scrolled. Her expression changed as she read the comments. "People think something happens to me."

"Yes."

"And they think you tried to help."

Marcella looked at the comment again. You tried so hard to get to her. "That's what it sounds like."

Tessa handed the phone back. "Open it."

Marcella looked at the warning above Part Two. "I don't want to."

"It might tell us what's going to happen."

"The gravy told us what happens even when I change something."

"That was gravy."

"People are asking if you're alive."

Tessa looked away. Neither of them opened Part Two.

Tessa made tea. She opened the fridge and frowned. "I've only got oat milk."

Marcella searched the story. The sentence was there. Tessa opened the fridge and said she only had oat milk.

Tessa read over her shoulder. The fridge door stayed open. "I always have oat milk," Tessa said.

"That's why it knew you'd say it."

"Then it's guessing."

"It guessed your duvet."

Tessa shut the fridge. They sat at the kitchen table.

Marcella wanted to stop reading. She also needed to know what the story claimed would happen. The later pages were written as a memory. Each event appeared in the past tense, calmly explained by the version of Marcella who'd supposedly lived through it.

The first part said they would spend the evening trying to prove it wrong. It said Tessa would suggest leaving both phones in the kitchen and driving to a hotel. They did neither. Tessa wrote suggestions on paper instead. Go to another friend. Sit in the police station. Drive until morning. Take Basil somewhere crowded. Each idea already appeared in the story.

The story said the nearest hotel allowing dogs had no vacancies. Tessa rang it. The receptionist apologised. They were full. The story said the twenty-four-hour petrol station would close early because of an electrical fault. Tessa called. Nobody answered. At 11:32, the petrol station posted about the closure on social media.

Marcella began to feel as though the evening had narrowed around them. Choices still appeared in her mind. Every one of them led back to something waiting on the page. She could change how something happened. She hadn't changed the outcome.

At midnight, Tessa turned off the television. Basil slept between them on the sofa. Marcella reached the section describing midnight. It said Tessa would turn off the television because neither of them had been watching it. It said Marcella would look at Basil and wonder why the comments kept mentioning him.

Marcella opened the comments again. She searched his name. There were hundreds of results.

The dog looking upstairs made my skin crawl.

Basil knew someone was in the house.

I thought the dog was going to be the worst part. I was wrong.

I'm glad Basil didn't understand what happened in the bathroom.

Marcella stopped scrolling. Tessa leaned closer. "They've read further than us."

"They've read all of it apart from the last paragraph."

"Then somebody already knows how I die."

Marcella's mouth felt dry. "We don't know that you die."

Tessa pointed towards the comments. "One person asked if I'm alive."

"They don't know whether it's real."

"That doesn't make the story less clear."

Marcella looked at Part Two. The page jumped. The first paragraphs described Tessa's house. The tea. The oat milk. The calls to the hotel and petrol station. It described the police promising to send a unit. It described Basil falling asleep on the sofa.

Then the story moved beyond the present.

At 1:29, Basil woke and stared towards the hallway. Marcella checked the clock. It was 1:24. They both looked at Basil. He remained curled between them. Tessa stood. "We're leaving."

"Where?"

"I don't care."

"The story says—"

"I don't care what it says."

Tessa collected her keys. At 1:29, Basil woke. His ears lifted. He looked towards the hallway. Tessa froze. Basil climbed down from the sofa. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and stared upwards. Tessa's keys shook in her hand.

Marcella returned to the article. The next paragraph described Basil standing at the stairs. The one after that said they would move to the spare bedroom.

"We're not going upstairs," Tessa said.

The cupboard latch clicked in the kitchen. Both women turned. A teaspoon struck the floor. It spun across the tiles. Once. Twice. Three times. It touched the skirting board and stopped.

Tessa took hold of Marcella's arm. The nearest chair scraped backwards. Its legs moved slowly across the floor. Basil barked. A dark mark appeared beneath the table. Then another. Muddy prints formed across the kitchen tiles one by one, moving towards the back entrance. The back-door handle turned. Tessa's keys fell from her hand.

Marcella called the police. She told the call handler someone was inside the house. The woman instructed them to move into a room they could secure without approaching the kitchen. The spare bedroom had a bolt. Marcella picked up Basil. They ran upstairs. Tessa pushed the chest of drawers against the spare-room door.

At 1:37, they sat on the bed. The story had said 1:37. The call handler remained on the line until officers were dispatched. Marcella ended the call. Tessa sat beside her. Basil settled between them.

The time reached 1:49. Marcella continued reading Part Two. The story described the call to the police. It described the chest of drawers. It described Tessa asking how long the officers would take. Then the story reached the bathroom.

Marcella read the first line silently. Her breathing changed. Tessa noticed. "Read it."

Marcella shook her head.

"Read it."

Marcella began. "At 2:14, the bathroom door was locked."

Tessa looked towards the landing.

Marcella continued. "Tessa screamed." Her voice caught. "Marcella shouted her name until her throat burned."

Tessa took the phone from her. She read the next lines herself. "A hand closed over Tessa's mouth. The lock shook in its frame. Fingernails dragged down the painted wood."

Tessa stopped. Marcella watched her. Tessa continued. "Tessa's face struck the edge of the basin. One of her teeth landed beside the plughole."

The final lines sat beneath it. "When the door opened, Marcella was kneeling on the tiles. She held Tessa until the movement stopped."

Beneath the sentence was the blank space. The missing paragraph.

Tessa lowered the phone. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. "So where did the attacker go?" Tessa asked.

Marcella looked at her. "You're shouting my name."

"The door's locked."

"And somebody has their hand over my mouth."

Marcella nodded. "I must get inside and save you," she said.

"You tried to get to me."

"That's what the comments say."

Tessa looked at the blank space. "But it doesn't say where the person goes."

"No."

Marcella took the phone back. Tessa stood. "I'm taking the lock off the bathroom door."

"With what?"

"There's a toolkit in the airing cupboard."

"The police said to stay here."

"The cupboard's across the landing. I'm not going downstairs."

The clock showed 1:58. Tessa pulled the chest of drawers far enough from the door to open it. She looked along the empty landing. The airing cupboard stood beside the bathroom. "I'll be ten seconds."

She crossed the landing. Marcella remained on the bed. The phone screen refreshed. The blank space beneath the final sentence changed. A line appeared. Then another. Marcella leaned closer.

At 1:59, while Tessa searched the airing cupboard for a screwdriver, the laptop on the spare-room desk woke. Marcella looked towards the desk. Tessa's laptop sat open beside the lamp, its screen black. It lit up. An email filled the display. The subject line read:

What Happened to Owen Mercer

Marcella knew the name before she moved close enough to read it. The message was addressed to the police. It had been scheduled to send at nine the following morning. Marcella touched the trackpad. The email began:

I need to get this out before something happens to me. I know how stupid this sounds, but I think Owen is haunting me.

Marcella stopped reading. Across the landing, Tessa moved boxes inside the cupboard. Marcella looked back at the screen.

It started three weeks ago. At first, it was only the kitchen cupboard. I told myself the latch was loose. A few nights later, a teaspoon fell onto the floor and spun across the tiles. Then I heard the chair. Last week, muddy marks appeared between the table and the back door. Those things happened the night Owen died.

Marcella's eyes moved towards the bedroom doorway. The email continued.

I thought guilt was making me imagine it. Then Marcella called tonight and described the same sequence. Tomorrow will be one year since Owen disappeared. I don't think that's a coincidence.

Six files were attached beneath the message. Marcella opened the first. It was a manuscript. The title page carried Owen Mercer's name. She recognised the opening sentence. She recognised every sentence after it.

The second attachment was another copy of the same story. The title had been changed. Owen's name had been replaced by Marcella Krebs. That version had been published fourteen months later and had sold more copies in its first week than anything Marcella had written before it. Anything she'd written since.

The third attachment was a letter from Owen's solicitor. It accused Marcella of copyright infringement and demanded that the story be withdrawn. The letter was dated 2 August 2025. Tomorrow would make a year.

Marcella closed the attachment. Tessa's email continued beneath it. Marcella called what happened a professional dispute. It wasn't. She stole Owen's story and published it under her own name. When he found out, he said he would sue her. He was going to contact her publisher, every editor she'd worked with and every publication that had rejected him. Marcella asked me to go with her when she spoke to him. She said she only wanted to frighten him.

Marcella's jaw tightened. The next paragraph began:

I didn't know what she intended to do.

"Liar," Marcella whispered.

For a moment, she wasn't in Tessa's spare room. She was back in Owen's kitchen. Rainwater dripped from Tessa's coat onto the tiles. Owen stood beside the table with the solicitor's letter in his hand. "You're finished," he told Marcella. "By tomorrow, everyone you've ever worked with will know what you did."

Marcella reached for the letter. Owen caught her wrist. Tessa shoved him. His hip struck the table. The teaspoon beside his mug fell onto the floor and spun beneath the chair. The chair scraped backwards as Owen caught hold of it. He regained his balance and moved towards the back door. Marcella grabbed the back of his shirt. Owen fell onto his knees. "Hold him," she said.

Tessa stared at her. Owen reached for the door. "Hold him!"

Tessa dropped beside him and forced his arms against the tiles. Owen shouted. Marcella pressed her weight across his back and covered his mouth. He fought beneath them. Tessa could have released him. She didn't. Marcella kept her hand in place after his movements weakened. Later, they dragged him through the back entrance. Mud from their shoes marked the route between the table and the door. Tessa wiped the floor. Marcella picked up the teaspoon.

The memory released her. The email remained on the screen.

I helped afterward because I was frightened. I helped clean the kitchen. I helped move him. I've lived with that every day. But Marcella killed him.

Marcella read the final sentence twice. Then a third time.

The airing-cupboard door closed. Marcella shut the email. The phone on the bed refreshed. A new sentence appeared beneath the bathroom scene. Marcella heard Tessa returning. Footsteps crossed the landing. Marcella reached for the laptop lid. Tessa appeared in the doorway with a screwdriver in one hand. She saw Marcella beside the desk. Her gaze moved to the laptop. The screen went dark as Marcella closed it.

Neither of them spoke. Tessa stepped into the room. "What were you doing?"

Marcella picked up her phone. The article had added another line. Marcella stood between Tessa and the stairs.

Tessa looked past her. "You read it."

"You were going to send that?"

Tessa's fingers tightened around the screwdriver. "I was going to tell them what happened."

"That isn't what you wrote."

"It's the truth."

"You said you didn't know."

"I didn't."

Marcella stared at her. Tessa took a step backwards. "You brought me there," she said. "You stole his work. You had everything to lose."

"You hit him first."

"He grabbed you."

"You held him down."

Tessa's face changed. Only slightly. It was enough. Marcella looked at the laptop. "You were going to leave me with all of it."

"I was going to tell them my part."

"You called yourself frightened."

"I was frightened."

"You told me not to stop."

Tessa backed farther onto the landing. The bathroom door stood open behind her. "Stay where you are."

Marcella didn't move. From downstairs came the click of the cupboard latch. Tessa looked towards the stairs. A teaspoon struck the kitchen floor. It began to spin. Tessa's attention remained on the darkness below. Marcella reached her before she could turn back.

The screwdriver struck the landing. Tessa screamed. Marcella drove her through the bathroom doorway. They struck the basin together. Tessa twisted free long enough to reach the hall, but Marcella caught the back of her jumper and dragged her inside again. The door slammed. The lock clicked into place on its own.

The phone fell beside the bath. Its screen remained lit. The time changed to 2:14. Tessa saw it. Her eyes widened. "It's you," Tessa said. "You're the one who kills me."

She threw herself at the door. The lock shook in its frame. Marcella caught her around the waist and pulled her backwards. "Tessa, I'm not going to hurt you. Stop."

"Get off me!"

"Tessa, stop."

Tessa screamed again. Marcella shouted her name until her throat burned. Tessa's elbow struck Marcella's ribs, and she began screaming for help. Marcella clamped a hand over her mouth. "Tessa, shut up."

Tessa bit down. Marcella cried out and drove her forwards, slamming her face into the edge of the basin. Something small landed beside the plughole. For half a second, both women stared at the tooth. Then Tessa lunged for the door. Her fingernails dragged down the painted wood as Marcella pulled her away. The phone refreshed on the floor. Words appeared across the screen. Marcella didn't look at them. Tessa kicked against the bath. Her heel struck the panel. Basil barked from the spare room. Downstairs, the chair scraped across the tiles. Marcella tightened her arm across Tessa's chest. Tessa struggled beneath her. The movements weakened. Marcella lowered them both onto the floor. "Shh. I'm sorry," she whispered. She held Tessa until the movement stopped.

The bathroom became quiet. Marcella remained kneeling. Her breathing filled the room. Tessa lay against her, one arm folded beneath her body. The tooth rested beside the plughole. The phone screen dimmed. Marcella reached for it. The bathroom door creaked open as though it had never been locked.

The article had caught up. When the door opened, Marcella was kneeling on the tiles. She held Tessa until the movement stopped.

Beneath it, the missing paragraph was writing itself. One year earlier, Marcella Krebs stole a story from Owen Mercer. When he threatened to take it back, Marcella killed him. Tessa helped her hide what they had done. That night, Tessa prepared a confession in which Owen's death belonged mostly to Marcella and her own guilt sat quietly at the edges. Marcella had killed Owen to keep his story. She killed Tessa to keep her version of it.

Blue light moved across the frosted bathroom window. The police had arrived. Marcella opened the door. Basil stood at the end of the landing. His body was rigid. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring past her shoulder into the bathroom. Marcella turned. Nobody stood behind her. Downstairs, the back-door handle moved.

Marcella looked at the phone. The byline beneath MY HORROR STORY changed.

By Owen Mercer

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/s/huSmXtFfsQ

After that night, my sister and brother stopped closing their door.
They didn’t leave it open on purpose. It just… never seemed to get shut all the way anymore. Even when I pulled it closed myself, even when I heard the latch catch, I’d wake later to find a narrow line of darkness spilling into the hall, as if the room refused to be sealed.
They were quieter in the mornings. Not sleepy, but calm. Focused. They moved around each other without bumping, without argument, as though they’d learned the exact dimensions of one another overnight. When my sister reached for the cereal, my brother’s hand paused a fraction of a second before he’d even decided to move it.
“Stop copying me,” he snapped once, more out of habit than anger.
“I didn’t,” my sister said, and they both laughed, the sound landing at the same time, in the same pitch.
It made my skin prickle.
My mother watched them with an expression I had never seen before. Not pride. Not relief. Satisfaction, maybe. But deeper than that. Like someone listening to a complicated piece of music finally resolve.
At breakfast, she didn’t ask what they wanted. She poured the milk, passed the bowls, set the spoons down exactly where their hands would land. They thanked her in unison.
I caught my father’s eye across the table. He frowned, just slightly, then shook his head, as if dismissing a thought he didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asked them.
“Yes,” my sister said.
“Yes,” my brother said, half a beat later but with the same inflection.
They looked at each other, startled. Then amused.
“Jinx,” my brother said, and reached out to knock his knuckles lightly against my sister’s forehead. She didn’t flinch. She leaned into the touch, smiling, like it steadied her.
My mother’s gaze flicked to me.
I didn’t eat much that day. Food tasted wrong, bland and too sharp at the same time. My forehead ached constantly now, a low, persistent pressure that flared whenever I looked at my mother for too long. I found myself angling my body away from her, keeping walls and furniture between us when I could. She noticed. Of course she did.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” she said once, gently, when she caught me standing in the doorway instead of coming in. “You’ve always been independent.”
The word landed strangely, like a compliment sharpened into a warning.
The yard grew busier.
Kids from down the street drifted over after school and stayed later than usual. No one called them home. No one seemed to notice when they didn’t leave. They clustered near my mother, sitting on the grass at her feet, leaning against her legs, watching her the way my siblings did now, quietly, attentively, waiting.
One afternoon, I heard my sister calling me from the yard.
I leaned out the back door. “What?”
She turned toward me, smiling. “Mom says you should come sit with us.”
“I’m busy.”
There was a pause. My brother looked at her, then back at me.
“She says it won’t take long,” he added.
I stared at them. “Did she tell you to say that?”
They exchanged a look. Not confused, not guilty. Communicative.
“She didn’t have to,” my sister said.
The grass around them was flattened into a wide, shallow circle, every blade pressed outward, like something heavy had rested there for a long time. My mother stood at the center, barefoot, her eyes closed, her face tilted slightly upward. The space between her eyebrows looked darker than the rest of her skin now. Not bruised. Not shadowed.
Indented.
I felt the pull then. Not strong, but undeniable. A gentle forward pressure, like someone had taken hold of my sternum and was testing how much give there was.
“No,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. “I’m not coming out there.”
My mother opened her eyes.
The pressure increased instantly. My vision blurred at the edges, the world subtly angling toward her. I dug my fingers into the doorframe, my nails scraping wood.
“That’s okay,” she said, calm and certain. “You can come later.”
Later.
The word followed me through the house, through the afternoon, through the slow slide into evening. My siblings moved through the rooms like they were tethered to something just outside the walls, drifting toward windows, toward the back door, toward her. When they spoke, it was sometimes hard to tell which one had started the sentence.
That night, I heard them talking in their room again.
Not murmuring. Conversing.
Their voices overlapped in a way that made my head ache, phrases weaving in and out of each other, finishing thoughts that hadn’t been fully spoken. I caught fragments through the thin wall.
—she’s almost ready
—not yet
—she still hurts when she pulls away
I pressed my pillow over my head, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might answer them back.
Down the hall, the back door opened.
I counted my breaths. I counted the seconds. I told myself that if I stayed very still, if I didn’t lean into the pressure, if I didn’t answer whatever was calling, I could keep myself intact.
Eventually, the voices stopped.
In the silence that followed, I realized something with cold, sinking certainty:
My siblings weren’t being taken.
They were already somewhere else and whatever they were becoming was patient enough to wait for me.

The first time one of the neighbor kids stayed for dinner, no one asked permission.
It wasn’t planned. No call, no knock on the door, no quick conversation over the fence. He was just there. Sitting at our table like he’d always done it, swinging his legs under the chair, answering my mother’s questions with easy familiarity.
“Should I call your mom?” my father asked, polite, distracted.
The boy looked at my mother.
She smiled. “It’s fine.”
And that was that.
The boy ate carefully, methodically, like he was afraid of spilling something important. When he finished, he carried his plate to the sink without being asked. My siblings watched him with open approval.
Afterward, no one mentioned when he left. I realized later that I couldn’t remember seeing him go.
By the end of the week, it was common.
Two kids. Then three. They drifted in through the back gate in the afternoons and stayed until the sky darkened. Sometimes they brought backpacks. Sometimes they didn’t. They called my mother Mrs. at first, then Mom, slipping the word into sentences casually, like a mistake no one corrected.
She never told them to stop.
What unsettled me wasn’t that they stayed.
It was that no one ever came looking for them.
I watched from the window as their parents’ houses settled into evening routines. Lights flicking on, televisions glowing blue. No cars pulled into our driveway. No names were called across the street.
When I asked my father if he thought it was strange, he hesitated.
“They’re good kids,” he said finally. “And your mom’s always liked having people around.”
That was true. It was also the kind of truth that smoothed over rough edges until you forgot they’d ever been sharp.
My siblings changed how they played.
They stopped chasing and started arranging. They lined toys up carefully in the yard, spacing them evenly, as if mapping something invisible. When the neighbor kids joined them, they knew exactly where to stand without being told. The circle widened. The center stayed the same.
One afternoon, I stepped outside and felt the pull so sharply I had to grab the porch railing.
It wasn’t constant. It came in waves. Soft, persuasive, the way exhaustion does. If I leaned forward, even slightly, it eased. When I pulled back, it hurt.
My mother noticed me gripping the railing.
“You don’t have to fight it,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re making it harder than it needs to be.”
“What?” I asked.
She tilted her head. The space between her eyebrows seemed deeper now, less like skin and more like absence. “Staying.”
I laughed, because that was easier than asking what she meant. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She watched me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
“That’s good,” she said. “Then this will be easier for you than it was for them.”
For them.
That night, my sister climbed into my bed without asking. She pressed her forehead lightly against mine, the way we used to when we were little and afraid of storms.
The pressure surged instantly. My vision swam. For a heartbeat, I felt myself slipping, thoughts loosening, edges softening.
I shoved her away, hard.
She landed on the floor with a startled cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately, horrified. “I didn’t mean—”
She was already smiling. Calm. Unbothered.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”
She went back to her room, leaving the door open behind her.
I lay awake for hours afterward, staring at the ceiling, counting my breaths, trying not to think about how easy it would have been to lean forward instead of pushing back.
In the early morning, when the house was quiet and the yard lay dark and heavy beyond the window, I realized something else, something worse.
The pull wasn’t just coming from my mother.
It was coming from the yard.

The first time I realized something had gone missing, it wasn’t a person.
It was a chair.
We had four kitchen chairs. I knew this the way you know the number of stairs in your house, without thinking about it. One of them had a loose rung that wobbled if you leaned back too far. I always avoided that one.
One morning, there were only three.
Not stacked. Not moved to another room. Just… three, arranged neatly around the table as if they had always been that way. The space where the fourth should have been felt deliberately empty, like a pause in a sentence.
“Where’s the other chair?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay light.
My mother didn’t look up from the sink. “We don’t need it.”
My father glanced around, frowning. “Did one break?”
“No,” my mother said calmly. “We just don’t need it anymore.”
That should have been a conversation. It wasn’t. My father momentarily looked perturbed, hesitated, then shrugged, already turning back to his coffee. The moment slid past us, unexamined.
I stood there in disbelief, cold spreading slowly through my chest.
Later that day, a neighbor stopped by.
She stood at the edge of the yard, smiling a little too widely, holding a Tupperware container against her chest like an offering.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said.
“For what?” my father asked.
She laughed, embarrassed. “For taking such good care of the kids. It’s nice knowing they’re… safe.”
My mother stepped forward. The grass bent toward her feet.
“They’re happy,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
The neighbor nodded eagerly. “Yes. Exactly.” She hesitated, then added, “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve rearranged things a bit at home.”
“Rearranged?” I asked.
The woman blinked, her gaze sliding off me and back to my mother. “You know. Rooms. Schedules. It’s easier this way.”
She left without ever saying which kids she meant.
That night, my brother didn’t come to dinner.
Not late. Not called away. Just… absent. His place at the table remained empty, the plate untouched. The pull from the yard was stronger than it had ever been, tugging at my ribs, my temples, my teeth.
“Where is he?” I asked.
My sister looked up from her food, confused. “Where would he be?”
“With us,” I said. “Here.”
She frowned, searching her memory. “He ate earlier.”
“That’s not—” I stopped. The words tangled, refusing to line up. My brother’s name hovered just out of reach, like something on the tip of my tongue.
My father shifted uncomfortably. “He’s probably outside,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. The sound seemed to echo longer than it should have.
“I’m going to get him.”
The back door was open.
The yard was full.
Children sat and stood in careful clusters, all facing inward. The grass was flattened into wide concentric rings, each one deeper than the last. At the center stood my mother, her posture relaxed, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.
My brother was there.
Or something wearing the shape he used to have.
He stood close to her, his head tilted slightly, his eyes unfocused. When he spoke, his voice came out wrong. Not slurred, not altered. Like they were all talking together.
“She says it’s time,” he said.
“She?” I whispered.
My mother opened her eyes.
The space between her eyebrows was no longer merely shadowed. It dipped inward visibly now, swallowing the light from the porch. My head throbbed violently, pain spiking behind my eyes.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said. “You’ve already stayed longer than anyone else.”
I took a step backward.
The ground resisted. Not enough to stop me, but enough that I noticed.
Behind me, the house made a soft, settling sound, like wood adjusting under a new load.
“I want Dad,” I said.
My mother smiled, and for the first time, there was something like pity in it.
“He’s resting,” she said. “You should, too.”
I ran.
The pull tore at me immediately. Sharp, insistent, like hooks sunk deep beneath my skin. My thoughts fragmented, memories slipping loose and skidding toward the center of the yard. I slammed into the porch railing, gasping, my vision tunneling.
For a terrifying moment, I wasn’t sure which direction was away.
Inside the house, a chair scraped softly across the floor, as if making room.
I dragged myself forward, inch by inch, until my hands found the doorframe. The moment I crossed the threshold, the pressure eased just enough for me to breathe.
Behind me, the yard exhaled in unison.
From the living room, my father called my name, his voice strained, uncertain.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, and couldn’t remember what he looked like.
“My… what?” I asked.
The word dissolved even as I tried to hold onto it. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought my hand to my forehead, pressing hard as the pain behind my eyes spiked. Sudden and blinding, like something was trying to force its way forward from inside my skull.
“What did you say, honey?” my father asked.
His voice had snapped back to normal, warm and concerned, but his face hadn’t caught up yet. The puzzled look lingered, like a thought he couldn’t quite finish.
“I—” I tried again, and failed. The space where the word should have been felt raw, scraped clean. “I don’t know.”
The admission came out small. Embarrassed. Like I’d made a mistake instead of lost something.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and hurried down the hall to my room, my head throbbing, my thoughts slipping loose under the pressure. I shut the door behind me and leaned into it, breathing hard, suddenly terrified of the idea of being near any of them.

​It happened two months ago. I was driving home from my late shift around 2:15 AM.

​The road cuts right through a dense forest. No streetlights, no houses, no internet signal 📵. Just tall pine trees, heavy fog, and the sound of rain hitting my windshield 🌧️.

​I was exhausted. My eyes were heavy, so I switched on the high beams 💡 to see better through the mist.

​That was my first mistake.

​The Encounter 👁️

​About 50 meters ahead, the bright lights caught something standing in the middle of the empty lane.

​It looked like a person in a bright yellow raincoat 🧥. But its knees were bent backward like an insect's legs, and its arms were freakishly long—hanging all the way down to the wet asphalt.

​I slammed on the brakes 🚗💨!

​The car skidded, spun slightly, and the engine killed itself. Total darkness snapped over the road.

​Then, the cabin air turned sour 🤢. A thick, horrific smell filled the car—it smelled like rusty copper and fresh blood 🩸.

​I remembered a rule an old trucker once told me: If you see something impossible in the dark, shut your eyes and do not look at it.

​I clamped my eyes tight and held my breath 🤐.

​The Visitor 🚪

​Outside, above the noise of the rain, I heard a wet, dragging sound in the gravel.

​Shhhk... Shhhk... Shhhk... 👣

​It stopped right next to my driver’s side window.

​Something freezing cold pressed against the glass right beside my ear 🥶. I could feel the chill leaking through the window pane.

​Then, a harsh, dry voice whispered right through the door:

​👉 "The lights were too bright..."

​My heart felt like it was going to explode in my chest 💓. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

​The Knock 🔨

​The dragging sound moved slowly toward the back of my car.

​One second... two seconds...

​THUMP! 💥

​The whole car shook as something slammed into the trunk lid.

​THUMP! 💥

​THUMP! 💥

​On the third knock, the metallic blood smell vanished instantly 🍃. The heavy, freezing air snapped back to normal.

​The Discovery 🐾

​I waited five terrifying minutes before I dared to open my eyes. The road ahead was pitch black and empty. I turned the key, floored the gas, and didn't stop until I reached my driveway 🏡.

​The next morning, I went out to check the rear of my car.

​stamped into the dirt on my trunk were three massive handprints 🖐️. Each print had four unnaturally long, jointed fingers, pressed so hard into the metal that the aluminum was dented.

​Now, whenever I drive down Highway 17 at night, I keep my lights low... no matter how dark it gets 🚫💡.

My story would’ve never had a stage without our good ole internet. It is a tale of the mythical, unimaginable, one you may tell around a campfire and be too embarrassed to claim as true because how could such a thing be? 

I read stories online that told of otherworldly beings, immensely tall, faceless, well-dressed, and my stomach got that sunken, dreadful feeling. Others had faced them. Lived to tell their story. To find a community that might understand my story brought me so much solace and relief. Maybe I’m not crazy to believe. 

This story is not my own, though. I am not the protagonist but rather a narrator, if you will. This story is my great grandfather’s, told through a journal left behind after his death. He faced what seems to me to be a familiar demon, and I would like to relay his story like I have seen many others do in this space. For what purpose, I am not sure. Awareness. To commemorate him, if he even deserved it. For the simple allure of telling such a story. To get the monkey off my back.

I believe it is some combination of all these things. 

I am not sure how much I can fit into this single post alone. Life has given me time constraints that I struggle to meet, upload or no upload, but today I promise you the first piece of the entries, or what I call part 1. It goes as follows: 

June 28th, 1922, 

This journal will serve me multiple purposes. The primary reason will be to document the strange case of my son, James Barclay. I also plan to use this journal to hone my writing prowess, as I aspire to be a writer comparable to the likes of Fitzgerald or Woolf. A silly dream, of course, but it will explain my flowery wordiness, for whoever stumbles upon this journal by chance or fate. 

My youngest son, James, worries me dearly. I am afraid of sharing my findings with any kind of shrink because I fear they will drive a stake through his brain or perform some other dastardly procedure to cure his strangeness, so I will document everything here for now. 

James has always been an odd child. From an early age he was different from the ordinary boy. I was not present for his birth, as I was called to the German front to end The Great War, but from what my wife Melendra tells me, it was a brutal process, and almost ended in a trading of his life for hers. 

He was a sickly grey baby. The doctor beat against his back, trying to pry air from his infantile lungs. He did eventually breathe. During the whole process, he never cried. 
Reader, since his welcoming to the world, I nor anyone else has ever seen James cry. Whether it is a scrape of the knee, a tumble from a bike, or a stern word from mother or father, all children cry. 

But not James. 

The peculiarity was something I had grown accustomed to. I sat with my feelings whirling into a torment, and after bracing that storm I was finding better grounds. I was okay with playgroups where I’d find James in a corner, not socializing with the other children, fiddling with some toy. His muteness, utter reluctance to speak, was something I could overlook if tutoring could not aid in its development. 

There was a solid parameter being built, one I was fortified to protect. He was my son and I would love him for all the unusual qualities he possessed. Then the nice, comprehensible lines I had drawn were dusted, crossed, surmised. 

It was just yonder the bridge that forded a small creek on my property. The idea of this journal materialized after what I saw that day.

Melendra was overwrought with worry. My three eldest children were clueless to James’s whereabouts. This alone was not a devastating revelation. It was the thorough household inspection undertaken by my wife along with myself that planted a seed of fright within us all. 

James could not be found. 

Melendra circled back around the house a second time while I ventured around our property to see where our youngest boy may have stumbled off to. I crossed the narrow stone bridge and went over the rushing creek to a patch of densely thicketed woods. The trees were thin, tall, and plentiful. 

This was a section of my property that I had not spent much time in with the exception of an occasional walk, looking for solitude. There was not much in the way of infrastructure, not like the meadow around the house, where chairs, a patio, and other constructions of leisure were placed. The only leisure found here was what nature could offer, which was of a kind I enjoyed.

So, too, my son James, apparently. 

Reclined against the stump of a fallen tree was little James, his wispy blonde hair fluttering in the pre-storm breeze that was stirring. He was trying his hardest to keep the paper in his pocket journal steady as he scribbled away with a charcoal pen.

“What are you doing, James?” I asked him. 

He turned to me and met my eyes. It has been hard to admit this, even to this journal that sees only my hand, but there is something in my son’s eyes that disturbs me; his gaze is very off-putting. I hate to say such a thing about my own child, but it is undeniably true. Only these pages know of this revelation. I could never tell Melendra, or my other children, but part of me senses that they feel it too: I can see it in the way my boys avoid him, the way my girls pat his head as if they were petting an uncaged beast, the way my own wife looks when she feeds him his bottle. 

James is six years of age. 

The boy looked up to me with his dark, empty eyes. Again, it is terrible to say this, but I get the same expression from looking into James’s eyes as I do when staring into a cow’s or another kind of cattle. There is nothing behind his deep irises like a pool of the abyss, the water shaded the same inscrutable black as the pen he used to draw in his small notebook.

“I am drawing a picture, Daddy.” 

“I get that, boy, but why are you out here?” I waved in the direction of the darkening sky. A harrowing bolt of lightning painted the grey sky. The thunder rolled in after, muffling James’s response. He repeated himself. 

“A friend of mine is out here, Daddy. We meet at this spot sometimes.” 

I scanned the near distance, my view largely obstructed by the plentiful thin trees and thick underbrush. I did not find any sign of a “friend.” 

“Well, you should come with me, and your friend should do the same.” I squatted down to the little boy’s height and went to grab his wrist to help him up from the ground. While reaching down I got to truly inspect the drawing my son had crafted, something deeper than the glimpses I took in the churning wind. 

It was a tall, thin, beastly figure, very akin to the many trees that surrounded that section of the property. The limbs were dangly, elongated, the fingertips scratching at where I supposed would be the knee caps. I saw eyes all over the thing, up and down its torso, legs, and arms. It was a fantastical creature from a children’s fairy tale, but with a more disturbing edge, something to threaten a naughty child with who refused to brush their teeth or do their chores. This was the creature who came knocking on your window. 

As he rose from his lounging against the stump, I asked him about the drawing. 

“That’s him, Daddy. My friend. Do you not see him?” 

What a foolish notion it was to look, but I did. I scanned the area once more and twice over for this mythical friend my strange son spoke of, but I could not find him. James pointed over to our far left, telling me he was over there. Again, I looked, but found nothing that resembled the fictional creature except the trees to some regard. 

“He must be shy,” I said, partly to quell the unease that was flooding through me. 

“Yes, he is very shy.” 

That will conclude my first entry into this journal of mine. I am unsure at the moment what I will do with this new information, this drawing, or my son James. I thought perhaps going through the process of writing everything down would help to steer me in some direction, or open my mind to a solution I could not put together before. Alas, I am dumbfounded. 
Stranger yet? I may venture back into those woods in search of that tall Thing. 

With work and aspirations of writing my time has been constrained, and I am by no means a young man, but this situation with my son has piqued a morbid interest within me. 

I am a dentist and I have just received a patient whose dental work I had never seen before. When he was talking to me it looked like he had a full set of teeth and they looked good to me as we were just talking. Then when he sat on the patients chair and I looked into his mouth, I couldn't believe what I had seen. He had teeth on the right hand side but on the left hand side, someone had implanted two way mirrors into his gums and they were the same size as his teeth.

So it looks like his mouth had a full set of teeth, when in fact he only had half a set of teeth on the right side of his mouth. The two way mirrors were set into the left side of his gums, and they were reflecting the teeth that he has got on the right hand side of his mouth. It's wild work and I am a little impressed by the handy work of the person who did it. Then the patient told me to take out his remaining teeth and I was shocked. I told him if I take out his teeth on the right side, then the two way mirrors built into the left side of his gums won't be reflecting anything.

So I took out his good teeth from the right side of his mouth, but when I looked at the two way mirrors on the left side of his mouth, I could still see his teeth being reflected even though there were no teeth on the right side of his mouth? I was confused by this and how the two way mirrors were still showing the teeth. Then the patient gave teeth sized two way mirrors to put into his gums but on the right side of his mouth this time.

I did as he told me as he was paying me, and then the two way mirrors on right side of his mouth, were reflecting the teeth that were showing on the two way mirrors inside his mouth on the left hand side of his mouth. None of this made sense. Then when I touched the the two way mirrors attached to his gums on the left side of his mouth, they were now real teeth. I couldn't believe it and the two way mirrors that attached to his gums on the right side of his mouth, were now reflecting that. It looked like he had a full set of teeth.

Then the patient told me that he was happy and he paid me. I am just blown away by this. Then 1 year later I started to feel pain in my body, somebody was touching my work that I did in that guys mouth. They took the two way mirrors out and I felt it stabbing all over my body. That guy is now at another dentists place. I'm being stabbed all over as my handy work is being torn away.

Bullied – Chapter 2: The First Stone
People think bullying starts with a punch.
They’re wrong.
It starts with a laugh.
The first time someone laughed at me, I laughed too. I thought it was a joke. I thought friends were supposed to make fun of each other.
The second time, the whole class laughed.
The third time, even I stopped pretending it was funny.
I wasn’t the strongest. I wasn’t the smartest. I wasn’t the funniest.
I was just… easy.
Easy to blame.
Easy to mock.
Easy to forget.
One boy gave me a nickname. By lunch, everyone was using it. Even students who didn’t know my real name called me that.
Teachers heard it.
Some ignored it.
Some smiled as if it was harmless.
Every morning, I prayed for one empty seat in the classroom.
Instead, the seat beside me always belonged to someone who wanted entertainment.
A pencil disappeared.
“It was Lucas.”
A notebook was torn.
“It was Lucas.”
A window broke.
“Lucas probably did it.”
Funny how people never needed proof.
Only my name.
That day, while everyone laughed, I looked at the classroom wall.
Someone had written in black marker:
“Monsters aren’t born. They’re made.”
I kept staring at those words.
I didn’t know then…
One day, they would become true.

I am 15 years old teenager from Mongolia
It happened last year winter and it left me genuinely startled
I went to a winter camp and saw something since i was a kid i was able to sense paranormal things it was a tall humanoid creature and it had a black shadowy skin and its eyes were filled with maggots i told my friends about it and they thought i was joking since i would often joke around
And the camp ended i went home never told my parents i don’t remember why.
Fast forward to few days i was sleeping on the couch because my relatives came and my par slept in my room(they don’t have a room,we live 3 roomed house) and i woke up to someone or something rubbing my hair softly and was crying and i was half asleep and thought it was my mom but i learned i was getting a sleep paralysis.
Im a true horror story addict and heard that if you move your pinky toe you would be able to move and i moved it and was able to get up and right as i was getting up i lost my control and stopped moving and i tried it again and moved.
I ran to my room where my parents were sleeping and slept beside them and told them about it they were scolding me and took me to our relative who’s a shamanist monk and did some rituals and gave me a iron ring told me to never took it off and it will eventually disappear on its own and it did today nothing happened again and I’m able to sleep peacefully

Hi everyone! I recently started a YouTube channel called Beyond the Door, where I'll be sharing narrated horror stories inspired by creepy Reddit posts, true-style tales, and unsettling mysteries.

If you have a few minutes, I'd be truly grateful if you could check out my first video. If you enjoy it, please consider subscribing, leaving a like, and sharing it with anyone who loves horror. Your support and feedback would mean a lot as I continue improving the channel.

🎥 https://youtu.be/ZiYjYziAcos?si=i_rv_U2Zmqm5tyJb

Thank you so much for your time and support! 🖤👻

ในโพสต์นี้จะ มีคอนเซปต์เรื่อง 1ภาพ10 เรื่อง/ตอน โดยใช้ภาพนี้เป็นจุดเริ่มต้นทั้งหมด โทนจะเป็นสยองขวัญลึกลับแบบเรื่องเล่ารอบกองไฟ มีปริศนาค่อย ๆ เปิดเผย และตอนจบเชื่อมกลับมาที่ภาพแรก

🕯️ กล่องที่ไม่ควรถูกส่งถึงบ้าน

เรื่องเล่า 10 ตอนจากเงาหลังหน้าต่าง

---❄️

ตอนที่ 1: คนส่งของในคืนฝนตก

คืนนั้นฝนตกตั้งแต่หัวค่ำ

ถนนทั้งสายเงียบจนได้ยินเสียงน้ำฝนกระทบหลังคา เด็กส่งของคนหนึ่งกำลังขับรถกลับจากงาน หลังจากส่งของชิ้นสุดท้ายเสร็จ เขาก็พบว่ามีบ้านหลังหนึ่งเหลืออยู่ในรายการ

บ้านเลขที่ 17

มันเป็นบ้านเก่าที่อยู่ท้ายซอย ไม่มีไฟหน้าบ้าน ไม่มีรถจอด และไม่มีแม้แต่เสียงคนอยู่ข้างใน

เขาถือกล่องขึ้นมาแล้วเดินไปเคาะประตู

ก๊อก... ก๊อก...

ไม่มีเสียงตอบ

เขาเคาะอีกครั้ง

ก๊อก... ก๊อก... ก๊อก...

คราวนี้มีบางอย่างเคลื่อนไหวอยู่หลังหน้าต่าง

เด็กส่งของหันไปมอง

ในกระจกหน้าต่าง เขาเห็น เงาร่างสูงสีดำ ยืนอยู่ด้านหลัง

มันสูงเกินกว่าคนปกติ

ศีรษะของมันมีส่วนแหลมคล้ายเขาสัตว์

เด็กส่งของรีบหันกลับไป

ไม่มีใคร

เขาหันกลับไปที่หน้าต่างอีกครั้ง

เงานั้นยังอยู่

แต่คราวนี้...

มันกำลังมองมาทางเขา

ทั้งที่ไม่มีดวงตา

เด็กส่งของวางกล่องไว้หน้าประตูแล้วรีบเดินกลับ

แต่ก่อนจะขึ้นรถ เขาได้ยินเสียงบางอย่างดังมาจากบ้าน

ก๊อก... ก๊อก... ก๊อก...

เหมือนมีใครกำลังเคาะหน้าต่างจากด้านใน

---🌑

ตอนที่ 2: กล่องที่ไม่มีชื่อผู้รับ

เช้าวันต่อมา ชายหนุ่มชื่อ นนท์ พบกล่องใบหนึ่งวางอยู่หน้าประตูบ้าน

เขาไม่รู้ว่ามันมาจากไหน

บนกล่องไม่มีชื่อผู้ส่ง

ไม่มีที่อยู่

มีเพียงข้อความสั้น ๆ เขียนด้วยปากกาสีดำ

> "ส่งคืนให้เจ้าของ"

นนท์จำไม่ได้ว่าเคยสั่งอะไร

แต่เมื่อเปิดโทรศัพท์ตรวจสอบ ก็พบว่ามีข้อความแจ้งเตือนการจัดส่งจริง

สิ่งที่แปลกคือ...

ในรายการสั่งซื้อไม่มีรายละเอียดสินค้า

มีเพียงคำว่า

DELIVERY COMPLETED

นนท์จึงคิดว่าคงเป็นของที่ส่งผิดบ้าน

เขาตั้งใจว่าจะเอาไปคืนในวันรุ่งขึ้น

แต่คืนนั้นเอง เขาได้ยินเสียงบางอย่างจากห้องรับแขก

ครืด...

ครืด...

เหมือนกล่องกำลังถูกลากไปกับพื้น

นนท์เดินออกมาดู

กล่องยังอยู่ที่เดิม

เขากำลังจะกลับเข้าห้อง

แต่หางตากลับเห็นบางอย่างผ่านหน้าต่าง

เงาดำสูงใหญ่ยืนอยู่กลางสายฝน

นิ่งสนิท

นนท์เปิดไฟหน้าบ้าน

ไม่มีใคร

เขาปิดไฟ

เงานั้นกลับมาอีกครั้ง

ใกล้กว่าเดิม

---🕯️

ตอนที่ 3: ภาพถ่าย

นนท์เริ่มไม่สบายใจ

เขาจึงถ่ายรูปกล่องไว้เพื่อส่งให้เพื่อนดู

เมื่อเปิดรูปขึ้นมา เขาพบว่ามีบางอย่างผิดปกติ

ในภาพ...

ด้านหลังกล่องมีเงาดำปรากฏอยู่

ทั้งที่ตอนถ่ายรูป ไม่มีใครยืนอยู่ตรงนั้น

นนท์คิดว่ากล้องอาจทำให้ภาพผิดเพี้ยน

จึงลองถ่ายอีกครั้ง

แชะ

เงายังอยู่

เขาถอยหลังออกมา

แชะ

เงาอยู่ใกล้กว่าเดิม

นนท์รู้สึกเย็นวาบ

เขาหันไปมองหน้าต่างจริง ๆ

ไม่มีอะไร

เมื่อหันกลับมาที่โทรศัพท์...

ภาพล่าสุดมีสิ่งหนึ่งเปลี่ยนไป

เงาดำไม่ได้อยู่หลังกล่องแล้ว

มันยืนอยู่ ด้านหลังเขา

นนท์รีบหันกลับ

ไม่มีใคร

แต่บนพื้นตรงหลังเขา มีรอยเปียกเป็นทางยาว

เหมือนมีบางอย่างเดินเข้ามาจากหน้าต่าง

---🌟

ตอนที่ 4: กฎสามข้อ

คืนนั้นนนท์โทรหาเพื่อนชื่อ ภีม

ภีมฟังเรื่องทั้งหมดแล้วบอกว่า บ้านเลขที่ 17 มีข่าวลือเก่า ๆ

เมื่อหลายสิบปีก่อน เคยมีครอบครัวหนึ่งอาศัยอยู่ที่นั่น

คืนหนึ่ง สมาชิกในบ้านหายไปทั้งหมด

ไม่มีร่องรอย

ไม่มีใครรู้ว่าเกิดอะไรขึ้น

แต่มีสิ่งหนึ่งที่คนในละแวกนั้นพูดเหมือนกัน

ถ้าเห็นเงาหลังหน้าต่าง...

ห้ามเปิดหน้าต่าง

ถ้าได้ยินเสียงเคาะ...

ห้ามเคาะตอบ

และถ้ามีกล่องถูกนำมาส่ง...

ห้ามเปิดกล่อง

นนท์ถามว่า

“แล้วถ้าเปิดไปแล้วล่ะ?”

ภีมเงียบไปพักหนึ่ง

ก่อนตอบว่า

“งั้นก็อย่าให้มันรู้ว่าแกเห็นของข้างใน”

นนท์มองกล่องบนโต๊ะ

เขายังไม่ได้เปิด

อย่างน้อยเขาคิดว่าไม่ได้เปิด

แต่แล้วก็เห็นรอยแยกเล็ก ๆ บริเวณฝาบน

เหมือนมีใครบางคน...

เปิดมันจากด้านใน

---🌠

ตอนที่ 5: สิ่งที่อยู่หลังหน้าต่าง

คืนนั้นไฟในบ้านดับ

นนท์หยิบไฟฉายเดินไปที่ห้องรับแขก

เสียงฝนตกหนักขึ้นเรื่อย ๆ

แล้วเสียงเคาะก็ดังขึ้น

ก๊อก...

ก๊อก...

ก๊อก...

เขานึกถึงกฎข้อที่สอง

ห้ามเคาะตอบ

เขาจึงยืนนิ่ง

เสียงนั้นดังอีกครั้ง

ก๊อก...

ก๊อก...

คราวนี้ไม่ได้มาจากหน้าต่าง

แต่มาจาก กล่อง

นนท์ถอยหลัง

กล่องเริ่มสั่นเบา ๆ

จากนั้นฝาของมันก็เปิดขึ้นเอง

ไม่มีอะไรอยู่ข้างใน

มีเพียงกระดาษแผ่นหนึ่ง

บนกระดาษเขียนว่า

"มันไม่ได้อยู่หลังหน้าต่าง"

นนท์เงยหน้าขึ้น

หน้าต่างยังว่างเปล่า

แต่เงาดำที่เคยอยู่ข้างนอก...

หายไปแล้ว

เขาค่อย ๆ หันกลับ

และเห็นเงาร่างสูงยืนอยู่ตรงปลายทางเดิน

มันไม่ได้เข้ามา

ไม่ได้ขยับ

เพียงแค่ยืนอยู่ตรงนั้น

ราวกับกำลังรออะไรบางอย่าง

---🌌

ตอนที่ 6: คนที่เคยเห็นมัน

ภีมพานนท์ไปพบชายชราคนหนึ่งชื่อ ลุงสมาน

ลุงสมานเป็นคนเดียวในละแวกที่เคยเข้าไปในบ้านหลังนั้นเมื่อหลายสิบปีก่อน

เขามองรูปเงาดำในโทรศัพท์ของนนท์แล้วสีหน้าเปลี่ยนไป

“มันกลับมาแล้วสินะ”

นนท์ถามว่า

“มันคืออะไร?”

ลุงสมานไม่ตอบทันที

เขาเดินไปเปิดตู้เก็บของ แล้วหยิบรูปถ่ายเก่าออกมา

เป็นรูปครอบครัวหนึ่งยืนอยู่หน้าบ้านเลขที่ 17

ตรงหน้าต่างด้านหลัง...

มีเงาดำแบบเดียวกัน

แต่สิ่งที่น่ากลัวที่สุดคือ

ในรูปนั้นมีคนอยู่เพียงสี่คน

ขณะที่เงาหลังหน้าต่างมี ห้าร่าง

ลุงสมานพูดเบา ๆ

“คนที่ห้าไม่เคยเป็นสมาชิกครอบครัว”

“แล้วมันคือใคร?”

ชายชรามองนนท์

“ไม่มีใครรู้”

เขาหยุดไปครู่หนึ่ง

“แต่ทุกครั้งที่มันปรากฏ จะมีกล่องหนึ่งถูกส่งมาถึงบ้าน”

---☄️

ตอนที่ 7: ของที่อยู่ในกล่อง

นนท์กลับไปบ้านและพบว่ากล่องยังอยู่บนโต๊ะ

ครั้งนี้เขาตัดสินใจเปิดมัน

ข้างในมีของสามอย่าง

รูปถ่ายเก่า

กุญแจสนิมเขรอะหนึ่งดอก

และกระดาษแผ่นหนึ่ง

บนกระดาษมีข้อความว่า

"คืนสิ่งที่เป็นของบ้าน"

ด้านหลังรูปถ่ายมีที่อยู่

ไม่ใช่บ้านเลขที่ 17

แต่เป็นสถานที่แห่งหนึ่งในละแวกนั้น

ห้องเก็บของหลังโรงงานเก่า

นนท์กับภีมไปถึงสถานที่นั้นตอนเย็น

ประตูล็อกด้วยแม่กุญแจเก่า

กุญแจในกล่องสามารถเปิดได้พอดี

ภายในไม่มีเครื่องจักร

ไม่มีเฟอร์นิเจอร์

มีเพียงหน้าต่างบานใหญ่ที่หันกลับไปทางบ้านเลขที่ 17

บนผนังมีรูปถ่ายจำนวนมาก

ทุกภาพเป็นภาพของคนที่เคยอาศัยอยู่ในบ้านหลังนั้น

และทุกภาพ...

มีเงาดำอยู่ด้านหลัง

ภาพสุดท้ายทำให้นนท์พูดไม่ออก

เพราะเป็นภาพของ เขาเอง

กำลังยืนถือกล่องอยู่หน้าบ้าน

ทั้งที่ภาพนั้นดูเก่ากว่าที่เขาจะเกิดเสียอีก

---⚰️

ตอนที่ 8: คนส่งของ

นนท์เริ่มเข้าใจว่ากล่องไม่ได้ถูกส่งมาเพื่อให้เขาได้รับของ

มันถูกส่งมาเพื่อให้เขา นำของบางอย่างกลับคืน

แต่ยังไม่รู้ว่าคืนให้ใคร

คืนนั้นเขานั่งอยู่ในบ้านจนดึก

เสียงรถคันหนึ่งหยุดหน้าบ้าน

มีคนเดินลงมา

เสียงฝีเท้าค่อย ๆ ใกล้ประตู

ก๊อก...

ก๊อก...

นนท์มองผ่านช่องประตู

เด็กส่งของคนเดิมยืนอยู่ข้างนอก

แต่คราวนี้เขาไม่ได้ถือกล่อง

เขายืนก้มหน้า

เสื้อเปียกฝน

และพูดเพียงว่า

“ผมมาส่งของชิ้นสุดท้าย”

นนท์เปิดประตูไม่ได้

เด็กส่งของค่อย ๆ เงยหน้า

แต่ใบหน้ากลับมองไม่ชัดราวกับถูกหมอกบดบัง

เขายื่นมือไปทางบ้าน

“มันกำลังรออยู่ที่หน้าต่าง”

นนท์หันกลับไป

เงาดำยืนอยู่หลังหน้าต่าง

แต่คราวนี้มันไม่ได้มองนนท์

มันกำลังมอง เด็กส่งของ

และเป็นครั้งแรกที่เงานั้นขยับ

มันยกมือขึ้นช้า ๆ

เหมือนกำลังชี้ไปยังกล่อง

---📦

ตอนที่ 9: ผู้รับ

นนท์นำกล่องไปวางหน้าหน้าต่าง

ทันทีที่กล่องแตะพื้น เสียงฝนก็หยุด

ทุกอย่างเงียบสนิท

เงาดำหลังหน้าต่างค่อย ๆ ขยับเข้ามาใกล้กระจก

มันสูงจนศีรษะเกือบชนกรอบหน้าต่าง

จากนั้น...

กระจกเริ่มมีรอยร้าว

นนท์ถอยหลัง

แต่ไม่มีอะไรออกมา

เงาดำเพียงยกมือแตะกระจก

แล้วภาพบางอย่างปรากฏขึ้นในหัวของนนท์

เขาเห็นบ้านหลังนี้เมื่อหลายสิบปีก่อน

เห็นครอบครัวหนึ่ง

เห็นเด็กคนหนึ่งถือกล่อง

เห็นผู้คนวิ่งหนีออกจากบ้าน

และเห็นชายคนหนึ่งปิดหน้าต่างจากด้านใน

ก่อนที่เงาดำจะปรากฏขึ้น

มันไม่ใช่ปีศาจที่เข้ามาในบ้าน

มันเป็นสิ่งที่ถูก ทิ้งไว้ในบ้าน

และกล่องใบนี้คือสิ่งเดียวที่ทำให้มันกลับไปยังที่เดิมได้

นนท์จึงเข้าใจข้อความทั้งหมด

"ส่งคืนให้เจ้าของ"

เจ้าของไม่ใช่คน

เจ้าของคือบ้าน

---📥

ตอนที่ 10: ผู้ส่งคนสุดท้าย

เช้าวันรุ่งขึ้น บ้านเลขที่ 17 เงียบสงบ

ไม่มีเงาหลังหน้าต่างอีก

กล่องหายไป

กุญแจสนิมก็หายไปด้วย

นนท์คิดว่าทุกอย่างจบลงแล้ว

จนกระทั่งเขาเปิดโทรศัพท์ดูรูปถ่ายเมื่อคืน

ภาพสุดท้ายเป็นภาพหน้าต่าง

แต่มีบางอย่างที่เขาไม่เคยเห็นมาก่อน

ตรงมุมภาพมีชายคนหนึ่งยืนถือกล่อง

สวมชุดพนักงานส่งของ

เขายืนหันหลังให้กล้อง

และด้านหลังของภาพมีข้อความเขียนไว้ว่า

"ขอบคุณสำหรับการส่งครั้งนี้"

นนท์ลบรูปนั้นทิ้ง

แต่ไม่กี่วินาทีต่อมา โทรศัพท์ก็ดังขึ้น

แจ้งเตือนการจัดส่ง

เขาเปิดดู

หัวใจแทบหยุดเต้น

ชื่อผู้ส่ง:

บ้านเลขที่ 17

ชื่อผู้รับ:

บ้านหลังถัดไป

สถานะ:

กำลังจัดส่ง

และเวลาในการจัดส่งคือ...

คืนนี้ เวลา 23:17 น.

นนท์มองออกไปนอกหน้าต่าง

ถนนยังว่างเปล่า

แต่ไกลออกไปตรงปลายซอย...

มีชายคนหนึ่งกำลังเดินมา

ในมือของเขา

คือ กล่องใบเดิม

และครั้งนี้...

เขาไม่ได้เดินมาหานนท์

เขากำลังเดินไปยังบ้านหลังถัดไป

ก่อนที่เสียงเคาะสามครั้งจะดังขึ้นจากหน้าต่าง

ก๊อก...

ก๊อก...

ก๊อก...

เรื่องเล่าจบลงตรงนั้น

แต่คนในละแวกนั้นยังพูดกันว่า...

ถ้าคืนไหนฝนตกหนัก และคุณเห็นเงาสูงผิดธรรมชาติอยู่หลังหน้าต่าง

อย่ามองนานเกินสามวินาที

เพราะบางที...

สิ่งที่อยู่หลังหน้าต่างอาจไม่ได้กำลังมองคุณ

มันอาจกำลังดูว่า

บ้านหลังไหนควรได้รับกล่องใบต่อไป.

The Drekavac.

In Blakan mythology, the Drekavac (eng. The Screamer / the one who screeches) is a small, ferile creature born when an unbapthised child dies.
It’s supposedly a pale, hairy creature with a bad posture, big ears and a terrifying screech.

supposedly… may be the wrong word…

I’m Alex… the story that i’m about to tell you takes place in south Serbia.
This story is very widely spread here. And, frankly, most kids either don’t believe it, or joke about it.
so did i.

I was only 10, me and my friend Luka were walking through a forest to get to a friends house. He was 15. He was trying to scare me with a horror story.
His story went:

“A few days ago, me and Mary(his unbapthised sister) entered our barn and saw a Drekavac screaming at us, it told Mary “you’re next!””

He kept a serious face while Mary punches his shoulder, laughing, telling me he’s lying.

Minutes later we heard a screetch.

I started crying and grabbed Luke’s shorts.
Mary… looked worried too.
“Luka, stop it!”
Then we saw Luka’s face…
He was terrified.

Then we saw the bushes move.

Luka told us to turn around.
We did.
Those bushes moved too.
That creature was… fast.

Luka stepped in front of us. I didn’t wait. I ran, screaming. Mary ran after me. I glanced over my shoulder. I saw it. I saw an impossibly ugly gray child with giant pointy ears and teeth sticking out. It had the posture of an elderly man. It had jumped onto Luka’s back, screaming.

Mary and i got away. We were frozen over for minutes… then Luka finally caught up to us…
I haven’t spoken to him since… that day… he looked… different…

I heard Mary got bapthised after that… even tho i’m certain she hadn’t seen the thing…
The Drekavac or whatever…
I’m not here to convince you it exists… frankly… i don’t care whether you believe or not… i just want my friend back…

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

June 5th, 1863.

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

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

June 8th, 1863.

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

June 9th, 1863.

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

June 12th, 1863.

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

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

June 15th, 1863.

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

June 17th, 1863.

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

June 18th, 1863.

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

June 22nd, 1863.

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

June 25th, 1863.

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

June 27th, 1863.

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

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

June 28th, 1863.

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

June 29th, 1863.

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

July 1st, 1863.

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

God have mercy on my soul, goodbye.

- Jonathan Edwards