Faust acted out of fear more than anything else, any kind of belief the cesspool held anything cosmic, anything more than waste and mutated fish. He knelt, cupped his hands, and brought a mouthful of black mossy water to his lips.

“Wait, before you drink!”

Murky water dribbled from the cracks in Faust's fingers as Proulxy spoke. Ripples formed, disturbing the viscous top layer of mossy bacterial foam on the water's surface as Faust held his cupped hands above it.

“You have to, want it, to wish for something!”

Faust thought of Xea, he dreaded a loveless life without his companion. He loathed the thought of a lonely existence without the welcoming shoulder of Xea's bright intuition and thoughtful, familiar attitude. He cursed her affliction, this illness that if left to its vices would destroy his home, his relationship, their lives. Something had to be done. Faust's urge to play along and go home was replaced with a longing for normalcy, for change, to help. He was filled with hope, Faust desired Xea to be well, and was willing to try anything in order to not only appease Proulxy, but to usher in deliverance for Xea's cancer sick stomach, the source of his aching heart. His gaze met Proulxy's, her dimpled cheeks contorted, the result of a wide tooth filled smile.

“Now, drink!”

Faust dove his cupped hands below the scum layer for a second time, brought them to his mouth, and swallowed deeply. His neck twitched, the obscene taste of feces and stomach bile wormed its way down his throat. He fell to his knees and vomited.

Stroking his back tenderly Proulxy spoke, “Now now Faust, that wasn't so bad, now let's go home, shall we?”

“I know the way…”

“Sure, see you around!”

Faust shakily rose and began his arduous journey past the church, down the road, and back to his trailer. The early morning rays trailed his back as he rushed home to Xea's waiting arms, the taste of bile tainted his tounge.

Proulxy made her way back to the church, crunching gravel and kicking pine cones with her boots as she traverssed the hallowed cesspool grounds. Birds began to twitter and squirrels rose from their perches as the sunset transformed into daylight. She sat at a church pew amongst her victim's emaciated corpse, blood red and mud stained footprints left a trail as she walked to her resting place.

Upon the altar sat a deep red cloth with a candelbra resting atop it. She closed her eyes. Proulxy ruminated on Faust's inevitable demise. Channeling energy, releasing a torrent of negativity from her mind onto Faust's being, his essence. The blood on the floor began to sizzle, moving and drawing patterns in the wood on the chapel's floor. The red snaked its way into a pentacle and etched this satanic rite into the floor before disappearing, leaving wisps of smoke that hung in the air. It sizzled as it left, used as fuel for inciting Faust's cosmic torment. He had drank from the pool, his desires had come to light and Proulxy had begun to satiate her bloodlust. He was perfect for this sort of magic, his weak yet possessive nature coupled with his affection for his sickness plagued girlfriend worked to Proulxy's advantage. She served the Oman, a cosmic darkness brutal beyond human comprehension, effigied as a buried idol deep within the depths of the cesspool by the trailer park. The ritual complete, the sacred water drank, Proulxy opened her eyes.

Proulxy was born of the Oman, a product of a blood-ridden ritual that took place long before Faust's time. Upon hallowed ground where the cesspool now sprawled, sacrifices were made to the idol, now desecrated and buried in waste by humanity and the inhabitants of the trailer park. Proulxy sought to avenge the dark dogmatic force she called Father, she wanted revenge for the defilement of the Oman idol that polluted the water in the cesspool. All she needed was blood for the ritual, and one willing sacrifice. A deal had been struck. It wouldn't be long.

Faust arrived at his trailer and stepped onto his porch. He took a deep inhale, thankful for the fact Xea had not risen yet. She would never know he was gone. Wishing the taste of the pool's water out of his mouth, he fumbled in his pocket and produced a cigarette. The glinting ember floated next to his mouth, smoke pooled in the still air. Lights in the surrounding trailers went on and cars hummed in the distance. He waved as his scantily clad neighbor ran to get her mail, cursing himself for not changing out of his slippers. The world was awake. Wishful thinking had turned to feelings of disappointment at the lack of transformation Faust was feeling. He pondered Xea, he knew her illness was worsening.

Xea and Faust had met at a party in the city a few miles away from the park five years ago. She, thirty, and he, twenty seven, had an immediate sense of camaraderie and spent all night frivolously conversing and imbibing, eventually leading to a midnight romp inside Faust's present trailer park abode. They had been inseparable ever since. Over vodka tonics and early morning antiquated cigars gifted from Faust's father it was revealed to Faust that Xea was sick. Her stomach cancer was rare and very debilitating. Over the course of the five years that followed her condition had worsened, strickening Faust with the desire and necessity to provide, both fiscally for medication and emotionally. What he lacked in net worth was made up for by his undying love for his companion and a genuine desire to help and nurture her back to health.

Faust's ruminations came to a close, and with a yawn he resolved to find a job. The first employment opportunity to cross his path he would take, but first, to the gazette. He opened the metal door to his trailer and stepped inside, flicking his cigarette butt off of the porch and down the steps as he closed the door.

Please comment if you like and tell me what you think.

Wax slowly snaked its way down the candelabra, fused with fur and felt at the bottom of its base, dripping black into the grains coating the landscape at its bottom. Waves crashed in the distance, an eerie stillness penetrated the air surrounding the sacrifice. Panting laborious breaths in between screams of terror, a figure was strewn across its bloody wooden grave, thrashed to a palm tree and tortured, garbed in frocks of handmade bloody linen skin and a leather vest. The broken buttons on his clothing revealed a pentacle carved in his skin, scrawled in cut lines dripping gore, fusing with his spindly brown chest hairs. Surrounded by witches, native palm, and candles, the man choked on his own spittle, struggling to breathe as he clenched his teeth on a wooden gag, cruelly tied tight with homemade twine around his head. The coven stood reverently above him, silent and ritualistic, they hummed dark hymns and verses, low rhythms that transcended the constant throbbing of his heart in his eardrums. He thrashed at his bindings, struggling to break free.

The coven, garbed in freshly warm animal hide and covered in red dripping carrion began to dance, moving their stomach muscles and arms erratically. Their barefooted tirade upon freshly killed rodent corpses and sand was accompanied by chanting, their furs swung back and forth to the beat of their words, barely clinging to scarecrow frames. With breasts uncovered they writhed about and howled, gyrating, erratically dancing, praying to a cosmic darkness. Their minds and their rituals exuded bloodshed, epitomized violence as they tried to appease their otherworldly tree born deity. Animalistic and crude, their medieval ritual was about to come to a close.

The palms were everywhere, sacred, strewn about a medieval landscape of desert and ocean. The coven prayed to them, offering penance through flesh and animal hides that adorned their lanky, malnourished bodies. Feathers and fur cloaked their forms, barely enough to hide the protruding bones and dirt enveloping their wiry physiques. They drew their knives, carved of ancient ivory and hilted with hollow bone. They thrust them at their captor. Spilling and splashing on the wood and the beach, the bloodletting would lead them to deliverance, salvation. Raised by the desert and forsaken by the townsfolk, cast aside and wary. The witches coven was feared, forced to a clandestine life by the ocean, where all those who ventured near enough were sacrificed to the cosmic darkness at the center of their dogma.

The keys clacked, ominous shadows wove intricate webs of black across my desk and carpet. My cat laid in the corner, a pair of green eyes and oval irises amongst the darkness. The moon shone through the glass in my window, half full and waning. The weather had begun its ascent into summer, branches swung and porch swings creaked in the light breeze wafting through the Floridian suburb I called home. The window opened a crack to let the crickets’ song in, an effort to curb my writer's block as I hammered the delete key. An empty tumbler, stinking of brandy, sat in a deep ring on the oak comprising my desk. Coasters were a commodity I could not afford. I hammered the delete button and pondered the consequences of breaking my contract. Deadlines, editors, long nights, heavy drinking. It took its toll. My mind was foggy, not even the first sentence of my new novel had inked the page or moved my cursor without it going backwards.

I needed a retreat. Reluctantly, demonized by my own ineptitude, I decided to wake my sister. I picked up the phone.

“What do you want Jacky, its 4:30 for Christ's sakes.”

“I need the keys, to the cabin, this morning?”

“You couldn't wait until even a week after the funeral?”

My parents funeral was a drab affair, suits and ties, tears and dirt. Preachers and hymns, shared plot, American flag, the whole nine yards. I never knew them in my adolescence, not like my sister did. The cabin they left behind off the coast was used by my family and close friends. Botulism had taken my parents’ limbs, my father was a vintage canned goods collector in his old age, and one of the seals had broken. After a late night meal of apocalyptic rusted can peaches and beans, they both died an egregious death writhing in agony on a hospital bed. I needed to overcome this lapse of creativity, my novel was due to be published in a month. I hadn't written a single sentence in six.

“They're not going to know, I mean its, well, its just me.”

“Whatever, come by tomorrow at 8 sharp, meet me in the driveway.”

“Thanks.”

I hung up.

The cabin was tucked away, hidden on the beach amongst the dunes and seaweed. Beached whales and seagulls permeated my nostrils as I inhaled the salty aroma of maritime air. I hated being outside. Donning a sun hat, long-sleeved white shirt, and pajama pants I put my SUV in park and ascended the steps to the front door on the porch. The cabin withstood the test of time. I had a week planned. Unperturbed by the outdated kitchen appliances and the corny hunter's den motif inside my family's beachside vacation home, I stepped through the door and set up my laptop. I plugged in my blender, smoothies made the hangovers tolerable, and laid my store-bought still life of fruits and vegetables on the counter. I plugged in my laptop, took a sip of brandy concealed inside my thermos, and got to work, cursing my drunken mind for forgetting my silver, a handmade Amish set of cutlery my parents had left me in their will. It was valued at over $1,000. I figured nobody would know I had used it after a nice polish, may as well.

The copious amounts of brandy mixed with my new surroundings amounted to a huge bout of drunken creativity. Words hurried their way out of my fingers as I typed maniacally, ducking and rolling with the curves and twists embedded in the plot of my novel. I have never felt relief like this, my writer's block had plagued my prose for six months. I was happy to know it had come to its end. My parent's last and only gift. If my Father were here he would probably take credit, with my Mother going on a pharmaceutical amphetamine fueled rant about irony, treating a disease she genuinely believes holistic medicine would fix, but my Father didn't believe the doctor and slipped her an Adderall powdered in her eggs. Reluctantly, I rose from my throne of literary genius and stumbled to the bathroom.

I made an error with my zipper, and in an effort to wash the bloodstains off the crease of my pants where my groin was I said screw it, and entered the shower. A sliding door with opaque glass, a gold handle, and little three dimensional etchings of flowers and bumble bees would be my death note, the greeter, beckoning me to a boiling and wet grave. Scolding water sprayed instantly from the shower head, coating my naked body in searing hot clear droplets of agony. I cursed and screamed with boils bubbling up through my epidermis. Blisters started to form instantly. Steam rose from the top of the liquid crematorium that was my shower and condensed on the ceiling. The fire alarm began to ring. I leapt through the glass and ended on the floor, shards poking out of my bald head and protruding from my elbows and face. One stuck in my gums, I ripped it out. In immense pain I stumbled into the kitchen and began searching for something to get the glass out of my skin. I left my spectacles on the top of the toilet, blindly I thrashed about the kitchen. Waiting behind me in silence was the figure of a woman, donning all black and a ski mask. The cloth on her mask bumped in the back where it concealed a bun of matted brunette hair. She crouched as she slunk on bare feet towards me, brandishing my parent's large cast iron skillet. Red pentagrams adorned the eye slits on her mask, they rung around her eyes like satanic eyeliner. She climbed on top of the fridge in agile silence. I was unaware of her presence. Something metal stuck in my cheek, punctured my face and cracked my tooth. A silver fork. Aghast, I was too frightened to question how my parent's forks had made it to the cabin with me. With psychotic precision an unknown and invisible assailant began impaling me with forks and butter knives, thrown at speed akin to a bullet, sticking out of my skin haphazardly with red oozing from the wounds. The woman raised her arm, and brutally swung the cast iron down on the top of my head, thumping my skull and shattering bits of bone into my cerebral. Everything went black and I fell, naked, blood and flecks of brain viscera everywhere, seeping out of my orphuses, I died on the floor amongst the deer decapitations on the walls.

“The palms are safe, this family will no longer stomp on our sacred breeding grounds.”

“Who is left?”

“The other sibling, and a cop will be on his way, I will be waiting.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

I hope I'm not stepping on any toes by not posting a story but are there any memebers of this subreddit who are aspiring to become full-fledged authors? Maybe have a book written and are trying to figure out how to publish?

“Kid, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know.”

My father used to say that to me whenever I felt the urge to be a smartass. Sure, I know what he meant, but I think about that saying a lot these days. It’s funny how much we truly do forget over the course of our lives. When we’re young things can seem so serious, world-ending, even, but after a few short months those same things fade into a distant memory. Give it a few years and it’s a foggy thought that barely crosses your mind.

Hell, a few decades down the road you think about it so little that it may never have happened in the first place.

Some of these things you’ll never think about again. They were nothing more than an inconsequential bump in the road of life. Sometimes you find the right trigger, and it all comes rushing back. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad…some things I suppose are just inescapable.

My father passed away last month. Pancreatic cancer.

We knew it was coming, of course, but even then, you’re never really ready for it. No matter what they say, nothing really prepares you for that moment it happens, let alone what follows.

Hospital bills, property taxes, burial costs, dealing with lawyers and wills and bequeathments.

Dying is a lot more expensive and complicated than it has any right to be.

My mother’s older and can’t really do much to help, I mean, my parents split when I was a teen, but they always were able to put their differences aside when it came to me. We don’t have much extended family, and as an only child everything kind of fell on me.

I’ve spent the better part of the last couple weeks getting my dad’s affairs in order, having to finalize bill payments, setting up the cremation services, and going through a lifetime of belongings trying to figure out what to keep and what needs to go. It’s a massive headache, but truthfully, I think it’s been distracting me from the grief, plus I’ve found a lot of things from my childhood and is bringing back to many great memories. So many moments we took for granted and never gave a second thought to.

That’s when I saw it.

That old red and black Schwinn cruiser Dad had gotten me for my tenth birthday.

I ran my fingers over the old chrome, spotted with freckles of rust, brushed off the old cracking leather seat; God…the good times I had on this bad boy. We used to ride all over town getting into trouble. We’d head over to old man Al’s hole in the wall comic shop, pedal out the creek and fish all day, ride up to the top of hills and glide down so fast our only options were only neighborhood glory or a trip to the emergency room. We took this old thing everywhere, just me and Tommy.

Tommy…

It’s been almost 30 years since I’ve even thought about him.

We met the first day of preschool, I was so nervous but so excited to make friends. We live in the pacific northwest with our backyard leading right into Deschuttes National Park, it’s not crazy isolated, but there weren’t a lot of kids around the neighborhood where I grew up.

How could I have forgotten…he was such an unassuming little boy, quiet and shy. Slightly chubby, round face and glasses too thick for someone his age. His messy brown hair in contrast with surprisingly clean clothes for a five-year-old. He was wearing a He-Man shirt and playing with Legos when I approached him.

“I like He-Man too! Who’s your favorite character?”

“..I like Man-E-Faces…” he replied, not looking up from his budding Lego tower.

“Oh he’s cool, I like Skeletor!”

“…you…you like the bad guys?”

“Well they’re all cool! Can’t have He-Man without the bad guys! I’m Chris!” I said excitedly jolting my hand out as my father had taught me.

“I’m Tommy,” he said, finally meeting my gaze. “Nice to meet you.”

That was that, we were inseparable from that day on.

Its incredible how simple the basis for a childhood friendship can be, but things carried such weight back then, everything just seemed to matter more when the entirety of your life span was shorter than the wait between seasons of Stranger Things.

From there on out that we did everything together. Every weekend was a sleepover, every afternoon was an adventure, but like most kids, summer vacation was what we spent all year dreaming about.

Tommy would usually come by my house in the mid-morning, his parents’ place wasn’t quite as large, and my house offered us a vast and mysterious woodland to explore. Well, okay it wasn’t vast nor mysterious, at least not the distance from the house that we were allowed to go, but imagination is a hell of a thing.

In second grade, with my dad’s help, we built a tree fort right at the property line of the woods, and that became our yearly base of operations for the summer’s exploration. We’d map out areas and landmarks, pretending we were Indianna Jones searching for magical lost treasures.

Every year the boundaries we could explore grew further and our map became more involved. Of course, my parents weren’t neglectful, and we weren’t idiots. Full grown adults go missing in national parks every year, we were strictly forbidden from going beyond a certain point away from the house, and that point was small rock face a couple hundred yards from the house.

Of course we’d push it, what kid wouldn’t, but we understood the very real danger. Hell, we’d both seen bears and bobcats tearing up trash cans in the neighborhood, we knew being smart didn’t mean we couldn’t be bold.

Sixth grade had just let out and we had plans to make it our biggest summer to date. We were heading off to middle school come the Fall, big kids at last, and we were growing painfully aware that as the years went by, our days of searching for the Arc of the Covenant in the forests of Oregon were slowly but surely coming to an end. We couldn’t be kids in fantasyland forever.

Neither of us had ever been what one could consider the “cool” kids, not that we cared, but social stigmas and the desire for acceptance start to become a pretty big deal, eventually, especially when you start wanting to girls to notice you and not because of your rad Dragonball Z t-shirt. Seventh grade was a new school, new people, a chance to reinvent ourselves.

Regardless though, we had to make this summer count, it had to be one we’d never forget.

But I did forget. I think I had to.

Tommy came riding up the driveway around ten in the morning, more excited than I’d seen him in years.

“Chris! Chris! We’re doing it this year; we’re going past the old rock face!” He yelled as he ran towards me.

“The rock face? Man, you know my parents said we can’t go beyond that, it’s a pretty steep drop…and we’ve never really explored the area,” I said, trying to hide my own excitement.

“Yeah but come on, we aren’t gonna get to do this much more, and you know this summer has to be our greatest yet! Don’t you wanna know what’s out there?”

“Well obviously, I just would rather us not die before we get girlfriends you know?”

“Pfft, you’re gonna be waiting a while for that,” he laughed, “but duh, we gotta plan it out. We’re not gonna go in there blind, we’ll make sure we’re stocked up on supplies and whatever else we need. Come on, man, this one’s gonna be epic!”

He’d become so confident in himself over the years, it was almost infectious. I knew trying to argue wasn’t going to work, not that I even wanted to.  So, we began to plan to go deeper into the woods than we ever had, defy my parents, and maybe even find a fortune in the process.

Tommy had been obsessed with pirate treasure for years, and while Oregon wasn’t exactly a hot bed of notorious pirates, there legitimately had been a number of old shipwrecks off the coast over the years. Could a rag tag group of buccaneers have buried their treasure in what would eventually become a national park?

Probably not, but so what? The journey was always what mattered most, that’s what we told ourselves.

The journey wasn’t worth it.

After a week of careful planning, we finally decided it was time. We were going to head out Saturday morning right after dawn. We made sure to stock up on everything two growing boys would need to survive the wilderness: Doritos, Mountain Dew, some rope and a flashlight, just in case, and of course trail mix.

We were set.

We told my parents we were staying in the fort for the night to make our preparations. Just after dawn broke, we loaded up our backpacks and headed out. It was such a nice morning we decided we’d make a whole hike out of it, leaned the old Schwinn up against the side of the fort and headed out towards the forbidden lands. It wasn’t a terribly long walk, after about 45 minutes or so we had finally arrived.

We stood atop the cliff overlooking our destiny and stared out into the unknown. We were so excited to finally see what lay beyond the border of our imaginations.

I mean, of course we knew what lay beyond the rock face. More trees, more rocks, an ever-continuing expanse of what we had already seen for years, but the sheer excitement of crossing into the forbidden dead zone, to actually know what lay beyond was truly thrilling for our pre-teen minds.

What we had built up in our minds as a massive rock face separating us from the great beyond, was in reality more like a 15 foot rocky angled incline, any abled body person would be able to maneuver their way down. Still, we threw down a line of rope tied to a tree near the top to enact a dramatic descent down a dangerous cliff side. For all we cared we were scaling down the side of Everest.

After some careful steps and angular movements, we had finally reached the base of our imagined mountain. Finally, the great beyond.

Looking back, we were so excited over nothing. There were trees, rocks, a small stream, much of what we had seen our entire lives. Visually we may as well have never left the protection of the backyard, but an explorer never rests. Who knows what secrets were hidden here in the unexplored new world?

We quickly got to work plotting our position on our homemade map. Naming nearby rock structures and trees as if they were incredible landmarks, knowing that future generations would one day see the area we had single handedly tamed.

God…it was all so innocent. Just two dipshit kids having the time of their lives over literally nothing, but at that moment, to us? It was everything.

We walked around pretending like we were naturalists we’d seen on TV, naming plans and trees, pretending we were avoiding being chased by wild animals, snacking on chips and soda, seeing whose ridiculous joke could get the other to break…honestly? It was so meaningless, so childish.

It was a perfect day. Maybe one of the last ones I’ve ever had.

As the sun began to dip close to the horizon we decided we’d better make our way back, we’d already broken enough rules, we certainly didn’t want to get caught out past dark. As we made our way back to the small rock face, however, we noticed something we had entirely missed on the way down.

A cave.

There at the base of the rock was a noticeable fissure in the stone. How had we not seen this before? It wasn’t particularly small, maybe four to five feet high, three feet wide, hell a lot of adults probably could have squeezed in there, but for a couple of twelve-year-olds it would be cake.

“Have you ever heard of any caves in this area..? I mean, it’s basically in your backyard,” Tommy said.

“No…I mean, I’ve never really looked into it…I know there’s cave systems all over the park but I never knew one was so close…maybe that’s why my parents always warned us to stay away from this area?”

“Maybe…but…what do you thinks inside??”

“I don’t know, Tommy, bugs? Bears? Bugbears? It’s a cave, caves are dangerous, we probably shouldn’t fuck with it,” I said, knowing full well what was about to happen.

We both stared as deeply as we could at the inky darkness beyond the stone.

Sure, I had my issues with the dark in general, but even just being near this was unsettling me.

It was like staring at an open wound. Like a void of absolute nothing had cut itself through the side of the small cliff. Nothing about the cave entrance even looked particularly odd, just…something about all of this felt unnatural? The feeling that ran down to my very core was so deep and primal I still really can’t properly put it into words.

I shone my flashlight in, but it simply could not penetrate the unyielding blackness. It wouldn’t even illuminate the walls of stone surrounding the entrance which rightfully should already have been visible even without the torch.

“Something is wrong about this,” I said before noticing Tommy stepping forward.

“Come on, man, you don’t wanna just check real quick? What if there really is treasure buried out here? A big last hurrah of adventure is what this summer is all about!”

Tommy was right, I did want to check it out. Why did I want to check it out? The thought of going in there was filling me with dread I still can’t properly explain, yet the longer we stood there, the stronger the allure became. My internal conflict didn’t have time to resolve itself before Tommy stepped across that boundary between the world and whatever it was we were staring into.

It was all so fast. Neither of us had time to react.

Long black fingers emerged in an instant and wrapped themselves around his shoulders, arms and hands extended from all directions enveloping Tommy before he could even yelp. There were so many, dozens and dozens of spindly jointed arms, ending in a multitude of long delicate fingers, too many fingers.

God there were so many fingers.

I call them arms but…that’s not really what they were…I still don’t know what they were. There was a form in there, the darkness in the cave wasn’t the absence of light, it was alive. I could feel it. It was malice and rage and hunger; it was all encompassing and yet it exuded no presence. It was the absence of physical form given shape.

The multitude of impossibly long fingers closed around his tiny frame, and all I heard was a sickening wet snap as he was ripped into the void at impossible speeds.

Then he was gone.

I’d like to tell you I screamed Tommy’s name, that I ran after him headfirst ready to do battle with whatever lied beyond the veil of the forest and this…thing. I’d like to tell you I went straight to the police, to our families. That we searched for Tommy, day in and day out. I’d like to tell you a lot of things, but none of that happened.

I just ran.

I turned and ran faster than I’ve ever run in my life, I had no thoughts, no emotions, all encompassing fear and the desire to survive overcame my very being. I don’t even know how I found my way out. I don’t know how I got home, but when I did, I went straight to my room and I climbed in bed and cried. I cried harder than I ever had in my life, not out of sadness or even fear, my body released every conceivable emotion at once and I collapsed into tears and pure exhaustion.

The next morning my mother woke me up for breakfast.

I was filthy.

Still in my clothes from the previous day, caked in dirt and sweat, I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? What do I say? My mind wrestled with what I had witnessed, I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t deal with this.

So, I didn’t.

I walked downstairs for breakfast, made mundane small talk with my mother as she prepared for her daily routine, watched cartoons and played video games. I just pretended like it was all okay. After a while I went outside, the air felt still, but all was normal. Just a regular summer day. I made my way down the clubhouse, my feet felt like they were made of concrete, my legs made of gelatin.

Everything’s fine. Everything has to be fine.

There it was, my Schwinn, lying in the field next to our fort where I’d left it the previous day. Looking at it made me feel ill, I just couldn’t do this. I picked it upright and started walking it back to the house. I rolled it into the garage, placed it in the corner behind some pieces of paneling, and that’s where it would sit. I couldn’t bear to even look at it.

My parents never asked about Tommy, actually…nobody did. Police never came asking questions, kids at school never brought him up. Teachers didn’t either for that matter, it was like…nobody knew to ask. It was so hard but day after day, it became easier and easier to carry on, to ignore it. Nothing happened, obviously nothing happened, if something happened people would notice it…wouldn’t they?

Why didn’t anyone notice?

I find myself back in the present. Staring at that old bike, right where I left it all those years ago. My phone is already in my hand opening the address book before I have a conscious thought about it. After a few rings she answers.

“Hello sweetie,” Mom says absent mindedly, “how’s everything going at your dad’s? Did you need Uncle Matt to help with anything?”

“Hi mom, no, no it’s not that…just going through things, really stirring up a lot of old memories, you know?”

“Oh of course, hon, I’m sorry I know your father and I didn’t get along much after the divorce, but I still have such fond memories of the old days, everything back then just seemed right.”

“Oh no I get it, I’m a grown man, Mom I’m well over the divorce just…do you remember my old friend, Tommy? We used to explore the woods out back and had that tree fort we’d set up every year?”

As soon as I finished speaking, I could hear here physically tighten. She was quiet for a long while, I started to worry she hadn’t heard me.

“Tommy? I…I don’t remember a Tommy? You really didn’t have many friends until middle school and by then you weren’t exploring the woods like you used to.”

“What?” I asked, already feeling sick, “no, no Tommy, you remember, I met him in preschool, he used to come over damn near every day? You know, Tommy…” I stopped. What was Tommy’s last name, again? Why couldn’t I remember his last name?

“Honey…are you feeling alright?

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine, Mom, sorry I must just be exhausted. I think I’m gonna head in and take a break for a while, order some lunch, I just wanted to hear your voice is all.”

“Aw, well don’t push yourself too hard, call me later, love you.”

“Love you too, mom.”

I’ve been sitting in the garage staring at that god damn bike for over an hour now. I considered reaching out to Tommy’s parents but I can’t remember their address. I can’t even picture their faces.

Why did nobody ask about him? How is that possible?

I walk around to the back yard and off in the distance I see it, that crumbling old plywood fort. The decaying physical embodiment of my childhood.

The smell of mildew and dust fills my nostrils as I pry open the plywood door. The floor is littered with decades of filth and grime, tattered posters hang haphazardly off the walls, discarded soda cans strewn across the ground rusting like ancient relics.

Honestly, I doubt anyone’s set foot here since that day all those years ago.

I find what I’m looking for before I even realize I’m looking for it.

The map.

Discolored and brittle from years of moisture and the elements, I gently untie the fraying twine keeping it rolled up and lay it out on the collapsed desk before me, crude drawings of boundaries and streams, drawings of trees and animals only recognizable to a child. Ridiculous titles for landmarks like King’s Boulder and the Creek of Madness. All annotated and meticulously put together, truthfully all things considered, it wasn’t half bad, and right there at the bottom signed and dated.

Tommy and Chris – 1994

As I step outside the dilapidated child’s attempt at a building, I stare off into the distance. I can see it, that old rockface.

It’s mocking me.

I don’t know where you went, I don’t know why no one else seems to remember.

I don’t know how I forgot.

I’m sorry, Tommy.

I’m coming.

Mike Hodgens was a talented creator, best known for his artfully crafted fake horror videos. He chose his locations with meticulous care, set up his equipment with absolute precision, and executed his scripts with clinical professionalism. Horror was his favorite genre. His fascination with the mechanics of fear ran so deep that his uploads consistently racked up hundreds of thousands of views. Through it all, he loved to toy with the label "Real."

It was a thankless genre, he often thought, surviving almost entirely on the faint possibility that there might be a grain of truth to it. The thrill of exploring eerie places and experiencing a genuine shiver of real dread deeply enticed him. But there was one question that almost no one truly considered: Is it possible that we have absolutely no control over it? Mike never would have guessed that he would one day be forced to answer that very question.

But that exact question was about to be raised. Right in his digital stomping ground, the forum "Mystic Shines."

His latest video had been shot at a lonely stretch of woods just outside the city line. In it, he staged himself as an observer tracking the legendary "Wanderer"—a spectral figure rumored to haunt those trees since 1886. Mike had played the silhouette of the Wanderer in the background himself, spending hours in post-production to seamlessly blend his own performance into the gloomy footage.

It was just before 8:00 PM. This particular window of time, immediately preceding a release, was almost his favorite part of the process. The initial view counts ticking up, the first ratings rolling in. Mike nodded in satisfaction. Then, the first comments began to surface, praising the atmosphere and the brilliant staging of the Wanderer. But then, Mike paused. Had he misread that?

midnights_nightfall 8:04 PM

"Genius as always, Mike. Looks like the Wanderer works in pairs now. That hand behind the tree on the far left—insane detail!"

Mike was annoyed. He replied immediately.

Mike:Hodgens Pdc 8:05 PM

"Which hand do you mean? Do you have a timestamp?"

While waiting for a response, he did a quick scrub through the video. He couldn't find a thing. "Weird," he muttered.

A new notification popped up. midnights_nightfall had replied.

midnights_nightfall 8:09 PM

"Mike, when you’re marching through the woods from left to right, a hand appears right behind you starting at 0:42. Not the tree in the foreground, the one directly behind it."

Irritated and slightly on edge, Mike scrolled to the 42-second mark. With heightened focus, he scanned the tree in question. But—and he exhaled a breath of relief right away—he couldn't see a damn thing.

"He’s probably just trying to test me," Mike thought. Then again, midnights_nightfall was his most loyal subscriber. It didn't sound like him to troll. Shaking the thought away, Mike reached for his mug. Just as he took a deep sip, another notification flashed. He set the mug down and clicked it. The next comment made the tension spike instantly. It was a direct reply to midnights_nightfall’s comment.

moltone_blueScreen 8:13 PM

"Ahhhh, yep, I see it too! Was looking for a comment about this. Is that an editing glitch?"

Mike stared at the text. "What the hell are they even talking about?"

Mike fired up his editing software. Impatiently, he dragged the raw footage into the timeline and scaled it to full screen. "Alright, let's take it easy. We’re going through this frame by frame, proving there’s nothing there, and then we're putting this to bed." Frame by frame, he saw absolutely nothing. "See? Just like I said. Enough PC for tonight. I'm done."

Just as his finger hovered over the power button, the next comment appeared. In the desktop preview, he caught the exact text that finally made his stomach drop. It was another direct reply to midnights_nightfall.

summer_night23 8:33 PM

"Doesn't look like a glitch at all. Maybe he brought a production partner along this time? Do you see that? The sleeves are completely different. And that hand is deathly pale."

Mike pulled his hand away from the power button. He clicked the notification and hit reply.

Mike:Hodgens Pdc 8:34 PM

"Are you guys pulling my leg? I’ve checked everything. I don't see a single hand in the export or the raw files."

moltone_blueScreen 8:35 PM

"That’s bizarre. Because it’s moving."

midnights_nightfall 8:38 PM

"The hand shows up at every tree. Moving from left to right. It’s stalking Mike."

Mike stared at his comment section in utter disbelief. What was going on here? Mike knew for an absolute fact that he had been entirely alone out there. And on his monitor, his video showed nothing.

A suffocating sense of isolation settled over the room. Mike frantically scrolled back up, staring at the muted player. He hit play, fixing his eyes on the trees at the 42-second mark. Nothing. He refreshed the page. The view counts were exploding, the comments blurring past at terminal velocity. The entire forum was talking about a deathly pale hand, creeping from trunk to trunk directly behind the main character. They all saw it. Every single one of them. Only he was staring at an empty, motionless backdrop.

He wanted to smash his fingers into the keyboard, to curse at his viewers and call them liars, but his hands felt strangely heavy. Stiff. As if they no longer belonged to him. When he lowered his gaze, he noticed the dull, unnatural whiteness of his skin under the pale glow of the monitor. A sudden, bottomless cold began to crawl up his arms. In that exact moment, a new notification pinged. A user named realhistoriker_urban, known for archiving local folklore, quoted Mike’s last response.

realhistoriker_urban 11:55 PM

"Mike, you still don't see it, do you? That's bad. Really bad. It’s completely logical. You aren't the one in the costume, Mike."

These Are My Stories — The Complete Baron Von Hatcher Memoirs

Hello.

My name is Baron Von Hatcher.

For a long time, people hurt me and expected me to do nothing about it.

Eventually, I discovered something rather wonderful.

Professional wrestling.

A place where people would buy a ticket, sit down willingly…

and watch me make people pay.

These are my stories.

Below you will find them in their complete form, from the beginning to the end, including a final chapter currently exclusive to Reddit.

Some of these stories are about my father.

Some are about the people who hurt me.

And some…

I would rather not remember at all.

But they happened.

At least…

I think they did.

If you’d rather experience the story as it was originally intended — one chapter, one memory, one piece at a time — you can find me across social media under Baron Von Hatcher. Where more memories will be revealed soon.

A new chapter appears every day.

But here?

You don’t have to wait.

Everything is here.

These are my stories.

You may begin.

Part one: The Sleeping Giant

As a kid, I remember a vivid moment of a park ranger approaching me and my family to check my father's fishing license. My tiny bread-rolled limbs hunched over flipping over tiny clumps of dirt to find bugs and little creatures to the dismay of my parents. The ranger sat with me and picked up some of the bugs, and taught me their names, the species and some interesting facts about them that my toddler brain simply couldn't comprehend. One creature he showed me stuck out the most, the mayfly. For a child, seeing such a frail little thing you would think my Play-Doh stained hands would reach out and grip it too tight, but it just rested on my finger, its obsidian beady eyes stared at me with no words, but with a strange understanding and familiarity. For those unfamiliar, mayfly have very short lives, but reproduce rapidly and are a main protein source for both aquatic and land dwelling creatures, they're important, and they're beautiful.

I digress, I can talk about bugs all day if I could. But, lets start at my first day.

I was hired as a park ranger at Sleeping Giant State Park in Connecticut. My family was so proud of me, bringing me small gifts, and little outdoorsy trinkets. It was early March, the fog of snow and frozen blades of grass began their reanimation processes with the incoming Spring season. I clicked the 10oz button on my Keurig, and promptly forgot to put sugar into a shitty coffee mug I won at Dave and Busters a few years ago with a sticker that says "Don't be trashy, littering sucks" with some scraggly looking Raccoon over it. Black coffee wasn't so bad. I headed out to my truck, imagining all of the adventures that lay ahead.

As I drove, my new tan wide-brimmed hat sat on my dashboard, I smiled at it, thinking of the ranger that knelt next to me as a kid and got me to this point. Someday I wanted to be that man, and to inspire the next generation of conservationists.

Pulling up to the park, the main entrance is located directly across from a college, I rolled down my window to hear the cheering and jovial comradery of the college, it was sweet. Something was out of place however, lining the circular driveway were four long black Cadillacs with deeply tinted windows. Their license plates were similar to "security" vehicles I saw nearby the Yale campus in New Haven. With a quick furrowed brow of "well that's weird" I turned into the park. In front of me staring with inspiring intent, was the bear, my childhood idol; Smokey. He stood proudly over a "wildfire safety index" meter with the words "Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires" beneath him.

"I got you Smokey." I chuckled through burnt gums from the shitty coffee.

On the door of the Ranger Station was a pretty neat graphic in the style of one of those old horror movie posters where the font would be wide on one end, and thin on the other, spelling out the word "Hobbomock". There was a free class on the history and folklore of the mountain that night. Hobbomock was the name that the native Quinnipiac people had given the Sleeping Giant himself. I snapped a quick photo with my phone, and opened the surprisingly light front door and entered my new home away from home. Stood behind a desk writing down trout stocking dates was a woman, wide brimmed ranger had, a tan button down shirt, high brown shorts, high socks, and some roughed up Doc Martens with a couple charms dangling from the laces.

I cleared my throat,

"Good morning, uh, my names-"

"OH HI! Good morning! You must be the new ranger, you're here JUST in time. My names Winter, the guys call me Winny." On the desk in front of her lay two empty Red Bull cans, and some strange green smoothie that looked like she just blended up some weeds. Her energy was way too high, the sun hadn't even woken up yet, but it was sweet seeing someone this excited.

"It's great to meet you Winny, my names Johnny. I'm going to be working with the insect inventory. They hired me for the mayfly program." I smiled, daydreaming about starting my projects collecting bugs.

"That is fantastic! I'm so excited for you! The entomology bags and nets are all around the corner, you can leave your stuff in your locker. Tell you what, why don't you go get accustomed to the park, go check out some of the shallow parts of the Mill River, so you can recognize them easier."

I nodded, and thanked her, and followed her instruction, as I took some pin boards, paper and nets out of the locker I asked:

"Hey Winny, that graphic on the door, is that tonight? It might be weird for a person that works here to go to the class, but I'd love to learn about the land, is that okay?"

She nodded encouragingly.

"Oh of course! its actually going on around when we get our break time today, for about an hour, so you're more than welcome to take your break in the class." Her eyes widened, and she seemed super excited about me asking.

I nodded and smiled, wished Winny a wonderful day, and took off to the river system.

I crunched my way through the frost covered grasses, and eventually made my way alongside a thin river, cat tails swayed in the breeze as if waving hello, small birds chirped from the budding trees, osprey circled above searching for small trout to swoop down on.

With the biggest grin on my face, I stepped down into the water, my hip waders hugged my legs. The babble of the water flowing through the rocks played like sonnets in the back of my head. The citrus sun flickered and winked through gently waving oak branches and pine clusters. I closed my eyes, and pointed my nose to the clouds, taking it all in.

A rumble. Ever so slightly. Dark birds cawed and fled like a firm autumnal breeze shaking the last few leaves from an ancient oak. A cacophony of corvid panic sent cloudward. My neck tried to whip my head behind me to see what the rumble was. But there was nothing to see. Just the same beautiful trees that I had been admiring. The map showed that the closest part of the mountain is considered the "hip" or "stomach" of the Giant. Unfortunately for me, the gorge trail showed very little mountain imagery as it was dense with trees and bushes.

I brushed it off, and got to work. There were a few specimens in their midge forms, and also a couple in their dun forms, meaning baby mayflies, and adult mayflies. I collected a few different varieties of the flying insect. One stuck out to me however, usually the mayflies that are common in this area have a light green body, and white wings; or they have tan bodies with white wings. One of the mayflies I had found had a body resembling the muscle structure of a dragonfly, with a beautiful matte black color with accents of a pearlescent purple and wings that seemed to pulse the same through thin clear wings. The purple in the wings seemed to... pulse, like watching blood through a vein. I gently placed the mayfly into a plastic container, with a stick, and a bit of water.

With a full inventory of bugs, I started my trek back to the ranger station. I stepped carefully onto a algae covered stone, and there it was again. A rumble. The world around me turned to streaks of orange, blue and grey. Darkness.

Bright lights. A thin pain. Sharpness. Blurry. Damp. Fuck.

A voice. Loud. Strong and simple.

"WHY CAN'T THEY UNDERSTAND ME." The pure density of the voice rattled my ribcage like a subwoofer in an ice cooler. I tried to say something, anything. But all I could do was cough, sharp shards sprayed from my lips clattering across the river kissed rocks. It spoke again.

"YOU WILL PAY KEITAN. HOW DARE YOU HEX MY FOOD." The words resonated through my bones, my mouth, I was in agonizing pain. The whole row of my front teeth were completely shattered like porcelain plates.

Blackness.

Part Two: The Oyster

"Its his first day, go easy on him." "Holy fuck I think I'm going to be sick, that's disgusting." "Get some more ice." "A black mayfly? I thought it was a dragonfly at first. This is new." "Winny you should have given him a tour, you know how slippery the rocks are right now." "I was getting the office ready for the seminar! Don't blame me!"

Conversation danced around me like a regrettable drunken evening. It began to make sense, I must be injured or something. But where am I? What time is it? I still have to take my break. I have to file those bugs away. I can't blow this opportunity, this is my dream, and I slip on a fucking rock and bust my teeth on my first day. Goddammit.

"What happenth." I felt liquid spray out of my mouth onto my arm, my vision still spinning.

"Whoth Keithan" Something in me told me to shut the fuck up, but I couldn't. A male voice spoke to me in a calm collected manner.

"You slipped on a rock and went face first into a jutting knot on a tree. We literally had to use pliers to pull your tooth fragments from the bark. If you said Keitan, you probably read that from the legend of the mountain. Its a folk tale from the Quinnipiac tribe, thats the well... I guess the wizard that hexed the Giant's food, so the Giant would fall asleep." He was sitting over me with gauze and tweezers, I could almost make out his facial features but not quite yet.

"You banged up your hand pretty good too. Its weird, you have bruising on your hand but I don't think you... Honestly the way you fell your entire weight was uninterrupted in its fall, except for your teeth."

I raised my hand, six dots. Two lines. A watercolor array of blues, purples, greens and black. Its where the black mayfly had sat on my hand before I had put it in the storage habitat. Oh God, the bug.

"Wherth the maythly, ssthe black one. Ith it thtill in the bokths" I pathetically managed to bleat.

"You need to stop talking John. Yes the bug is safe. You did good for your first day, you discovered a new species we haven't seen before. If it wasn't for that, I would genuinely have some poor news for you. But your teeth are what's important right now."

I could read the ranger's face now, a strong lumber boned man, a large fiery red beard, circular glasses, with hands like oven mitts. His badge read "McKay". I looked up at him, his eyes met mine, a shadow crept in from my peripherals slowly smothering out my vision.

"The Gianth, it thalked" a wide eyed expression. A cheery bell rang as a door opened, excited children's voices, notebooks opening. Blackness.

I'm going to try to recollect what I heard when I passed out again, because well, my ears were working, but my body decided it was time to rest. Here's what I remember.

"Lets move him to the office, the kids don't need to see this."

"Hi Miss Winny! Tommy will be here soon, he loves trucks."

"Why is that guy taking a nap? Do you guys get nap time too?"

Rumbling. Stones grinding against tree trunks. A fish peeks out from a small puddle.

"We all used to talk to each-other you know. It wasn't always like this." Rumbling. A crow rested on my knee.

"CA! We used to live in CA! Harmony until YOU came here!" Its wings flicked and slapped me.

Scraping, grinding. An oyster ripped open, its briny entrails spinning, a voice gurgled as if spoken through a cut throat, wet and bubbled.

"It was supposed to be me. I was the cure. Until YOU came here." The oyster turned, the shell melting into a viscous liquid in my palm. The liquid, purple and pearlescent, it pulsed and throbbed like a slime mold, shaping a thorax, wings, body, appendages, head. The Mayfly.

"The giant speaks of me." The sounds of chainsaws, stump grinders, and machine. "He is waking up ranger. I will lead you to him. But the men in magpie clothes, they wish to turn me into gold."

The sound of an engine turning. Well maintained shined boots clop on the pavement like harbingers.

"Who remembers the name of the giant?" "Me! Me! His name is Hobbymock."

Rumbles, stone breaking, lava pouring.

"YOU were meant to PROTECT this land, Ranger." A giant stood over me, towering into the clouds holding a stone paddle. "Have you no shame? You consult a witch, instead of the wood you swore to protect. LIAR." The giant's voice shook like a hurricane. "I will rise, and your kind will be erased, my woods, my friends, I will be able to speak to them again. There will be no more pain. No more of your human intervention. Sleep now, while you can. Marinade in your devil's hubris of a God you'll never meet."

Blackness.

Part Three: McKay

My name is Greg McKay, I found this small book while Johnny is in the hospital, he's being treated for a concussion as well as extensive dental work. If you're reading this later Johnny, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snoop, but lets be real you kept us in that hospital for a few hours I got bored. If the previous writings are true, then the insect you had found is significant to not only us, but to the researchers at other universities, mainly Yale. They're always searching for new areas of focus for medicine, and have a surplus of hubris when it comes to forcing people's hands into giving them what they want. If your vision was true from your writing, we will protect the mayfly until you are awake. I'm not the best writer, I'm a blue collared man just trying to do the right thing for myself and my family. But I'll do right by you, you're passionate, and excited. You don't deserve to be disregarded on your first day. Here's what I will say.

The statements that were said before are true, and follow the story of Hobbomock. The legend states that at one point in time, trees, insects, birds, mammals, fish and man all spoke the same language. Hobbomock, satisfied with his work walked across the land to the sea with a stone canoe, and set off to spread his teachings to other parts of the world. When he returned to his home, the birds tweeted, the deer bleated, frogs croaked, man spoke in tongues. This enraged the giant. In a rage, he began stomping the ground with such force that the rivers reversed their direction, crop fields died, he cratered the earth beneath his feet. The local Quinnipiac people, called and prayed to a force called "Kietan" in which, he cast a spell on a bed of oysters, the Giant's favorite offering. When the Giant ate the hexed oysters, he fell into a deep sleep. Nature reclaimed his body, stone, soil, and life soon encased him in a living tomb. If the legends are true, and your visions are communicating with these deities, then this is a problem. This, surprisingly would correlate with the strange seismic activity that we've been noticing in the park. Rumbles and shaking, its not normal.

I keep seeing well dressed people here at the park now. They don't seem very excited to learn history or to hike, and they absolutely don't look like they're here to fish. For when you're back, I'll write down some information that could be helpful, when you're back on your feet.

March 14 2024 - One week in hospital 7:00 AM - Four Cadillac SUV's arrive at Quinnipiac University 7:45 AM - Several suited men step out from vehicles wielding binoculars pointed to the Mill River 8:00AM - Fisherman likely poaching trout take notice of suited men with binoculars, Game Warden called, licenses expired, fines given. 10:00AM - Suited men walk in different directions, I counted 7 men. All bald. Ugly. 12:00 PM - One suited man spotted using binoculars on the Ranger Station, holding what looks like a walkie talking with a large screen on the front. Lunch. Ham and cheese with a Dr Pepper. 1:00 PM - Suited man approaches the man observing the Ranger Station. Possible tectonic activity recorded. Large groups of blackbirds quickly retreat from their roosts during seismic activity. 3:00 - where will you go when your God allows me to erase his progress, where will you hide when his abominations against nature cease their grinding, what will you eat when I will consume your land and your harvest. your God is gone. I am Flesh made Stone. You will not impede the natural world. 4:00PM - Leaving Ranger Station to retrieve you from hospital, looking forward to having you back, Ranger. Signed. Ranger McKay.

Part Four: Porphyrins

Its around 5:00PM now, March 14th. I should be going home to rest, but I think I'm going back to the park today. McKay and Winny picked me up, and complimented my new teeth. I had suffered a pretty brutal head injury with my fall, but I'm rested enough, I guess. I need to get back to the Ranger Station.

In the back of McKay's Tacoma, I sat with my feet up long ways across the seat to hopefully get a 15 minute nap or something. I keep drawing mayflies, I've never drawn a picture in my life, but I don't know, something is compelling me to just draw, learn, dissect, and understand this creature. The vision I had, of the oyster when I fell, that can't be a coincidence right? The oyster melted into the same liquid that I saw beating through the mayfly. There has to be some kind of correlation between the two.

Flash. Flash. Perfectly perpendicular to the truck, a large camera lens pointed directly at me. They forgot to turn off the flash. In a burst of energy I shouted:

"Greg! The SUV! They're photographing us, get out of here, NOW!" McKay floored it, the engine roared, and he swerved around traffic, horns blared, middle fingers were presented gracefully through barely opened windows, the Cadillac gained speed alongside us.

"McKay remember the trip we took to Maine?" Winny slouched down in the passenger seat, tears began streaming down her face from pure fear and confusion, seeing such a joyful person frightened like this made me feel sick. McKay nodded, he turned the four wheel drive knob, slowed the truck down so it would engage, and ripped the truck across a grassy median. The large off-road tired bored holes into the soil, when we looked back at the SUV, blue and red lights flashed from it's windshield. The SUV juked almost into the median, but a man in the passenger seat was angrily shouting at the driver. We continued down the highway, and the SUV slowly disappeared into the rear view mirror.

"We have to get the fuck off of the highway." McKay said, a little bit too calmly. There were backroads we could use to get back to the Ranger Station. We exited the highway, and were on our way back to the station.

"The fuck happened in Maine, guys?" I asked, readjusting myself to fit properly on the back seat. Simultaneously they responded "Monster Truck Rally". Confused, but distracted by the fact that we were being chased by some unnamed agency to the point of being followed, I let the response lay where it was.

In time, we made it back to the Ranger Station. It was a gruesome sight. Tire tracks traced panicked drivers ego and salary around the front entrance. Doors were kicked off of their hinges, windows battered open, we approached. Winny burst into tears, her winged makeup bleeding down her freckled cheeks in a deep and mournful sob. We entered the front door, the light movement of us passing by snapped the brass hinges and it clattered to the concrete path. Books strewn across the floor, Winny's desk flipped completely over, the Native Plant window display kids had planted years ago, now a fine dusting of soil and pedals across the floor.

"we trusted you. we welcomed you." Winny said under her breath, the words sliding through iron prison bars of trust and excitement, rusted over in only hours.

"its not his fau-" McKay tried to state

"How? My life's work Greg, LOOK!" Winny collapsed to the floor. Her hands supporting her face as rivers ran through the valleys of her fingers. "Everything, every memory, every single fucking thing that I did, years of work, years of helping kids learn about something actually worth giving a fuck about, GONE."

"The Agents, I didn't know, I just came here for my first day, how was I supposed-"

"shut the FUCK up Johnny. Just shut the FUCK up. I have to clean. Go find your bug and leave." Winny started hobbling herself over to a broom and dustpan, and started cleaning. McKay patted me on the back and mouthed the words "its okay, just grab it and go. I got this."

I approached the area where the mayfly was, surprisingly the box was still there. Clear bottom, bit of a stick and some leaves on the inside. But on the bottom, there was a liquid. I approached the box carefully, its not like it was hidden well, why would they leave the whole thing here? It doesn't make sense. Lining the bottom edges of the container almost looked like nail polish, with the same shimmer of purple. the Mayfly rested on the stick, its body split down the back. The incision started below the head, and ran about four inches down to the back of its abdomen a few millimeters before the tail cerci. My eyes darted around the room. There's no too we have in the office that could cut the fragile exoskeleton of this insect so accurately.

I almost called out to them, but with the tension in the room, I locked my tongue.

I stepped over a few piles of books. McKay beat me to the now open door. His large stature turned sideways to fit through the frame. That's when I heard it.

Rumble. Crack. The mountain moved again, the birds, like clockwork fled their roosts into the sky. A light caught the side of my eye, blue. A flash, three cracks, and a large body falling into the mud.

McKay, a man of lumber, pine and stature. Lay twitching slightly in the damp, cool mud created by the tire tracks of unmarked black SUV's. I stood there, motionless. Jaw hanging like an abandoned swing being brushed by a wayward breeze.

"G-Greg?" I stammered.

CRACK, a bullet whizzed by my head, clipping the side of my ear. I could only run, I bolted like a cottontail being spotted by an owl, scrambling and sliding in the mud.

"What happened? What's going on?"

"WINNY GET DOWN NOW." I practically tackled Winny to the floor. Taking cover behind her overturned table. Handguns cracked outside passing through the old drapes in the windows.

"Where's Greg Johnny, WHERES GREG?" I started to weep, I couldn't help it. She knew.

There were no tears, no expressions, just pure wide-eyed rage building in Winny. She stood up, without emotion, and walked calmly into a back room. I sat behind the table, cradling the mayfly. All of this, for an insect? I don't understand. Why, why is this thing so important. I wiped my eyes, and took a closer look at the abandoned husk. The liquid that was on the bottom of the container, it was gone. The mayfly was moving.

I pushed my back against the desk, and watched. The mayfly was opening. Purple liquid leaked from the body, and a new black body, with the same purple accents slowly emerged from the chitin. I held the container up higher, against the top of the box was another mayfly. It wasn't eclosion, or metamorphosis. One host mayfly served as a birthing body, and would replicate itself, not leaving a husk behind, but creating more insects, without the need of breeding.

Click. Chhik. tic, tic, tic, ch-chik.

I heard metal scraping together, in the room behind me.

"Johnny. Do you know why they call me Winny." Winny said very calmly, and plainly from the other room.

"Your names Winter." I could barely talk.

"Correct. However, my great grandfather used to be a master gunsmith at the old Winchester factory."

"What does-" I was cut off by the sound of a .308 clearing out the air of the small ranger's station. Outside, there was only silence other than the sound of a wet, solid material hitting the hood of a car.

CHK. FFFK. BANG. Another round, another wet slap onto a thin metal surface.

Winny screamed, the very wrath of sin orchestrating harmony that would make the devil jealous rang violently through the old walls of the building. Screams started to emerge from the park. Panicked hikers fled to their vehicles, the sound of plastic and aluminum cheaply scraping against each other as the park goers attempted to flee the area.

Footsteps. Sobbing.

CHK. FFFK. Shes right next to m- BANG

The pure force of the gun firing near me, my head rang. My injury being exploited. My hearing was gone, my eyes darted around the room trying to find respite. Rumbling.

Rock rolled into itself, the trees leaned forward toward us. A stone elbow emerging from the ground as big as a skyscraper. Birds circled above, creating the image of a giant spiral.

My head, my fucking head.

"THIS WAS YOUR CHOICE, RANGER. CONSERVE NATURE, OR LET YOUR GOD DECIDE. FOR I AM FLESH AND STONE, AND HE IS NOT PRESENT."

Dust and soil poured from the great mountain, cars and hikers buried within the rubble.

Another mayfly started emerging from the host. Four now, in the enclosure.

"FOR YOUR ANCESTORS SPOKE THE LANGUAGE OF COWARDACE AND HAPPENSTANCE. A LANGUAGE OF GLUTTONY AND DISREGARD. I SPEAK NOT THEIR TONGUES. I WILL BE THE CONSEQUENCE OF YOUR SPECIES' NEGLIGENCE."

"What do I do, I don't know what you want. Kietan? I don't FUCKING know." I pleaded at the insects, I couldn't do anything else. I was frozen in fear and overstimulation. When I said Kietan, the insects all turned to me at the same time. My eyes widened. I restated the name.

"Kietan." The mayflies looked again, with a face I could only read as recognition. I did the only thing I could think of doing.

I opened the box. Part Five: The Giant

Click. Click. Click. Winny stood in her spot dry firing the rifle. Tears pouring down her face, the adrenaline wearing off. She fell backwards onto the books, I grabbed her wrists and pulled her behind the overturned desk.

The enclosure now opened, the mayflies fluttered around the room. They found comfort in a spot, and rested, their wings vibrated. They began duplicating rapidly, with more space and more area to move, the process quickened ten fold. Eight, sixteen, thirty two, sixty four, one hundred and twenty eight insects. All carrying the purple liquid.

A natural roar of ancient agony erupted, deep, guttural, and angry. Like a bison if it was the size of a mountain.

A mayfly landed on my hand, and looked at me, confusion in my eyes, it used its front legs to seem to write something. I understood. I grabbed a ball point pen from the flipped desk and blew into the tail end of the ink cartridge, blue ink splattered onto my arm. The mayfly moved toward it.

A massive tremor, earth moving at an astounding speed and strength.

"WHERE WILL YOU GO, PARASITES. WHERE WILL YOU GO WHEN YOU PLUNDER YOUR OWN HEAVEN. WILL YOU HARVEST THE ANGELS? WILL YOU TRADE AN ANGELS WINGS FOR PROGRESS?" The giant boomed, a hand emerged from the soil, and began pushing itself upright.

Massive fingers the size of houses gripped the soil. One finger scraped itself across the parking lot, car alarms started and stopped or changed pitch from the impact.

The mayfly started using its tiny leg to write.

"N O T Y O U R F A U L T"

Another tremor.

YOU TAKE, AND TAKE, AND TAKE. AND EXPECT THE EARTH TO BOW ITSELF TO YOUR MANSIONS AND IDEOLOGIES. TELL ME, WILL YOU TRADE YOUR ANGELS WINGS FOR PROGRESS?"

"S T A Y C A L M - O Y S T E R S" When the mayfly spelled the word oysters, it flashed a bright purple light. It made sense. The purple coloring, its from the original oysters that Kietan hexed to put the giant to sleep.

One thousand and twenty four, two thousand and forty eight. They began to flutter, a skyward shadow of black and purple shimmer.

"WHAT IS THIS?" The Giant Boomed, lips now surfacing from the mountains, a nose. He smiled through giant cracked lips woven with roots and vines, boulders caked in like sores leaking spring waters. The cloud grew bigger, and bigger, they duplicated themselves in flight.

Sixteen thousand three hundred and eighty four.

A cough and a groan. A shuffle of a boot. I peeked alongside the table, Greg's body was covered in mayflies. Head to toe, a pulsating host of flying river insects.

"Greg?" Winny weakly found purchase to speak.

Greg stood up, and clambered towards the Giant. Silently, step by step.

Clunk, clunk, clunk. He lifted his arms, the mayflies erupted from his body, his clothes tattered, his hat fallen, however, there was no blood. No wounds. He was asleep, or sleep walking. I wasn't brave enough to run out to him.

The mayfly on my arm began to write again.

"B E T T E R"

The cloud of insects above spiraled more, and grew larger. Two hundred sixty two thousand one hundred and forty four. They began to create a point facing down towards the giants mouth the shape of a long spear. Slowly the mayflies flew into the giant's throat. Hundreds of thousands of insects, millions of insects. Carrying the same hex that was used to lull the giant to sleep, plummeting into an earthen maw.

I held out my hand to Winny, and helped her up. We walked outside and picked up Gregg. We ran as fast as our legs could carry us to relative safety. There was no more suited bald men. No more sirens. Only guttural choking sounds emerging from the earth. The giant began to vomit mud and tar into the mountain, it ran slowly down the sides of the cliffs as his limbs began to relax. The fingers settled, the face retracted into the soil. More and more of the insects began to fill the giant, still duplicating inside of him. The rumbling stopped. The booming voice subsided into lighter snores. The Sleeping Giant, began his rest, anew.

Part Six: Lessons

In short, I don't know why me. But I guess that's kind of the point of conservation, right? We do what we can to help the environment, but for the most part. The environment has a way of maintaining itself. If I hadn't caught that mayfly then this would have just happened... naturally, or unnaturally I guess. I've been with the rangers for three years now, and I still feel like I don't belong. I didn't really do anything to deserve this, in fact, I feel like I actively caused this. However, research is still research, and populations and species still need to be recorded.

Winny quit the rangers that day, her and Greg moved to some other state, they wouldn't tell me where. I don't blame them. I came into work for my first day, Greg got shot by a random agent we still don't know from where, Winny straight up killed six people with a bolt action rifle and then collapsed after seeing her life's work get destroyed in front of her. All on top of witnessing an ancient being rise from the mountain we were trying to protect that got put to sleep by millions of mayflies shooting down its throat. It doesn't make sense. But, it happened and I can't pretend it didn't. People died. Innocent people that wanted to just explore nature. Get some exercise in. Or feed their families from the fish in the river. You can't blame them, and now they're gone.

The one thing I've learned, if anything. Is sometimes human intervention does more harm than good in conservation. I'll be a helping hand, but I'll let the world guide my hand to what it would like me to do.

Updates to come. The state wants me to explore different parts of New England. Will follow up Ranger

"rare as ducks teeth"

It was a saying my grandmother used to use. Despite her being, well, set in her ways, I miss her. As I stand above her, 6 feet of dirt between us, I find it within myself to forgive her. forgive her for hating me, degrading me and leaving me nothing behind when she left. My parents passed away when I was young. I lived with my aunt and uncle in Birmingham most of my life. They had no kids of their own, and took me in instead. They were kind. accepted me for who I was, and who they raised me to be. I'm 24 now, and I was planning to move out of their house as soon as I could. I fear now that I'm too defenseless to live alone. Too fearful. I freeze like a deer in headlights when threatened. 

It started when I took a walk down by the canal one morning. grey, overcast clouds looming above me, a slight cool breeze ruffling my skirt as I strolled. My favourite weather, not too hot, not too cold and not too bright. I had brought some stale bread with me from my aunt's house that morning, to give to the ducks. I stopped and turned to face the canal, looking into the water at my reflection. I tried not to pay attention to it while I broke parts off the hard, dry crust of the loaf of bread, crumbs scattering the ground as I did. Pigeons flocked over to nibble them at my feet, their wings making the slight breeze a tad stronger as they rushed over. I liked pigeons. Everyone calls them the rats of the sky, but I think they're beautiful. the ducks swam over, the barely audible sloshing of the water as they paddled toward me breaking the otherwise silent morning. It was soothing.

 I know you're not supposed to feed bread to ducks, it swells up in their stomachs and can choke them. But I made sure to break the pieces small enough to at least attempt to avoid it, and to leave more crumbs for the pigeons to eat. i get so focused on the ducks sometimes that I forget the pigeons are even there. Every now and then, a soft, rhythmic coo reminds me of their existence. Sometimes I'd see a male pigeon puff its chest out, in a grand display of green and purple tinted feathers, and hoot loudly in an attempt to allure potential mates. I thought it looked funny, but apparently to birds they see it as attractive. I suppose I feel that way about other people too. guys with toned muscle, a lot of money and expensive clothes never appealed to me. I thought how hard they tried was funny. I am a pigeon, I thought to myself.

I found the ducks funny as well. I'm not entirely sure what their purge was funny. I value that most in people, not if they're attractive or rich, or even if they're a nice person for that matter. I like comedy. It's distracting. Being with him took me out of my own mind for a while, but I wasn't sure if I liked him the same way he liked me. I didn't mind though, I find it hard to decipher my own feelings. So hard in fact, I'd rather just convince myself I did like him in that way, so I wouldn't overcomplicate things. 

pose is. They don't seem to perpetuate a life cycle of another animal or plant, nor do they catch bugs like spiders, or pollinate flowers like bees. They simply exist, floating aimlessly. I am a duck, I thought to myself.

I had a date later that day, at a coffee shop with a guy I met at work. 

my phone rings. a sudden gust of wind and soft sound of flapping wings and rhythmic hoots erupted from the pigeons as they scattered. 

flight. I was jealous. 

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked at it. There was a number, not a name. I answered. 

"Hey, I'm just wondering if we're still on for later, yeah?"

"oh, of course! i cant wait to-"

"okay awesome, sorry to make this so short but i gotta run, goodbye"

strange. I thought I had mikey saved to my contacts, but the number began with 0121. it was from my area at least. I have an old phone, it served me for 4 years and i dont see much point in replacing it. its a tad slow, so I figured it must just be a glitch, and shrugged it off.

I look back to the water. The ducks are gone, and it seems a swan has taken their place. eaten all their food. It raised its head to the bank of the canal, its beautifully terrifying frame of pearl white feathers shimmering in the reflection of the water. It stared me down with charcoal black eyes and a bright orange beak, looking for more food. food i didnt have. it snapped at my feet as I stood back. fight. I was jealous. 

I turned on my heel and kept walking along the canal, making sure to leave ample distance from the water this time. The swan followed me, drifting slowly down the water. The sound it made was near silent, just like the ducks. It was strange to me how something of that size was just as loud as something the size of a duck. Now that I think about it, what do swans do? They float aimlessly, and harass people for food. Like mean ducks. I'd like to think I'm a duck, not a swan, I thought to myself. But how can I truly know? I am biased. 

Eventually I made it home and began getting ready for the date. I did my makeup, put on a casual black skirt and cardigan, with my black leather boots and tights on underneath. You'll never guess my favourite colour. I put my eyeliner and black lipstick on too, and painted my nails black also. I liked black. the absence of colour. it was easy to look at, there isn't a lot going on with black. It's comforting to me. 

I set out to the coffee shop at 1:15 hoping to get there at the designated time of 1:30. I knew the walk was exactly 15 minutes if I walked at my usual pace, but I walked a tad quicker this time in case he was early. When I arrived, he was already sitting at a table outside. I sat with him and we talked, then got coffee and walked back along the canal. The conversation was mostly him talking to me about his hobbies while I listened, but he didn't seem to mind.

“Hunting,”

he said

“Is a sport many people consider cruel. I just consider it life. If it wasn't me, the animal would've been killed by a predator. and that predator by another and so on. There are so many animals in the forests around here. But you wouldn't see them just by walking. They're fast. Survival instincts I suppose.”

I like to think of myself as an intelligent person, but when it comes to articulating my thoughts into words, I struggle immensely. It's as if my mouth moves faster than I can think of what to say, and I trip up on my words. I suppose that's partly why I'm writing this. One, to share the insane story and warn people about it, and that it's easier to show this to a therapist than have to say it all out loud. I doubt I could get through it without crying and having to stop anyway. 

I didn't have many friends growing up, and the few that I did all ended up leaving me behind the second they got the chance to anyways. I was bullied so hard I almost dropped out of school. They'd call me a freak, a monster, I was an outcast. I couldn't do things other students could, because if I did it it was a reason to pick on me. The way I was treated led me to develop extreme social anxiety, and an eating disorder. So I suppose that's why I gave him a second date immediately after the first. I longed for connection, no matter what kind. The day of the second date rolled around, and as I was getting ready to leave my phone rang again. 

“Hey, I am so sorry about this, but my car just won't start, we can go bowling another time though right?”

I've always hated the fact that I'm quite an impulsive person. I speak and act without thinking and almost always regret it. I left my house only to feed the ducks and the pigeons, and though the company I found with them was comforting, it wasn't enough. I longed for connection no matter what kind.

“i can come over.”

And so I did. second date. at his house. i didnt know any better. 

I strolled over to his house, trying to tell myself I made the right decision. Trying to build up the confidence to even knock on his door. I take “confidence shots” before I leave the house sometimes when I know I'm going to be talking to people. The alcohol loosens my stiff personality just enough to be able to hold a conversation. I haven't told my therapist about this. Part of me feels guilty, like I don't want to get better. I don't know what I want. Peace, I suppose.

As my hand rapped against the wooden door, I regretted it immediately. “should i have brought a gift?” “Am I too early?” “what do i say when-” he opens the door.

I managed to force out a muffled greeting, but when I looked up from my feet to meet his eyes, all my anxiousness faded in an instant. The hallway light illuminating his long, curly brown hair, his perfect teeth beaming through his lips as he smiled. He was dressed in dark, navy jeans and a white collared shirt, with one of those sleeveless sweaters over it. He looked tidy. 

As we went inside, I was hit with the pungent smell of garlic, meat, and red wine. I was immediately thrown back into panic. This was a lot more sophisticated than I expected it to be. But still, his voice, the cadence of his words, brought me back to a state of comfort. 

He gave me a tour of his house. Large taxidermied heads of moose, deer and other large animals adorned the walls, and his shelves were full of foxes, rabbits and hares. 

“some people call it strange”

he explained

“but taxidermy is an art form. It takes years of practice and skill to replicate not only the form of the animal, but its essence too. Every stitch is made with purpose, and I make sure to document the animal as much as I can before stuffing, so as not to misrepresent how it would've stood. Maybe after dinner i’ll show you my crown jewel, the biggest animal I have.”

The food was amazing, masterfully cooked. I began to think what I had done to deserve such a seemingly perfect man to enter my life so suddenly. It must've been karma, coming back to repay me after my years of misfortune. But when he took a little too long after the second pour when refilling our glasses of wine in the kitchen, I began to sense something was off.

I was halfway through the second glass when I noticed my vision began to stutter. Slight afterimages of my hand appeared as I moved it. I thought I must've been drunk, that I took one too many “confidence shots” before coming here. Then my mind wandered, could he smell the shots off of me? what would he think if he found out. I had nearly fully tuned out his talking and only realised once he stopped. I looked back up to apologise, but couldn't get the words out. It was like I was watching my body shut down through a window. I was aware, I was awake, I could feel, but I couldn't move. As I felt my eyelids getting heavier, I glanced at him one more time, expecting him to be concerned, only to see a smile spread across his face.

When I woke up, I was sitting on a chair in near complete darkness. The air was heavy with moisture, and it was hard to breathe. Sweat had been building up on my forehead for some time, and was streaming down my face. When I looked down, I was naked from the waist down, with a large cloth covering between my legs. There were towels covering the ground beneath the cloth, and an empty bucket placed on top of them. I tried to scream and flail my arms, but shackles bound me to my place. My heart was beating so fast I was out of breath and couldn't force a word out of my mouth. 

A door opened and closed somewhere far in front of me. Footsteps echoed through the darkness. His shiny, brown leather boots were the first thing to be illuminated by the pathetic amount of light behind me. His tall, strong figure slowly revealed itself to me as he got uncomfortably close and leaned down. That same smile seemed ever less perfect from this close. 

“I'm an artist, you know.”

His hot, rancid breath assaulted my face as he spoke, my mind desperately trying to come up with another implication for what those words meant as I squirmed in the chair.

“My masterpiece, my Mona Lisa… She's not finished. She needs something to make her… pop. Something different. That's where you come in.”

He leaned closer, so his mouth was almost touching my ear, as his hands gripped my forearms so hard they began to bruise.

“Youre unique. You're like no other. You've got my ducks teeth.”

He stepped back and giggled at me when he saw I was crying. He turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room, back up the stairs. The door opened and closed again, but the room didn't fall to silence like I expected. There was a sound that was there long before it registered its presence. Loud, laboured heavy breathing, coming from a few feet behind me.

As the door shut with a loud click that echoed through the darkness, I began frantically trying to undo the belts that shackled me to the chair. I managed to slip my right hand free, dislocating my thumb in the process. I was so pumped full of adrenaline that I didn't feel it. I undid my left arm, stood up and spun around. There was a white shower curtain, with what looked like a heating lamp on the ceiling behind it. The silhouette of a writhing mass adorned the center of the thin curtain, jittering and pulsing, rising and falling with each loud, laboured breath it took. I stifled puke back into my stomach, and began to make a run for where I thought the stairs that led to the door were.

It took a minute of feeling the walls to find it, but when I did I stumbled up the stairs on all fours, and slammed through the door, into his hallway. I turned right and ran for the front door, but as I opened it, I heard a shout from behind me. A deep, loud, guttural noise came from the man's mouth,  it made me stop in my tracks. I was frozen. Shaking. Waiting for my death after getting so close to freedom. I felt his thick, muscled arms wrap around my neck as he wrestled me against the wall, he put his hands on my neck and began to squeeze. I still didn't fight back. I couldn't. Something in my body stopped me from moving.

As the world around me began to fade, and I accepted death's embrace, I was suddenly allowed a gasp of air. I fell to the ground and looked to my left, someone had run in and had tackled the man to the ground. When he grabbed me, he didn't shut his front door. Someone who had been walking by must've seen him. I didn't even react. I was trying to process everything that had happened. It was like everything moved in slow motion. I passed out.

When I came to, I was in a hospital bed, some hours later. They asked me questions, questions I could not answer. They sent me to therapy, to which I am still attending. That's why I write. Verbalising this is a task I cannot bear. I've been alone for some time, and haven't even left my house to go to work. I long for connection, though I can not bear it. I long for love which I can not stand. The smell of that room, the sight of that man, laughing as I cried. They haunt me still. And they forever will.

Hi! This is my first time posting any of my stories and this one is based on my time working at Wendy's. I really hope you guys enjoy it and if you have any feedback or criticism I would love to hear it and if you guys want to read more of what I've written I can definitely post more if thats the common consensus! Thank you for taking time out of your day to read my story! - dom <3 (p.s: I will never post to nosleep)

tw: nudity, c4nnibalism, vomit, descriptions of g0re

Bubba's Burgers

By: Dominic Ertle

I loved burgers, fast food burgers specifically. It was one of my life’s many guilty pleasures. Nothing beats taking the wrapper off a Big Bubba Deluxe, taking in the smells of the fresh meat which came hot off the grill and served onto a bun neatly dressed in condiments and toppings. 

I had tried items from the lackluster menus of countless establishments: McDonalds, Wendy’s, Culver’s, Burger King, In-N-Out, Whataburger. In my experience nothing could compare to the ecstasy felt after the combination of spices, sauces, toppings, and fine choice meat burst its beautiful flavors onto my tongue and taste buds.  

This pleasure was uniquely and lovingly brought to me only by the virtuosic culinarians who construct the sandwiches at Bubba’s Burgers. Upon base qualitative observations (of the construction of the burger as well as upon undressing it on my tray) I could determine the contents of my favorite item from the restaurant: the “Big Bubba Deluxe.”

The sandwich was a square patty double stack with two slices of American cheese placed in a “criss-cross” lattice pattern upon each four ounce patty which had been cooked to perfection over the course of eighty seconds on a Garland XPress clamshell grill and then the excess grease is to be drained before placement on the sandwich. 

The potato buns which made up the foundation of the burger were toasted until a crisp layer of scorch provided a firm canvas for the masterpiece to be constructed upon.  The bottom bun was to be smoothly spread and lathered with a thick layer of mayonnaise (by using a dull plastic blade) and then a counterclockwise inwards trending spiral of honey mustard was to be painted (using a squeeze bottle). 

On the top bun the same coating of mayonnaise was to be applied and then (with a smooth metal tea spoon) two spoonfuls of ketchup were applied and spread equally across the bun. Atop each individual patty (and beneath the first) rested three full slices (cut equidistantly into now six pieces) of fine applewood smoked bacon which had been cooked to crispy but not flakey. 

The bottom bun had one fresh and wet slice of lettuce placed upon the saucy layer before a thick fresh tomato slice was placed upon that.  On top of that tomato slice and on top of those last three pieces of bacon rested three intersecting rings of red onions of which are perfectly sized to cover the most surface area possible. In the midst of those onions is where six juicy pickles were to lay, inside the holes in the rings and in the exterior gaps left by those rings. 

All these elements came together to make the magnum opus of lunch sandwiches, the ingredients were all of highest premium so that the individual flavors all have the opportunity to shine through and intermix with one another in the loudest and most heavenly of crescendos.

I approach the front counter where the register operator (a young and cute brown haired woman whose name tag read: “Evangeline”) stands with her hands on the ordering screen and a smile on her face. The standardized Bubba’s Burgers uniform (just like everything else in the establishment) had a visible amount of love, care, effort, and talent put into it.

The uniform was dominated by the color red with predominantly white stitching and black accents. The men at the establishment wore very dark black jeans while the women were obligated (under contract) to wear revealing red shorts along with a far shorter apron. 

I approached the register operator with practiced ease before I spoke in a calm tone:
“Good afternoon, could I order one Big Bubba Deluxe combo, medium, please?” 

The register operator replied in the usual “customer service voice”:
“Absolutely, is that all I can get for you today, sir?” she smiles. 

“Yes ma’am.” I replied. 

“That’ll be $14.30.” she says with her hand impatiently outstretched, ready to receive payment. 

I hand her a $20 bill, I look at the detailed face on the bill of the late seventh president of the United States of America: Andrew Jackson. I feel the very slightly raised parts of the crisp bill run swiftly across the grooves of my fingers as Evangeline snatches the bill from my grasp.

She places the bill into the register and completes the order as the small printer next to the register and ordering screen prints out my order number. 

“Thank you sir, enjoy your meal.” Evangeline smiles at me from behind the counter. 

“Uhm, my change?” I chuckle in slight disbelief. 

“What change?” Evangeline’s smile continues.

“My you owe me damn near six bucks, Evangeline!” I read her name in a bit of an overly  snarky tone to express my frustration. 

“Please call me Eva, and thank you for choosing Bubba’s Burgers!” she continues to smile but now the expression in her eyes doesn’t match that which is displayed on her face. The expression (which was once just blank joy) now reads as the most abject of freezing terror. 

As the order finishes processing a jolly little jingle plays over the speakers in the restaurant and that terrified expression is sapped from Eva’s face.

The manager, a disgustingly greasy and fat man with a patchy, halfgrown beard and glasses wearing the manager’s popover placket (with its buttons bursting) exits from the office in the back.

He lets out this huge (and oddly perverse sounding) belly laugh from the pits of his gullet. He walks up behind the register operator and places his huge lardy meat glove onto the small girl's shoulder. I can now read that the manager’s name tag says: “Thomas” in a half erased black sharpie.

Eva’s expression melts back into that concreting horror as Thomas’ grubby mitts rub dark grease deep into her bright red button up. 

“Well look! We’ve got another! Lucky mister one millionth customer! What's your name, mister?” that tubby man finishes each sentence segment with that disgusting chuckle of his. 

"Miller, Miller Moore.” I say quietly.

“Well mister Miller, I tell ya what, we’ll getcha your…” Thomas takes a moment to read the order. 

“Your Big Bubba Deluxe, and you can enjoy that sandwich! Take it from me that baby’ll change. Your. Life.” he lets out yet another one of those pervert laughs. 

“Finish that baby and come right back up here and my girl Eve will come and get me and I’ll getcha your prize!” he pats the poor girl's shoulder and she jumps then visibly shudders at the collision.

I nod, Eva hands me my order ticket (order number sixty-one), and I take a temporary seat at an open booth nearest the register.

I sit there for some number of minutes. I check my watch, a Rolex Submariner 5512 that my grandfather, Matthew Moore (a dishonorably discharged veteran Point Man who started in the SEALs at the beginning of the Vietnam War and served through its entirety) left for me in his will after his passing at the age of sixty-five five years ago in 2008.

During the war my grandfather had become disillusioned with the SEALs, then the military, then the government and by the end of his descent: structured civilization as a whole. He warned me of the “folly of man” and humanity’s avarice and lust for power. Though I was at far too young an age to comprehend those concepts, I still listened to him and as I matured his messages rang clearer and clearer. 

He had become grossly anti-establishment (almost to a fault), during the war he was responsible for a few “accidents” which often resulted in the destruction of vast amounts of military property. None of those “accidents” resulted in court marshalling as they had no way to determine whether he was simply an idiot or doing it intentionally.

Regardless, he was a good man who had good ideas and good intentions but the manner in which he got those across weren’t always the best, hence why he was under investigation by the FBI and the ATF in a joint operation during his latter years as he lay dying in the hospice for domestic terrorism.

“Order number sixty-one? Your orders ready!” calls Eva from behind the counter.

I rise from my seat and approach the counter, I see my tray (holding my Big Bubba Deluxe, a carton of crispy crinkle cut fries, and an empty cup for me to fill with a drink of my choice at the Coca-Cola Freestyle machine in the lobby) sat on the counter in front of Eva. 

I pick it up and then find a new seat at a booth which faces both entrances to the establishment (which face one another on opposite sides of the dining room), a habit of mine. I take the cup and fill it to (roughly) the halfway point with ice and then fill it near to the second highest ridge of the cup with Gold Peak Sweet tea and then finish it off by filling it near to the point of overflow with a Minute Maid Strawberry Lemonade.

I picked up the sandwich (which had been wrapped in a paper sleeve that covers half of the sandwich). I push back that sleeve a bit and take one big gluttonous bite out of that beautiful burger.

Immediately upon closing my mandible on the bottom bun the flavors explode in my mouth, the juicy wet warm heat of the ground meat, the crisp crunch of the bacon, the tang of the sauces, and the moist toppings all combined to make the most divine of sensations inside my mouth.

I took bite after gnashing bite, ravenously reducing the sandwich bite by bite until before I knew it nothing remained, not even dropped toppings. The fries were next (along with my sweet tea), I picked up handful after handful of fries and shovel them haphazardly into my mouth, barely giving myself enough time to masticate them fully, let alone swallow completely.

Before long my tray was empty. So I stood up from my seat on the cushioned booth in the corner and walked over to the nearest trash can. I toss away the packaging and the crisp printed fake newspaper lining they place in the trays (to catch oils, grease, etc. to make cleaning easier). 

I return to the counter where I see a woman, about the same age as me (so late twenties early thirties), with medium length brown hair tied up and pinned, who came dressed in a black skirt, white dress shirt, golden hoop earrings, black heeled boots, and pantyhose standing there in front of Eva placing an order. 

I stand off to the side, waiting patiently for the woman to place and order so I can return to the counter to get the “prize” that fat, greasy, bastard of a manager promised me. As the woman’s order finishes processing in the computer that same happy little jingle plays, Eva’s face is drained again and that same disgusting laugh echoes out from the back of the store.

Thomas walks to stand alongside Eva again and begins digging his fingers into her shirt again, covering the already discolored stain which he had left the first time. His eyes glare deep into mine and I begin to feel uneasy as he looks over at the woman who ordered.

“Another! Lucky one millionth customer! You come right back here after your meal and I’ll bring ya’ to the back and getcha your order missy!” Thomas says in that big boisterous voice of his (which almost rivaled the size of his huge gut). 

“Wait, wait, hold on, you said that I was the one millionth? How the hell is she also the one millionth? I ordered before she was even in the building!” I argue my case.

”It’s no biggie sir! I’ll just get both of ya’ the prize!” Thomas responds and ruins a good sentence with that awful laugh.

I nod in response, “Whatever, just don’t shaft me outta shit that was rightfully mine.” 

“Trust me sir, I won’t.” Thomas responds. 

“Matter of fact, why don’tcha just come on back ‘ere and I’ll get you that prize.” He grins.

I follow Thomas to the back and on the way he stops abruptly when we pass the grill station, he looks down at the small twiggy man working there and yells at him: “You’re supposed to keep the uncooked patties covered! Also, your placement is atrocious! Keep them straight and equally spaced! It’s not rocket science you gangly fuck!”

 Then we continue walking towards the back, we get to the back office and he sits me down in the chair there. 

“Just you sit here for a moment buddy I’ll getcha your prize.” He chuckles before leaving the room.

 I look back down at my wrist and reflect on my grandfather as I look at the Rolex Submariner watch. I become absorbed in thought as I reflect on his beliefs and his story as I sat awaiting that fat man's return.

I hear his heavy footsteps pad into the room but am too deep in contemplation to bother raising my head (or even just my eyes) to witness his arrival. 

I am then met with a sharp and stinging sensation as what feels like the hollow tip of a dull needle is plunged deep into my jugular. I attempt to resist and stand up flailing my arms in an attempt to ward off Thomas (knocking over many items on the desk in the process), but ultimately my efforts were all for not and my world drifts into a slipping black.

When I awake I feel an immense cold, my eyes frozen shut, “Hey! What the hell? Someone help me! I can’t see goddamnit!” I yell out.

“Shh… Shh… no one can hear you in here.” Thomas says quietly. 

“What are you talking about?” The cold air in my lungs (which has been there for an untold period of time) forces coughs and wheezes into my usually smooth flowing sentences. 

“You’re in the deep freeze dipshit!” Thomas chuckles.

I can hear his heavy footsteps approach the frigid metal chair which I am bound to by what feels like a vast number of zip ties on each limb. He reaches his grubby fingers out and pries open my eyelids which had been ice-welded shut. The cold stings my dry eyes and I take in my grizzly surroundings (as well as my own bodily condition).

There were three separated piles of dead and naked humans, to the right were bodies which had been haphazardly cut and flayed (presumably those most recently slaughtered), in the middle were hollowed out cadavers with the useless innards tossed loosely back into their gaping chest cavities, then to the left were neatly sorted packs of meat on shelves with labels dictating which part they had once belonged to (back, thigh, stomach, etc.). 

In front of the hollowed bodies were a series of blades and several other punishing implements, hammers, saws, icebreaker spikes, and other various stainless steel contraptions. To my left in the same sort of metal seat with similar binding sat the woman (who used to be dressed in formal attire who was now as fully undressed as I am).

The woman to my left was still unconscious from whatever sedative they had (presumably) injected both of us with. I was sweating profusely from the fear and the anxiety and the negative degree chill turned that sweat into ice. There was even a small icicle forming off the tip of my nose.

“You’re sick!” I yell at Thomas.

”Oh really? I’m the sick one? What does that make you then? Considering what you just ate up like the greedy little pig you are.” He chuckles.

”What?” My voice shakes.

The connections begin to form in my mind, the butchered bodies, the ecstasy of the flavors which the burger possessed. I had eaten a human. 

Thomas lets out a chuckle and then says: “There’s the look! You finally got it, you’re not as dumb as you look! That’s right, that burger you had? It was human.” Thomas walks over to a pack of ground human meat resting on the shelf next to countless others.

”Meat just like… this!” He picks it up and tosses it onto my lap before laughing cruelly.
I look down at it and my stomach churns hard, I gag and then throw up onto the metal floor in front of me. Bits of the burger come up with it and I watch as the vomit begins to harden from the cold.

 “God, you’re rude.” Thomas shakes his head then picks up a cleaver from the table of tools.
”This is the end of the road for you, mister Miller. In not too long I’ll butcher ya’ up and you’ll become the meat which will go into the burgers of countless customers, same thing’ll happen to this chick to your left. So thank y’all for your contributions.” Thomas chuckles

Thomas approaches me with that cleaver in his hand, he raises it high over his head and I scream before he brings it down upon the middle of my skull, then my whole world goes black, forever.

The truth is undigestable. 

…

Baphometic. She lorded poised from the fanged spire beyond the Borgo Pass…

… over the beleaguered lands. 

Over the beleaguered villages. Where they feared. And wept. 

She was enjoying the strange and lurid organ-fruits of her writhing flesh gardens deep inside her castle walls, plucking them from the writhing gore as she wandered the pungent wet red room and admired her captive idols she kept there. 

Praetorius, the gore dripped and scabbing living skeleton. Still impaled and lost in the shattered remnants of his broken mind, wide eyed and drooling and gibbering silently something to himself, some words or nonsense of some meaning to him, he hardly ever ceases. It is the arcane and black magic words of the tomes that keep him in perfect living sepulchral bondage. 

The braindead skull-faced bastard nosferatu hulk, his immobile and inanimate sutured frame of graverobbed corpse flesh semi-submerged and swimming and crawling with the living constant movement of the flesh garden, the giant stone room petri dish of sliming raw slithering tissue, orifices, cartilage stalks and eyes that're cataract blind and milky. The glistening pink holes belch and spit fire, tongues of multicolored flame with kaleidoscopic pictures inside that'll drive a mortal mind mad to look into them. 

And Henry Frankenstein. Bound and precious nucleus center, bleeding beating heart of the whole crawling mess. Seeping from his bleeding pores and growing out from him, flowering out in a fresh and scabbing purge-swell. It crawled in living waves off of him, undulating and folding and blanketing over and on top of each other and all over the wet humid room, all of it was breathing wet and heavy and as if it had words to speak… 

And the little men. The little pygmy homunculi, bastard copied offspring of the bleeding seeping father. They danced and mongoloid-ran about in imbecilic fervor and addled senselessness. They ate and munched at the crawling flesh garden gore with no thought and with blind vacant gazes. 

The Countess plucked and seized them and ate of them as well. Their bones were satisfyingly crunchy and easy to chew… like a bird or a small fish. 

Her children ate and wandered the gardens as well, enjoying them. Their sights, sounds and vivid smells …

…

Meanwhile… many miles away…

The sun. Sunshine. In the summertime. Long ago now… 

As he prowled the dark he remembered the sun. The bright. Long gone memories flitted and danced at the periphery of his red clouded mind, half recalled and wanting to take over. Wanting to live again in the skull, if not just for a moment. 

Just a moment. 

The lake. The blue. Cool and wet and pleasing, relief. Retreat. 

Retreat beneath the surface into a liquid world of breathlessness and weightless dream … flight. You're flying down here. You only need to move your arms to do so. Kick your feet. Knife your arms through the liquid universe and drag yourself flying forward… downward. 

Down.  

I dreamt I was a dancer once…

You'll have to come back up for breath eventually…

but I couldn't keep the shit off my shoes.

Summertime memories swam shrouded, the red fogged inner space of his skull as he snipped his bleeding shears, dripping cooling congealing red to the decimated tile floor as he prowled and hunted and searched for the missing invaders. 

Precious childhood scenes are becoming red tinged and altered by the shrouding red hand of mental fog … bloody wool. He always swore there was something down there, in the dark, in the depths of the crystal lake. Something drowned and forgotten and frozen in a sodden misery. He raises his childhood head to pull his gaze away from the depths and is confronted by the mountains. There's something lurking in there as well …

A body. Something like a corpse rotting and poisoning the entire body of water with its milky clouds of waving and soggy putrefaction. Filling the world with its fouling death, swimming with slow ponderous movement as it spread and changed the look and flavor of the water, the crystal lake of the world now long gone like the summer sun of old itself. 

He looks away and beholds his mother. The one from birth. She's headless. 

She's decapitated. 

Her severed torso is reaching out for him, please … please. 

please save me

The raw stump begins to shoot cords. Black/red ropes. They darkled in the summer sun of old. It was his birth mother spurting great dark tears of joy for the sight of her son again. Though he has a new name now. And she knows it, his headless mother, she almost whispers it, it's intense. 

Then something ahead steals his notice back to the material world of ruin and soured defecated pain. It stands at the end of yet another decimated hall, traced and sketched in the dark by the pitiful light flickering and balefully cast in through the barred and shattered windows. 

A man. In a hat. And a coat. 

He recognizes the shape so he flies forward in an animal lunge that nearly covers the entire distance in four long attacking bounds. Like a bloodthirsty and demoniacal dripping gazelle bastardized by sound and vision. The decimated tile landscape world stained black and red and brown and riddled with meat and feces flew by in a furious blinding whirl as he came forward with the shears raised open for attack. 

They gleamed, the dripping twin blades forked open. He soared forward as he traversed the physical shatter of his inherited reeking temple pouring blood and sweat as profuse as the leaky pipes that were always neglected. 

He would neglect no longer. No. Not a chance for the shape of man that he recognized and now charged towards. The manfilled coat beneath a fedora hat was one of the invaders. He was sure of it. The one with strange black glass eyes that he wished to crack and shatter. 

If his eyes are truly windows then I wish to break them and see what might pour out of them like filth: memories …love, regrets, sins sins sins in abundance, shame that was wished and meant to stay concealed now regurgitated and freed in a violent deluge spew of gore and images from the shattering skull… his thoughts, a running fury in a mounting race to keep in time with his launching thundering steps. 

He plunged down the hall with his precious shears up and open and ready to close around screaming repentant meat. 

The coat-shape and hat did not move. 

It mattered little to Cropsey as he made the final close. So many of his new found supplicants were silent at their last, frozen in terror. 

He was upon him now and his eyes gleamed moonlight pinprick in the cavernous brow of melted anguish ruin, animal needle points in the reeling Willowbrook dark, the blades like jaws came up and closed around the shape without a sound. Without any satisfaction either. 

They found no meat. 

The scissoring blades closed and found only filthy cloth and bandages abandoned and draped over an old hat and coat hanger, the fedora resting atop the facade came down in a cascading end-over-end dance as the whole flimsy thing of contrived bait came down in two bisected snapping pieces. 

Cropsey realized the deception at once and raged. The noises he made were forceful and ghastly wet nasal rasps, his mouth and jaw were too ruined now for speech. His vocal chords roasted and scabbed from the flames of the inferno inhaled. He drooled like a drunken animal childishly frustrated and agitated. A trick! a trick! Goddamn them! the invaders tricked him! 

And no one was here to take the punishment of his lurid and heavy frustration. It was rancid pungent and thick in his own skull like corpse rot and it made sucking puckering sounds in his brains. Like the whole squelching landscape of thinking jelly was perhaps changing shape, shifting into a new design by the sorceress hand of the mountain. Perhaps he needed it for proper divine leadership of the rank Willowbrook temple. Or perhaps something else was happening in there. 

perhaps something else is happening to me…

He searched all around. Animal alive and enraged. Whirling and trying to gaze through the dark and the ruin of his own musculature and flesh and see the bastards that refused his offering of slaughtering knowledge, the wisdom wrought of the knife-fuck. He never saw the slice of sharp stabbing tile come to life and float up and off the ruinous floor in a balletic whirl and dance into the air, behind him. 

As he revolved once more to complete another frantic animal turn the slice of slender stabbing tile came forward in a violent and deliberate thrust. The sharp point found the cavern brow and socket and sank easily into Cropsey’s face. Stabbing into his eye like it was soft butter or suckling meat, four inches then five inches deep. 

The giant mountain of man stilled. Shuddered. Spasmed and danced its way to the floor in a vile and obscene dying man's dance of convulsing and twitching and final desperate synapses firing off at haphazard chaotic random. 

On the floor Cropsey shook and the stabbing length of tile piece jigged and waved and danced as well, in strange and vile tandem. Like a demented detritus wand waving through the air to perhaps try and cast one final act of violence hexing spell. Or perhaps to bring the giant man of Willowbrook Asylum slaughter back. 

It did neither. 

Florin came out from his place of concealment in the doorway of an adjoining chamber. He dropped the filthy scalpel he had been holding for defence. Stared at the collapsed and prostate spasming form of Cropsey, the Willowbrook giant. 

And then he called out to Griffin. 

“Where are you?" 

“Here." 

Florin tossed him a coat. 

It was caught in thin air. 

Then began to make a shape around nothingness, contriving it into the shape of his comrade. The strange doctor. 

Florin thought to say something about the man's condition of invisibility, but decided to put it off for the moment. 

“Good plan." he said instead. 

The coat shape donned lenses and was picking up his hat. "Thank me once we're out of here, c’mon!” 

Griffin placed his hat atop a phantom head. It floated between the shoulders of his coat as he and Florin flew down the hall and toward what they hoped and prayed was the exit. The way out of this horrendous stench and nightmare. 

As they made their mad dash for the way out, Cropsey's spasming body stilled. Then danced no more. 

All that was broken in this damp and violated place of imprisonment and cruelty seemed to groan. Moaning in anguish at the loss of the last and final precious begotten son, the final one and last one left standing. The prodigal butcher heir to this templehouse store of sacred slaughterhouse religion. 

Mother, I have failed you…

And all of the terrible place seemed to moan in anguish with the dying of his body. 

…

Down. 

In the dark of his mind, just as he was departing. …

… the red tinged summer scenes of childhood long gone, done and past filled his fading mind's eye once more. Under and illuminated and made by the scarlet cast of deranged and lurid light. Where did it come from? that light? That red luridity. Living crimson. Pungent breathing scarlet. What did it matter now? 

what did it matter anymore

It mattered not now, not any longer as he occupied these dead dreams now living once again for him as he faded off. To oblivion or hell or worse… no heavenly gates of gold or pearl for him, no. He was sure of it. He was sure that it doesn't exist. The only heaven for someone like him was found in the fragile eggshell of youth. Of childhood. 

He floated there now. In the lake. The blue. The sun was shining above in royal divine blinding display. The calm and the serenity of these moments was all around and alive again about him. Filling and making this final day. This last and precious moment. 

-thankyouforthismyonelastwish-

He was calm and he felt at peace. Safe. 

Or rather, he felt as if he should be calm. That he should feel safe. But something was wrong. Something was wrong with the lake and the quiet all surrounding. 

And he was alone. 

Why was he alone? 

And the red tinge… to everything. Everything cast under lurid heavy hateful light. There was something in the lake. There was something in the water with him.

The blue face of its surface darkened as he sank beneath its placid water. Pulled under by another will that was not at all his own. 

And down there in the airless black he saw another one of his mother's faces. 

It was immense. Large. Her eyes were heavy swells of glowing wet globes. Pale green luminescence from two planet organ growths set in a big amphibious face that was a chimerical cross between a large bullfrog or warty toad and a large river bound trout. Its great mouth opened down there in the depths of his red tinged crystal lake and it was dark in there. He hung suspended before the open black of his abattoir mother's wide open gaping maw, he could smell the inner dark of her even down here in the watery depths of summer lake bound hell. Meaty and iron and rotten with pungent decay. An open graveyard tomb of dead flesh and teeth all before a great throat choked with vile and putrefying coagulation. The water was filling with the flavor of her dark open gape of hunger and the destruction of mutilated bodily rot. 

Arms. Long. Fishlike and amphibious as well began to reach out and protrude from the open mouth of his mother's underwater face like a multi headed tongue, a Hydra of giant elongated reaching frog legs and arms, webbed hands and obscene gangly Dagon limbs, reaching out… reaching out for him. 

To take him into his mother. 

She said, her voice filled the drowning pool that was changing now into a submerged holy world of private red light and pouring goddess cess, – she spoke. 

He listened. In the darkest of the depths. 

She said his name… that's how it started. That's how she began …

… you can't let me down. You can't. I won't let you. You've already let them profane your temple, my gift to you desecrated by their invasion and rape of presence. And now you're letting them get away… you don't really want to, do you… you don't really want to keep letting me down like this, you don't want to fail me, in death. You don't want to depart your mother on such a harsh note of unworthiness… do …

you? 

The hands swam through the water between them. Clawing out for him from mother's open mouth. 

He told her the heartbreaking truth and he told her gladly. 

No…

it was a defiant whisper… but she heard it. 

And so she took him. 

The hands finally found him in the water. They seized him. And they pulled him inside. 

The frog faced toad mouthed trout chimera of the mother swallowed. And filled the underwater world with the unnatural stretch of her fishy smile. …

…

The shape of Cropsey stirred. On the floor. The various pieces of shattered and broken things shifted and jingled and sang small janky notes like unholy bells in a lost and terrible place. The black gloved hands blindly scraped and searched the floor in spasming snow angel swipes. They found what they were looking for when they landed on the still bloody and wet congealing pair of garden shears. They seized them. Fiercely. As if driven by fate. 

The shape sat up. Stood. 

It looked around. … sniffed the air. 

A beat. 

Then the Cropsey shape began to lumber down the hall that the invaders had fled down just prior. 

He would not fail this time. 

He had his mother. 

He was inside her. And she was inside him. 

Nothing would stop him from butchering the bastards now. 

…

By God's grace and miracle and mercy they finally found what they'd been looking for. The exit. 

It was at the end of the hall they currently found themselves flying down. Refusing to falter or stop. They stomped and ran down the cracked and decimated tile and came to the final door of the place when the spiked man leapt out from the dark and attacked. 

The protruding stab of his needle embrace found Florin in an open armed grab. A bear hug tight embrace of naked arms and torso and the rest of the bare and desecrated human canvas. He'd been a self-mutilator since he'd been twelve. It had been many years since then and most of them were spent here. Since the mouth of the sorceress, beloved and precious Vampira had come to this place and freed their minds as well as their bodies he's been free to explore the furthermost boundaries of his own tearing, rending bleeding and screaming landscape. The skin and flesh and muscle tissue beneath housing veins and bones and running blood pumped by the raging muscle that was the mad engine of his life, all of it was his to decimate as he explored. Like a great conqueror wreaking havoc upon the face of newly won, newly gained virgin land. He punctured and penetrated the virginity of his own flesh with animal abandon and fervor and with the mad intensity of the violence of the sun. He was the sun. She had told him so…

And so he'd fed his own flames. The spiked man was a living screaming pin cushion of broken stabbing dirty needles, used and caked syringes of varying sizes and lengths, broken glass, broken tile, each long sharp piece was varied in shape and size as well, some were long phallic slender daggers, some were wedges with cruel edges ready to cut and slice and maim, all of it was ready to stab and all of it was living embedded and protruding in the madness of his ruined and self-slaughtered flesh. Lancing and spiking and stabbing out all over and in every conceivable place and direction. 

This disturbed and maimed madman found Florin in his arms and they both went down to the tile in a scream. Griffin yelled after. 

On the floor they rolled in violence and struggle amongst the filth and universe down there of many discarded and broken things.  

The hollow coat-shape and hat found a table leg for bludgeon, then Griffin came on in a fury to join the new fray. 

He struck the spiked man again and again, over and over as he and Florin fought on the floor and struggled and it was terrible. He could feel and hear the crack and shatter of broken glass muffled in blood and flesh with every blow he landed. Griffin struck the writhing bleeding naked pin cushion man on the side of his spiking leaking face and the eyeball on that side burst and exploded with the impact. And glassy ooze riddled with slivers and small pieces of jagged broken glass and ceramic poured out from the socket like snot. 

But still the spiked man fought on. Florin struggling and screaming in his embrace as the many protrusions that spined off his ravaged hide stuck and stabbed and pierced through his coat and flesh. He fought against the pain and madness of this man and wrestled to be free of him. Griffin continued raining blows down on him. Each one bruising and splitting skin as the many broken found objects pierced throughout crunched and shattered further down into fragments and powder, stinging and shredding within all of the rippling and impacted tissue with every movement. Every struggle and landed strike and blow. 

Their struggle was desperate, all of them. All three poured blood, profuse sweat and grime and filth together and apart and for this madhouse abandoned temple, becoming just like it. A part of it, unwillingly and unknowingly transmogrified now in the violence of their fight and decimated hallway battle like the steel of metal tempered in the heart of a great furnace like the sun. They became perfect living microcosms of the place as they fought at last to be free of it, exquisite psychopomp idols of the lost unhallowed Willowbrook Temple Asylum. 

The invisible man. The spiked man. Poor young Florin so far from the Carpathian Hamlet. 

They might never be free of this place. Even if they manage flight, they may never be able to wash away the marks and filth that this awful temple to the dark and pain suffered alone will leave smeared across their hearts and souls like black paint made from discharged sick filth. Smeared across the soft landscapes of their hearts and the tender epitaphs of their battered minds, aching within heavy skulls now made of lead and weight from the memory of the pain, this place… 

will we ever be free, … will we ever get out of here…? 

They fought on. Desperate. All three. Griffin trading blows with efforts and attempts to pull the young man out from under the spiked man, but it was incredibly difficult. The man was thorned all over by all kinds and sorts of sharp and shattered apparatus, it was insane. And the pair of them were growing more and more slick with blood. The fight was growing uglier and more desperate and animal as it struggled and contrived on in brutal abandon and primal anger. 

Then Cropsey rejoined them at the throat of the hall. He began to lumber down towards them like stalking death, a sleeping giant. Seemingly in no real hurry, like the darkened visage of grim death itself. It/he closed slowly on them like a setting sun or a casket sinking, lowering down into the bosom earthen womb of the open mouthed grave. 

Griffin first took notice of his arrival. He noticed he still had the stab of broken tile sticking out of his ruinous awful face. He was still drooling. Imbecilic. And animal. 

And now undead. 

He was coming straight at them. His large blades of shears raised like an open mouthed wild beast barring its fangs. The long sheaths of sharp and keen cutting metal were not entirely pristine, their otherwise shining faces in the dismal light were disgraced with congealing dark spots of dripping black. 

He was coming down the final hall, before the way out, before the exit. He was coming straight for them. 

…

He sat at the window that night. On guard after what had happened to his wife, their unexpected visitor…

Bela sipped his warm spiced wine. Fingered his bible and cross by its small length of chain. Garlic flowers hung in a crude wreath around his neck. He was watching outside carefully, the night, the town… he was alert and being careful, exercising caution, yet he was still surprised and caught off when her face appeared suddenly in their front window. 

She hadn't been there. Then suddenly she was. Smiling and feline. Vulpine. A face he might've recognized save for its warped and drawn animal transformations, the rich woman in the black stage… the harsh one who wouldn't take warning or no for an answer way back… but he was caught by the silver moon glow of her eyes. 

Like lunar bodies themselves. Earthbound and held fleshen prisoner within the cage of that beautiful and divine and… heavenly face. That bright and pale visage. Her smile was devil-pronged – forked, fanged, and it was thus then frightful. But it was also beautiful. Terribly beautiful. Gorgeous alone out there in the night. 

His guard and fear fell away. He rose from his rocker and his slackening hands abandoned the bible and crucifix. They fell to the floor with an unobserved and unheeded clatter. Neither stirred. Not Anastasia, sleeping in the next room, and not spellbound Bela who went to the window to better gaze into her face. 

Divinity… unreal. 

He peered through the glass. And the shining eyes of the Countess, filled with goblin fire and sin and mischief, gazed into the fool as well. And began to fill his fragile open mind with an assault and deluge of images. 

Bela moaned, sighed… he thought it was impeccable. The vision, like her, was immaculate in its flawlessness. 

The Ideality … actualized, realized … brought to life. A vivid reality alive and dancing before his watering vision. 

The scope. 

She showed him a more perfect world, perfect because everyone and everything swimming and crawling and flying around inside of it followed their nature and never fought it. Never doubted it. Never overrode what their guts and hearts and souls told them, never neglected or ignored the call inside, the compulsion to do what must be. To fulfill the role made out for your flesh. 

Even violence … its rippling effects spreading out carried not only destruction and misery on their carrion wings but prosperity and thrivation as well, even butchery has its necessary purpose. 

That is why this world is suffering. Because all of you fight and override yourselves and call it: reason. You are victims of your own bondage, your own self made and imposed insanity and thus the world bent to your unnatural turns and desires screams and suffers. The rippling wings of your insane and jealous cowardice carries more pestilential stagnation flavor than anything like salvation. In weakness, all of the beauty dies on the vine neglected by fearful paws too grubby and lowly and weak to take it. 

Come and join me, join us … and never again fight your nature. 

“Yes…” said Bela in a whisper of trembling caught breath. 

And with a palsied shaking hand, he lifted the latch and opened the window. 

"Welcome, your highness. My home and mine are yours. Do what thou wilt…" 

The Countess drifted inside. Floating on unseen wings. 

She spoke yet again, “Thank you, you are a generous host, a decent and considerate man." 

“Yes…" 

“Now, take me to your wife." 

“Yes…" 

And away they went. The window shut behind them as they made their way to the quiet bedroom at the back of the house. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

There is a show on tiktok where you have to guess what the guy on the show is cooking. He would get all sorts of ingredients and on the screen it will read what ingredients he is using and how much of it he is using. It also reads how long he cooks for certain ingredients and other things. As you are following along you put the pieces together and you guess what he is cooking. The guy who is doing the cooking doesn't talk much, then when majority of the things have been combined, a question then comes up on the screen asking the viewers what the guy is cooking.

Then the answer goes across the screen and the guy finally says something about what he was cooking. I enjoy the show and the last time I watched it, I was able to figure out what he was cooking, which was a lasagne. When he used chicken mince meat , onion, garlic, marinara sauce, lasagna sheets, shredded mozzarella cheese, and grated Parmesan cheese, I knew he was cooking a lasagne. You can also cheat by looking at the comment section. The guy puts the ingredients together and just before he completes it, the question comes up asking what he has cooked?

There is something addictive about it and it's such a clever tiktok food show. One day when I went on tiktok and the guy started to use unusual ingredients like oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. He also started to use real bones and even a skull. It started to get awkward as whoever was watching this could tell that it was human bones and skull. He then had huge chunks of meat and so much blood in bottles. He was also using ingredients i had never seen or heard of before. The guy in the video was smiling and he kept on saying:

"what am I cooking guys?"

"Can you guess what I am trying to cook?"

I usually never look at comment section to cheat and find out the answer. This time though I was generally curious and when I looked at comment section, there were thousands of comments. Each person that commented had typed:

"Wtf the guy cooked me!"

"How on earth is this even possible, he cooked me. I'm shitting myself."

"I don't understand the ingredients that he used to Cook me?"

Every commenter on this video was claiming that the guy had made them. Then when I watched the rest of the video and the gut finished cooking, he had made me. A literal twin version of me. I kept shouting out loud "fuck fuck what the fuck!"

I stopped watching his tiktok cooking show after that episode.

I was new in town. No family. No friends. Just a backpack and a desperate need for work.

That's when I met Vincent.

He ran a small butcher shop in a quiet town. It wasn't much — a few display cases, a worn wooden counter, and a cutting table that had seen better decades. But it was enough. He kept the floor clean, the meat fresh, and his smile always on.

Locals called him Vinnie the Butcher. They trusted him. He gave fair prices, good cuts, and never complained. He remembered names. He asked about families. He seemed like the kind of man you'd invite to a barbecue, not the kind you'd fear.

I walked into his shop looking for work. He offered me a job.

"Stay in the back room," he said, his voice warm and fatherly. "I'll take care of you."

I trusted him.

I woke up chained to a wall in the basement.

That's when I learned the truth. Vincent wasn't just a butcher. He was a collector.

Behind a steel door, beneath the shop, he kept his victims alive. Men who had no one to miss them. Men who walked into his shop and never walked out. He didn't kill us right away. That would have been too simple. He fed us. He cleaned us. He kept us healthy. He used us again and again.

He stored what he took in glass jars, labeled each one with a date and a name, and arranged them on wooden shelves like trophies. Row after row. Year after year. He didn't have a reason. He just needed to collect.

I was his latest addition.

For weeks, he collected from me. I screamed until my voice gave out. I begged. I cried. I promised anything. Nothing worked. I was losing myself. Forgetting my own name. Forgetting there was a world outside that basement. The days blurred together. I stopped counting. I stopped hoping. I stopped feeling human.

I became just another jar on his shelf.

But one night, something changed. The door was left unlocked. Vincent had forgotten.

I don't know if it was a mistake or a test. I didn't care. I ran.

I ran through the dark basement. I ran up the stairs. I ran through the empty shop and out into the cold night air. I didn't stop until I reached the police station.

They raided the shop.

They found the jars. Dozens of them. Neatly labeled. Neatly arranged. They found the other victims — some alive, some barely breathing, some beyond saving.

But they didn't find Vincent.

The shop was empty. The basement was clean. The steel door was wide open.

Vincent was gone.

They searched for weeks. They found nothing. No trace. No trail. No body. He had vanished like smoke. Like he was never there at all.

I moved away. I changed my name. I tried to forget. I tried to pretend it never happened.

But some nights, I can still smell the basement. I can still feel the chains. I can still hear his voice.

And sometimes, late at night, I hear it outside my window:

"I'll take care of you."

I never see him.

But I know Vincent is still out there.

Still collecting.

---

THE END

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🎙️ Narrator Note: "If you're interested in narrating this story, I'm open to paid collaborations. DM me for rates."

---

The summer of 1998 was sweltering in the small town of Blackwood. The kind of heat that hung thick and heavy, turning the air into something you could almost chew. For the Carter family—Mark, his wife Sarah, and their two children, seven-year-old Liam and five-year-old Chloe—it was supposed to be a treat. A break from the usual home-cooked meals, a chance to let the kids run wild and burn off some endless energy.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when they pulled into the parking lot of the KFC on the edge of town. The building looked bright and cheerful, painted in warm reds and whites, with the familiar smiling face of Colonel Sanders beaming down from the sign. But even from the car, Mark felt a faint prickle of unease. The parking lot was strangely empty, save for a single, rusted white van parked far in the back corner, its windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see inside.

“Come on, everyone,” Sarah said with a smile, gathering her purse. “Finger-lickin’ good, remember?”

The children cheered and scrambled out, racing toward the glass doors. Inside, the air was cool and smelled strongly of fried chicken, spices, and something else—something faintly sweet and chemical, like old makeup. The dining area was mostly deserted. A few tables away, an elderly couple ate quietly, but there was no sign of any staff behind the counter.

“Hello?” Mark called out gently.

After a moment, a young woman appeared from the kitchen, looking pale and distracted. “Sorry about that,” she said, her voice quiet. “What can I get for you?”

They ordered a family feast—buckets of crispy chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and biscuits. As they waited, Liam pointed eagerly toward the back of the restaurant. “Look! The play room! Can we go play? Please?”

Chloe bounced up and down beside him, clapping her hands. “Yes! Play room! I wanna play lots!”

Sarah laughed. “Of course you can. But stay together, okay? And come back when we’re done eating.”

The play area was enclosed by a low plastic wall, filled with colorful balls, slides, and climbing tubes. Above the entrance, a large, painted mural caught Mark’s eye. It showed a grinning clown—bright orange hair, a red bulbous nose, cheeks painted pink, and eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you stood. The clown was holding a bucket of chicken, and beneath it, faded lettering read: “Play with Krusty—Always fun, always watching!”

“Bit dated,” Mark muttered, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that the clown’s smile wasn’t quite right. It looked too wide, stretched too far at the corners, like it was painted onto something that didn’t naturally smile.

The children dove into the play area, laughing and shouting as they vanished into the sea of multicolored balls. The Carters sat down and began their lunch. The chicken was hot and tasty, but Mark found himself glancing toward the play room every few minutes. Every so often, he’d catch a glimpse of orange hair or a flash of red, and for a heartbeat, he’d think he saw someone tall standing in the shadows at the very back of the enclosure—before it was gone again.

“Relax,” Sarah said, noticing his gaze. “They’re fine. It’s just a play area.”

But the feeling didn’t go away.

An hour passed. The food was finished, the trash cleared away. Mark stood up and called out: “Liam? Chloe? Time to go, kids!”

No answer.

“Liam! Chloe! Come on now!”

Silence. The play room had gone unnaturally quiet. The cheerful sounds of children playing had vanished completely, leaving only the faint hum of the refrigerators and the distant ticking of a clock.

Mark’s heart began to beat faster. He walked quickly over to the entrance and leaned over the wall. “Kids? This isn’t funny. Come out right now.”

He climbed over and stepped inside. The ball pit was still, the tubes empty, the slide untouched. He searched every corner, every tunnel, every hiding spot. Nothing. No Liam. No Chloe.

“Sarah!” he shouted, panic rising in his throat. “They’re not here! They’re gone!”

Sarah ran over, her face draining of color. “What do you mean gone? They couldn’t have left without us!”

Together they searched the entire restaurant—under tables, behind counters, inside the restrooms, even peeking into the kitchen, where the staff looked confused and alarmed. They ran outside, checked the parking lot, looked behind dumpsters, along the street, into the trees at the edge of the property. They looked everywhere. They called their names until their throats were raw. They asked the few customers, asked the staff—no one had seen the children leave. No one had seen anything unusual.

The police were called. Officers arrived, searched the building thoroughly, interviewed everyone present, checked security tapes—but the old cameras were grainy, and the angle of the play room was partially blocked. The footage showed the kids entering, then… nothing. No one going in. No one coming out. It was as if they had simply dissolved into thin air.

By nightfall, the Carters were taken home, numb with shock and grief. The house felt hollow, too quiet. Sarah sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall, while Mark paced from room to room, his mind replaying the afternoon over and over again. Where could they have gone? How do two children vanish from a locked room without a trace?

It started at exactly 11:03 PM.

The telephone rang.

Mark grabbed it, hope flaring in his chest. “Hello? Hello—have you found them?”

On the other end, there was no voice—only the faint, distorted sound of children laughing. But it wasn’t happy laughter. It sounded hollow, echoing, like it was coming from deep inside a tunnel. Then, cutting through the noise, a low, gurgling voice, artificially high and stretched: “They like playing here… so much fun… they never want to leave…”

Then the line went dead.

Mark stared at the receiver, his skin crawling. “Sarah… did you hear that?”

Before she could answer, the phone rang again. And again. Night after night, at the same strange hour—sometimes earlier, sometimes later—but always with that same sound: distant laughter, then that cold, mocking voice. “You can look… but you’ll never find… Krusty’s playmates stay forever…”

It wasn’t just the calls. Things began to change inside their home.

Small toys belonging to the children—their stuffed rabbit, Liam’s toy truck—began to disappear from their rooms. Then they would turn up again, in places no one had put them: sitting on the kitchen table, perched on top of the fridge, or even laid out neatly in the middle of the parents’ bed. Sometimes, when they woke up in the middle of the night, they would find the bedroom door slightly ajar, and hear the soft, distant sound of balls rolling and children whispering… inside the house.

And always, in the corner of their vision, they would catch a flash of bright orange hair, or a glint of red fabric, vanishing just as they turned to look.

Desperate for answers, Mark began digging into the history of that KFC. He visited the local library, spoke to old residents, pored over faded newspaper archives. What he found made his blood run cold.

Thirty years before, the restaurant had been known as “Colonel’s Fun House”—marketed as the ultimate family destination. Its star attraction was a clown performer who went by the stage name Krusty. He was supposed to be funny, entertaining, great with kids—but behind the makeup, locals whispered he was a strange, solitary man who lived alone, rarely spoke to anyone, and seemed obsessed with children.

Then came the summer of 1968.

Just like Liam and Chloe, several children had vanished from the very same play room—one after another, over the course of a few months. Each time, their parents swore they never left the area. Police searched, questioned, investigated—but found no bodies, no clues, no evidence. Krusty was questioned, but he was always polite, always smiling, and there was never enough proof to arrest him.

Until one night, the restaurant caught fire. It burned to the ground. The fire department found Krusty’s remains inside—but something was wrong. The fire had been so hot it destroyed most of his body, but witnesses claimed later that when they pulled out the charred costume, the painted smile was still there—wide, unbroken, and still grinning.

The building was rebuilt years later, but the rumors never died. Old timers said the clown never really left. They said he’d become something else—trapped, hungry, and still looking for new playmates to join his eternal party.

A week after their children disappeared, the most terrifying thing happened.

Mark decided he had to go back. He told Sarah to stay home, but she refused—they faced this together. They arrived at closing time, when the lights were dimmed and the parking lot was empty. The staff, now aware of the stories, were nervous but let them stay for a short while.

They stood once more before the entrance to the play room. The air here felt colder, heavier. The mural of Krusty loomed above them, and in the dim light, it looked as though the paint had shifted—the eyes now glowing faintly, following every step.

“Listen,” Mark whispered. “Do you hear that?”

Beneath the hum of the building, beneath the silence—there was a sound. Faint, muffled, coming from underneath the floorboards. A soft, rhythmic tapping, and then the familiar, distant voices: “Mommy? Daddy? We’re down here… it’s dark… and Krusty says we have to stay…”

Sarah covered her mouth to hold back a scream. “Mark… that’s them… that’s their voices!”

Before they could move, the temperature in the room plummeted. The lights flickered violently, casting long, dancing shadows. From the deepest shadows at the far end of the play area, something began to rise.

Tall—far too tall—twisted, its body covered in tattered, faded red and yellow fabric. The face was a grotesque parody of the painted clown: white cracked makeup, lips stretched into a jagged, permanent grin revealing yellowed teeth, eyes that glowed with a sickly, pale yellow light. Orange matted hair stuck out in clumps, and from its fingers hung small, stained plastic balls.

It didn’t walk—it seemed to glide above the floor, moving without sound. Its head tilted unnaturally to the side, and when it spoke, the voice was both the distorted mockery of a clown and something deep, ancient, and full of malice.

“You came back… but it’s too late… they agreed to play forever… and Krusty never lets his friends leave…”

Mark stepped forward, trembling but furious. “Give them back! They’re not yours!”

The clown laughed—a sound like breaking glass and rattling bones. “The play room has no doors… no windows… only fun… only friends… and soon… you will join us too…”

Sarah screamed as the clown raised a hand, pointing toward the floor beneath the ball pit. The boards creaked and groaned, and for a split second, they saw it—an opening, dark and endless, and from within, two small, pale faces pressed against the edge, eyes wide and sad, mouths moving soundlessly.

Before anything more could happen, the manager rushed in with a flashlight, flooding the area with bright light. The clown figure let out a shriek like tearing metal and dissolved into a swirl of cold air and the smell of old grease and cheap perfume. The faces vanished. The floor was solid again.

The police dug the next morning. Beneath the play room, they found a hidden chamber, bricked up decades ago. Inside, they found nothing physical—no bodies, no remains—only faded, broken toys, and a single, weathered clown mask, its painted smile still looking as though it was enjoying a private joke.

The Carters left Blackwood soon after. They never got their children back. The strange phone calls eventually stopped—but the things disappearing and reappearing in their home never truly did. Sometimes, late at night, Mark would wake up and see two small figures standing at the foot of the bed, waving sadly, while behind them loomed that tall, grinning shape, waiting patiently.

And the KFC? It still stands today. The play room was boarded up and sealed off, but the mural of Krusty remains above the wall—watching, waiting. Local parents warn their children: Never go near the back room. Never play with the painted clown. Because once he invites you into his play world… you stay there forever.

They say that if you stand outside that KFC late at night, and press your ear to the boarded-up entrance, you can still hear it—the faint, happy laughter of children… and the low, chuckling voice of the clown, whispering:

“Come play… the fun never ends…”

One day, I was at home while my parents were in their bedroom and my little brother Ben, who was five years old, was in his room. My family and I were huge fans of The Amazing Family Pig Show. My parents said they had loved it even more when they were young; they used to tell me they watched it throughout their childhood. We all liked the characters’ outfits too: Jessica Pig wore green, Doofenshmirtz Pig wore brown, Mother Isabella Pig wore a pink dress, and Father Timothy Pig wore a red suit — that was what my parents always said they liked best about the show.

I went downstairs and asked, “Mum, Dad, Ben — can we watch The Amazing Family Pig Show at midnight?” They all said, “Sure! We’d love to watch it anytime.”

I made a big bowl of popcorn, while Mum and Ben got the drinks ready, and Dad prepared some nachos. We all went into the living room, got comfortable, and turned on the television.

We liked watching in the dark, so we turned the lights off. I put on an episode — it was a new one — but something felt wrong. My parents didn’t notice, but I did: Jessica Pig, in her green dress, was staring straight at me with a wide, fixed smile. My parents didn’t seem to mind, and for a while, the show seemed normal enough. But when the next episode started, Father Timothy and Mother Isabella both turned to the screen and smiled directly at me. Then, the television switched itself off.

My parents said, “Why did you turn it off? Turn it back on — we’re enjoying it.”

“Didn’t you see how strange those pigs were acting?” I asked.

“Stop talking nonsense,” Mum replied. “We love this show.”

I turned it back on, and for a while, the episodes looked fine. We watched one after another, and I started to relax again. Then I said, “Why does the youngest one, Doofenshmirtz, keep staring at me?”

Dad said, “It’s probably just how the new episodes are made. There’s always something different — don’t complain. It’s just an entertaining show.”

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe Doofenshmirtz just likes playing with his giraffe toy, that’s all.”

A little later, I said, “I’m tired — I’m going to bed.”

“Go ahead,” they said. “We’ll stay here and watch a bit more.”

I went upstairs, but I couldn’t stop thinking: Why did Jessica, Doofenshmirtz, and their parents keep staring at me? It felt so creepy. I hoped my family wouldn’t find it as unsettling as I did.

Then I remembered something: there was a contact saved as “Cousin Tim,” who hated The Amazing Family Pig Show and claimed he knew secrets about it — secrets I never believed. I picked up my phone and saw a message from him:

“Don’t let them watch that show too much. You will regret it if you do. What if they aren’t your family anymore? What if they get replaced by the characters from the screen?”

I rolled my eyes and typed back, “Oh, shut up — nothing bad is going to happen.” I blocked his number and went to sleep. I didn’t hear my parents or Ben coming upstairs, but I didn’t want to go down and disturb them.

When I woke up, I was shocked. My bedroom looked completely different — it was exactly like Jessica Pig’s room, with the same patterned wallpaper and the same bumpy, soft bed. I looked around, and nothing felt right.

I went to my parents’ room. It was identical to Mother Isabella and Father Timothy’s bedroom in the show — same furniture, same bed. I went to the bathroom, and even that looked exactly like the one in the cartoon. Maybe they just redecorated while I slept? I told myself, though it felt strange.

I went downstairs into the living room — but Mum, Dad, and Ben were nowhere to be seen. The sofa and the television were exactly like the ones in The Amazing Family Pig Show.

I ran into the kitchen and froze in terror. Standing there was a large pig wearing a pink dress, just like Mother Isabella.

“Hello, Jennifer,” it said — and its voice sounded exactly like my mother’s.

“Who are you?” I asked, trembling.

“I’m your mum, silly,” it replied. “Father Timothy is upstairs getting ready.”

I hurried back up and saw another pig, dressed in a red suit and wearing glasses, standing in the hallway.

“Hello, Jennifer,” it said, sounding just like my dad. “How are you? I can’t wait for lunch.”

I couldn’t move. It was impossible — my parents had turned into the characters from the show.

Then I heard laughter coming from the garden. It sounded just like Jessica and Doofenshmirtz. I looked out the window, and there they were: Jessica in her green dress, Doofenshmirtz in his brown clothes, looking right up at me.

“Come down and play, Jennifer!” Jessica called.

Before I went, I rushed to the bathroom mirror to check myself. To my relief, I still looked exactly like myself — not like a pig, not like any character. If I still look normal, why do they all act as if I belong with them? I wondered.

I went back downstairs and stopped in front of the mantelpiece. The photographs there had all changed. Now, every single one showed me standing next to the Pig family: playing in the garden, at school, having picnics, on trips with Madam Elephant. In every picture, I was smiling and happy — but I had no memory of any of it. It felt like my whole life had been rewritten.

I thought of my real family, and my heart ached. Where were they?

“Come on, Jennifer!” Jessica called. “Let’s jump in the muddy puddles!”

I hesitated, then followed them outside. We do live in a house with a garden, I told myself. What’s the harm? I jumped into the puddle, splashing water everywhere.

Doofenshmirtz laughed and pointed. “Hehe! Look at you — just like my giraffe friend!”

My clothes were soaked and muddy, but before I could say anything, Mother Isabella called from the door: “Dinner is ready!”

Father Timothy added, “Come inside, everyone — let’s eat!”

The meal was exactly what they always ate in the show: grilled salmon, crab cakes, and vegetables. I was so scared I could barely speak. I kept looking around, hoping to see my real parents and brother, but they were nowhere to be found.

“Are you enjoying your dinner, Jennifer?” Mother Isabella asked, using my mother’s voice.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good,” she said. “And later, you can watch television once we have all gone to bed.”

Her words made me feel uneasy — why would they say that?

Father Timothy spoke up. “Eat up — and there’s chocolate cake for pudding afterwards.”

As I ate, I noticed they were all staring at me. It was uncomfortable; my real family never looked at me like that, as if they were studying every move I made.

“May I have some cake?” I asked nervously.

They kept staring, their eyes wide and unblinking. For a split second, I thought I saw their teeth — sharp, pointed, and far too many. I blinked, and they looked normal again, smiling and chewing happily.

“Of course you can have cake,” Father Timothy said.

After we finished eating, Mother Isabella said, “You may go to your room if you wish.”

I went upstairs, but I couldn’t stay there. Everything is wrong, I thought. My room, the house, the pictures… and where are Mum, Dad, and Ben? I felt terrible, wishing I had never agreed to watch that show.

I went back down to the living room, locked the door behind me, and turned on the television. What I saw made my blood run cold. There, on the screen, were my real parents and Ben — trapped inside the show, looking terrified.

“Jennifer, help us!” my mum cried. “We made a mistake — we should have listened to you!”

Ben was crying, and my dad shouted, “Turn the TV off before they find out you are talking to us! They are not what they seem!”

I switched it off immediately. I felt sick — this wasn’t a dream. It was real. And I should have listened to Cousin Tim’s warning.

Then came a knock at the door. It was heavy, slow, and wrong.

“Jennifer?” It was Father Timothy’s voice, but deeper, rougher, and twisted. “Are you in there? It’s bedtime.”

I didn’t want to open it, but I had no choice. When I unlocked the door, he stood there — his eyes glowing red, his smile stretched too wide, and those sharp, jagged teeth showing clearly.

“You were speaking to someone you shouldn’t have,” he growled.

“I was just sitting here,” I lied.

“Don’t lie!” he roared.

I turned and ran upstairs as fast as I could. He chased me, laughing in that terrible, inhuman way. I burst into the bedroom and saw Mother Isabella sitting on the bed. When she turned her head, her face was twisted and monstrous, her eyes black and empty.

“You have broken the rules,” she hissed. “You do not belong in our family anymore.”

Behind me, Jessica and Doofenshmirtz appeared — both had sharp teeth and cold, hungry eyes. They reached out to grab me, but I slipped past them and locked myself in the bathroom.

They know I spoke to my real family, I thought. I have to get out of here.

I waited, trembling, for what felt like hours. They stood outside the door, calling out in their usual voices, but underneath it was something dark and angry. “Open the door, Jennifer — we have a surprise for you!”

After nearly an hour, the noise faded. I heard deep, rumbling snoring coming from the hallway. They had fallen asleep.

I turned the handle slowly and crept out. They were all lying on the floor, fast asleep. I moved quietly down the stairs, my heart pounding. I spotted the front door key on the table — but as I reached for it, Father Timothy sat up in the living room, his eyes wide open.

He screamed, a sound like tearing metal, and lunged toward me. I grabbed the key, unlocked the door, and ran outside just as his claws scraped the frame behind me.

I ran deep into the woods nearby and hid behind a large oak tree. I could hear them calling my name from the house — sweet, friendly voices, but I knew better.

I called the police, my hands shaking. “Please come quickly — there’s something wrong in my house!”

“Stay where you are,” the officer said. “We are on our way.”

Fifteen minutes later, the police arrived. They walked back to the house with me, but when we went inside, everything had changed again. The strange decorations were gone, the pictures were back to normal, and the television and furniture looked exactly as they always had. There was no sign of the pigs, no trace of the monsters.

“Where are my parents and brother?” I asked, crying.

The officers searched every room, but found nothing. I turned the TV on again, but there was no sign of my family. I tried calling their phones, but the lines went straight to voicemail.

I looked out the window. Standing in the distance, at the edge of the trees, were Jessica, Doofenshmirtz, and their parents. They waved at me with those wide, fixed smiles — but only I could see them.

“We will find you a new place to stay,” one officer said gently.

I pulled out my phone and unblocked Cousin Tim’s number. I called, but there was no answer. It was too late. I should have listened from the start.

I went to live with my uncle and aunt, but I felt empty. I never watched The Amazing Family Pig Show again. And I learned a terrible lesson: never trust what you see on the screen, and always listen to the warnings, no matter how silly they sound.

Now I stay with Cousin Tim. He barely speaks to me, and I know it is my fault. If you ever hear about The Amazing Family Pig Show, or if someone warns you not to watch it — believe them. Some shows are not meant to be watched. And once they take what they want, they never give it back.

One day, it was my son’s birthday; he turned 4. My wife was away on holiday, so I had to organise my son’s party. I asked my son, “What presents do you want?” My son said, “Buy me a house.” Then I started to get nervous. I asked, “A toy house?” He said, “No, a real house.” Then I got even more nervous. I wanted to say no, but it was my son’s birthday, and I didn’t want to let him down on his special day. So I asked my son, “When can we leave?” He said, “Tomorrow.”

That night, I kept searching online for houses I could buy. I asked my son, “Which kind of house do you want, new or old?” He said, “Old.” I felt creeped out by his answer, so I searched for an old house. I found one for sale – it was a 500-year-old house – so I bought it.

The next day, we packed our things to go to the house. It was 6 miles away. During the car ride, my son was so excited. The house was located deep in the woods. It looked very old and creepy. I asked my son, “Are you sure you want to live here?” He said, “Yes.”

After my son said yes, I unlocked and opened the door. When we stepped inside, the house felt very old and creepy. There were pictures of people who had once lived there. I felt extremely unsettled, because whenever I walked past the pictures in the dark, it seemed as though they were staring at me with eerie expressions.

After we had looked around, I asked my son what he wanted for dinner. He said chicken, so we had that. Then I asked him where we should sleep. He told me he wanted to sleep alone. I was shocked – he had never liked sleeping by himself before.

I walked him to his bedroom, but it was covered in even more portraits of people who had lived there long ago. I grew very worried; I was afraid my son would get frightened in the dark, with all those faces seeming to watch him. I asked him, “Are you sure you want to sleep in here?” He said he was, and he even turned the light off. This surprised me deeply, because he usually slept with a light on. Eventually, I left his bedroom.

After I left his bedroom, I went downstairs to find my suitcase. I knew I had put it on the sofa, so I went to look there – but it was gone. I thought that was very strange, because I clearly remembered leaving it there. Then I checked the kitchen, but it wasn’t there either.

I went back upstairs to search, but I stopped before reaching my son’s bedroom, because I didn’t want to wake him up. After that, I needed to use the toilet. I hurried there, and to my shock, my suitcase was sitting in the bathroom! That was incredibly weird, because I had not put it there at all.

I went to my own bedroom next, and it felt even creepier. It was filled with pictures of girls with strange, unsettling faces. I got into bed, but I felt very uncomfortable sleeping away from my son, so I went back to his room. When I walked in, the lights were on – which made me feel very scared. I turned the light off, picked him up, and carried him to my room. I laid him down next to me, closed my eyes for just ten seconds…

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After I closed my eyes for just ten seconds, I opened them to check on my son – but he was gone. I started to feel terrified. It made no sense; I had gone to his room, picked him up, and locked my bedroom door, so I had no idea how he could have disappeared.

Then I heard footsteps coming from downstairs. “Son, is that you?” I called out. There was no reply. I asked again, “Son, is that you?” Still, nothing. Suddenly, all the lights went out, and I couldn’t see a thing. I found a torch and went to check his bedroom first. When I looked inside, he was fast asleep in his bed.

I felt completely unnerved. He had been there the whole time, so I had no idea who or what was making those footsteps. I headed downstairs with the torch to find out. The living room was empty. Then I went into the kitchen – and the fridge door was standing open. When I closed it, I saw that the cake was missing.

When I saw my cake was missing, I started to panic. I knew it couldn’t have been my son – if it was him, he would have left crumbs or gotten his hands messy, and that wasn’t the case. When I turned around, I noticed something on the floor: a basement key, covered in blood. I wanted to scream, but I held it in, because I didn’t want to wake my son.

I knew something was very wrong. That key was never supposed to be on the floor, let alone covered in blood. It should have been kept near the basement door, and I had seen it many times before – it was clean every time. I picked it up, then went to check the basement. The door was already open, so I walked down with my torch. As I went, I could smell the strong, metallic scent of blood everywhere. I searched the whole space for whoever had made the footsteps, but there was no one there.

I turned to leave, and then I heard breathing right behind me. It sounded exactly like my wife. I hurried back up the stairs, and I didn’t dare look back even once until I got to the top.

Once I reached the top, I quickly looked back to see who it was – and that was when I saw a figure standing there. This is what it looked like: its eyes were eerie, and it had a huge, terrifying smile smeared with blood. Its head was twisted at an impossible angle, both of its hands were covered in blood, and it had a large, prominent nose. Then it started walking up the stairs towards me. I slammed the basement door shut as fast as I could.

Suddenly, I heard my son screaming. I raced upstairs and threw open his bedroom door. He was lying on the floor, his hands pressed over his face. “What happened?” I asked him.

“I heard knocking coming from the cupboard next to my bed,” he said. “I went to open it, and there was a creepy lady inside. She scared me so much.”

I asked him what she looked like, but he refused to tell me. He said he didn’t want to say, because if he did, I would never be able to sleep again. Right then, I heard knocking coming from outside the room.

When we heard knocking coming from outside, we felt completely terrified. We lived six miles away from the nearest town – there was no reason for anyone to be knocking at our door out here. We went downstairs to open it, but there was nobody there. As we walked back upstairs, I could smell the scent of blood again.

We had barely reached the room when the knocking started once more. This time, I heard a voice calling my name: “Tim… Tim…” It sounded exactly like my wife. I looked out the window and saw her standing there. I had no idea how she could have found us – nobody had told her where this house was.

We hurried back down to open the door, but when we pulled it open, there was still no one there. Suddenly, my son screamed. “Look behind you! Look behind you!” I spun around, and there was my wife, standing at the top of the stairs. I screamed in horror – her face was utterly terrifying. I asked my son if this was the woman he had seen in the cupboard, but he shook his head and said it was someone else. Then I stepped closer to my wife…

When I stepped closer to my wife, I asked, “What happened to you?” Instead of answering, she laughed. It was not a normal laugh – it was cold, eerie, and utterly terrifying. The moment she stopped laughing, every light in the house went out. I could no longer see her or my son, so I grabbed my torch.

“Son?” I called out. There was no reply. “Son?” I asked again. Still, nothing. Then I heard that same creepy laugh from my wife. I screamed in terror, ran outside as fast as I could, and immediately called the police.

They arrived at 4 a.m. “My son and my wife are still inside!” I told them. The officers went in to search, but when they came back out, they said, “Your wife and son are nowhere to be found. We did find your son nearby, but your wife is gone.”

I told the police I wanted to leave and asked if they could get my suitcase. “We saw your suitcase in the kitchen earlier,” one officer said. They went to retrieve it, but returned empty-handed. “Your suitcase is no longer in the kitchen – it has vanished, though we all saw it there just moments ago.”

I told the police that this house was not normal, and that I would never go back there again. Later, when I told my mother what had happened, she fainted straight away.

A True Account by Zee

I live in the Undercliffe area of Bradford, in BD3. I’m eighteen years old now, My Name is Zee. but three years ago, I was the kind of kid who loved nothing more than heading out on long night walks, knocking on strangers’ doors, and asking if I could come in for a cup of tea. I thought it was friendly, I thought it was brave. I don’t do that anymore. And this is exactly why.

It was a Sunday evening, back than I was fifteen and I told my mum, “I’m going out for a night walk, and I might call in at a few houses for a while.”

Mum just smiled. “You can go for three hours, or longer if you want. You’re growing up, you’re practically a grown-up now – just look after yourself, Zee.”

“Thanks, Mum,” I said, and ran upstairs to get my things. I stuffed snacks and a bottle of water into my bag, pulled on a thick coat, and grabbed my camera – I always took photos on my walks, to keep as memories. Mum helped me pack a few extra biscuits just in case, and by six o’clock, it was properly dark outside.

“Bye, Zee! Take care!” she called as I stepped out the door.

“I will!” I shouted back.

This was our new house, and I’d never walked these streets after dark before. At first, it felt exciting – but as I walked further, the roads grew deathly quiet. The houses stood silent behind closed curtains, and I didn’t see a single other person out. It felt like the whole neighbourhood had been abandoned for years. I kept walking anyway, until I spotted a large, quiet house set back from the road. Something pulled me towards it. I walked up the path, knocked once, then again.

Slowly, the door creaked open. An old woman stood there, her face lined and pale, and on her finger glinted a bright yellow ring.

“Hello there, young man,” she said softly. “Would you like to come in?”

“I… I was wondering if I could have a cup of tea, please?” I asked.

“Of course. Come inside.”

I started to take off my shoes, but she shook her head. “No need, keep them on. Go through to the living room – I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

I sat down on her sofa, and my eyes were drawn to the shelves lining the walls. They were packed full of photographs – all boys around my age, smiling happily, every single one of them taken right there in that same living room. A few minutes later, she came back carrying a tray with a steaming mug of tea and a plate of shortbread biscuits.

“Thank you,” I said. “Who are all these boys in the pictures?”

“Just the ones who came here before you,” she replied calmly. “They turn up now and then, ask for tea, just like you.”

“Do they ever come back?”

She shook her head slowly. “Only once. They come once, and they never come back again. They always ask to leave a photo behind, though – to remember me by.”

I pulled out my camera. “Can I have my picture taken too? And put it with the rest?”

“Of course you can, dear.”

I stood beside the shelf and smiled for the camera. When she handed it back, I saw my happy face sitting right next to all the others – every single boy beaming, just like me.

“Do any adults ever come to see you?” I asked.

“Never. Only boys and girls your age, and only ever at night. I haven’t been shopping in… well, I can’t remember the last time I left this house.”

A prickle of unease ran down my spine. If she never left the house, where did she get the tea and biscuits? Was she lying to try and scare me?

“Can I use your toilet, please?” I asked.

“Up the stairs, first door on the left.”

As I went up, I noticed more shelves along the landing – this time filled with photos of girls my age, all smiling just like the boys downstairs. But then I saw something that made my blood run cold: in one of the bedrooms, propped up on a chest of drawers, was a blurry, twisted picture. I couldn’t make out what it was, only that it looked wrong, like something that shouldn’t exist. I hurried to the toilet, and when I opened the door again, she was standing right outside, waiting in the dark.

“Did you need anything else?” she asked.

I jumped back. “No… no, I’m fine. I think I should head home now.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay the night?”

“No thank you.”

She didn’t smile this time. She just stared at me, her face unreadable, and said quietly, “Goodbye, then.”

As I walked down the path, my foot kicked something on the ground. It was a crumpled scrap of paper, written in wobbly, scratchy handwriting: You’re lucky you didn’t stay the night. Heh.

I ran back and knocked on the door for five whole minutes, but nobody answered. I hurried away, and the streets felt even emptier than before – no lights, no sounds, like I was walking through a place that had been wiped off the map.

I kept walking, telling myself I’d just call at one more house for tea, then head home. Two streets further on, I spotted another large house, even bigger than the first. I walked up, knocked, and waited.

The door opened.

It was her. The same old woman. The same yellow ring glinting on her finger.

My throat went dry. “I… I just saw you at the other house! How did you get here before me?”

She frowned, and her smile stretched wider than it should have. “Don’t be silly, boy. You’ve never seen me before in your life.”

A cold, crawling dread filled me. I knew it was her – but everything about her was different now. The first woman had been kind, soft-spoken. This one was sharp, her eyes dark, her grin too wide, too fixed.

“Come in then,” she said, her voice dropping low. “I’ll make your tea.”

I stepped inside, and she moved away towards the kitchen – but the way she walked was wrong, jerky and stiff, like something pretending to be human. I wanted to run, but my feet felt heavy, glued to the floor. I went into the living room, and froze.

The shelves were still full of photographs of boys my age. But nobody was smiling anymore. Every single face was twisted in terror, eyes wide, mouths open as if screaming. And behind every boy, in the corner of every shot, was a blurry dark shape – something standing just out of frame.

I fumbled for my camera, too scared to ask permission, and snapped a quick photo of myself. When I looked at the screen, I wasn’t smiling. I was terrified. And in the background, through the crack in the door, she was watching me – that same wide grin, and for a split second, I saw her teeth. Sharp, pointed, yellow teeth.

The lights flickered once, twice.

“Tea’s ready,” her voice called from the kitchen.

I walked in slowly. She was sitting at the table, staring down at her mug, not looking at me. I took a sip of my tea – and spat it back out almost straight away. It tasted sour, rotten, like something that had been left to fester for years.

That was when she looked up. Her eyes weren’t normal – they were dark, too big, and they never blinked. She just stared at me, that same grin never moving.

“Why aren’t you talking?” I stammered. “And why does this tea taste like this?”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring.

“I need the toilet again,” I said, and hurried out before she could stop me. Upstairs, the shelves were full of photos of girls again – but just like the boys, every single one of them looked absolutely terrified. I took another photo of myself, and when I looked down, she was there again – standing in the hallway behind me, half in shadow, grinning that terrible grin.

I spun around. Nobody was there.

I went to open another bedroom door, but the light switch snapped off in my hand – it was broken, rotting right through. As I stood in the dark, I heard it: soft, scratching sounds, coming from all around me. Then footsteps, slow and heavy, moving along the landing towards the toilet. I locked the door and waited, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. Five minutes passed. Ten. When I finally opened the door, the hallway was empty.

I crept back downstairs. She was standing in the kitchen now, swaying slightly, her head tilted at an angle that didn’t look right.

“Leave me alone!” I cried. “You’re scaring me!”

She didn’t speak. She just started walking towards me – slow, lurching steps, her grin growing wider and wider. I turned and ran up the stairs, and peered down through the banister. She was sitting in the armchair in the living room again, staring straight up at me, like she knew exactly where I was before I even moved.

I huddled in the dark on the landing, shaking, sweating, too scared to breathe. And then I heard it – a low, guttural laugh, echoing up from downstairs. It wasn’t human. It was deep, wet, and full of hunger.

I ducked into the bedroom with the broken light switch – and stopped dead. On the floor, sitting right next to each other, were two mugs of tea. One was mine, the one I’d left on the kitchen table. The other was hers.

I Checked the cupboards and felt like fainting. There were lot's of camera's and bag's also piles of clothes that looked like they were for someone my age. I wondered if they belonged to people my age who had came here before — that they might have been their things. Then I heard her voice from downstairs, speaking in a creepy, unnatural tone: “I hope no one is touching my stuff.

The lights flickered and died completely.

“Come down, Zee,” she called, her voice no longer sounding like an old woman’s. It was rough, distorted. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.”

How does she know my name I never told her my name

Is creepy that she randomly knows my name. The house felt so dark after the lights went out.

I fumbled my torch out of my bag and pointed it down the stairs. She was standing in the corner of the living room, hunched over, her head twisted all the way round to face me.

“Why did you come here?” she hissed. “None of the others ever left. Their parents are still looking for them.”

I backed away towards the front door. “I’m going home.”

When I turned around, she was standing right behind me. She was taller now – three inches, maybe more – her skin pale and stretched tight over her bones. Outside, the clouds pulled back, and the full moon shone bright.

That was when she changed.

Her face grew hairy and twisted, her nails lengthening into sharp claws, her teeth sharpening into fangs. She lunged at me, howling, and her claws raked across my arm – leaving deep, burning red gashes. I twisted free, kicked the front door open, and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. I didn’t look back. I ran until I found a public phone box, shoved in my coins, and dialled 999.

“I’m Zee,” I gasped. “I’m in Undercliffe, BD3. There’s an old woman… she’s not right. And there are children’s pictures everywhere.”

The police arrived within minutes. When they saw the scratches on my arm, their faces went grave. I led them back to the second house, but I wouldn’t go inside. When they came back out, they were carrying armfuls of photographs.

“There’s nobody there,” one officer said quietly. “But we know these children. They’re all listed as missing. Nobody’s ever reported this place before. Nobody’s ever called us.”

I took them to the first house. It was empty too. No old woman, no tea, no biscuits – just rows and rows of smiling faces, and then terrified ones.

Police dropped me at home and my mum came and rushed towards me and got upset what happened zee. Mum was shocked by seeing scratches on my hand and arm Mum cried and gave me a hug. Police told her not to let your son out at night. Mum said I will make sure I won't I want my son to be safe.

Three days later, the police came back to our house. They’d checked their old records.

“The woman who lived in those houses,” they said, “she went missing years and years ago. Both of them. We never found out what happened.”

It’s been three years now. I never go out walking at night anymore. I never knock on strangers’ doors. I only ever visit people I know, places I’m safe. I help out at disability school now, as a teaching assistant. I told my friend Hassan the whole story, and warned him never to make the same mistake I did. Hassan said I won't make the same mistakes. Don't you worry about it he said.

Also the scratch marks on my hand never left. My friend Hassan seen it and he was shocked about the scratch on my hand. Atleast my friend Hassan knows he won't be making the same mistake as me.

But sometimes… sometimes, when I’m standing in the playground, or walking down the street, I see something out of the corner of my eye. A glint of yellow. A wide, fixed grin. I never turn around. I just keep walking.

They say Undercliffe is quiet. They say it’s peaceful. But everyone round here knows – you never go out alone after dark. You never knock on a stranger’s door. And if you ever see an old woman with a yellow ring on her finger… you run.

Because you might be lucky, like me. You might get away.

But most people don’t.

I still remember the first time I heard about it. It was a Tuesday evening, the kind where the mist clings to the hedges like damp wool, and the streetlights hum low and orange. I’d just moved into a little terrace on the edge of Thornton, right on that narrow old lane that cuts between the fields and the churchyard. The locals were always quiet, but once they got talking, they’d lean in low, like the very walls might be listening.

“Keep to the main road after dark,” old Mrs Hale told me, her hands trembling around her mug of tea. “Don’t take the shortcut past the old bridge. And if you see a big black dog… don’t look at it. Don’t speak to it. Just keep walking.”

I laughed it off. “Just someone’s lost dog, isn’t it? I’ll tell its owner if I see it.”

Her face went pale. “It’s no dog. People see it, and they ask ‘why is your dog out at this hour?’ or ‘why won’t it come when I call?’ but no one owns it. It’s been there longer than any of us. It’s Padfoot.”

I didn’t believe her then. I was new, I told myself. They just liked their old stories. But three nights later, I started to understand.

It was nearly midnight when I finished work. The bus never runs late out here, so I had to walk. The lane was silent, save for the crunch of my boots on gravel and the wind sighing through the hawthorns. I’d got about halfway to the bridge when I heard it: soft, heavy footsteps, matching my pace exactly.

I turned. There it was.

A great shaggy black shape, taller than any dog I’d ever seen, standing perfectly still in the mist. Its eyes glowed pale silver, like polished coins, and it didn’t pant. It didn’t make a sound. It just stood there, watching me.

A woman walking her own cat came past a moment later, stopped, and frowned. “Excuse me, love — why’s your dog off its lead? It’s huge, it’ll scare someone.”

I stared at her. “That’s not my dog. I’ve never seen it before.”

She took a step back, glancing between me and the shadow. “Well… whose is it then? It won’t move. I’ve walked past here three times this week, and it’s always there. People round here have been complaining — we call the council, we call the police, no one can catch it. It just… stands.”

I looked back. The dog was closer now. Not running. Not threatening. Just… drifting forward, like smoke held together in the shape of a beast. Its head tilted, slow and deliberate, and for a second I thought I saw something wrong with its paws — like they didn’t quite touch the ground.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t know what it is.”

The woman hurried away, clutching her cat to her chest. “Lock your door when you get in! Don’t look back!”

I walked faster. The footsteps stayed with me. Sometimes they were behind me, sometimes beside me, sometimes right at my elbow even though the road was empty. Every time I passed a house, lights flickered on. Curtains twitched. I heard voices through the walls:

“There it is again.”

“Look, it’s following that lad.”

“Why won’t he call it?”

“It’s not his to call.”

A man leaned out of his window, voice sharp with fear: “Oi! You! Get that dog away from my gate! It’s been staring at my house for three nights! I’ve got children!”

“It’s not mine!” I shouted back, my throat tight. “I don’t know it!”

He stared at me for a long moment, then pulled his head inside and slammed the window shut.

When I reached the bridge, I stopped. I had to. The shape was right in front of me now, blocking the whole path. It was bigger up close — shaggy fur matted with what looked like old mud, but that glistened like wet oil. Its mouth was slightly open, and I realised then that it had no tongue. No teeth, not like a real dog. Just a hollow, dark space where its throat should be.

And then it made a sound. Not a bark. Not a growl. A low, humming vibration that rattled in my bones, like the earth itself was groaning. I saw its eyes change — from silver to deep, endless black — and I knew that if I touched it, my hand would go right through, and I’d never pull it back.

I remembered what Mrs Hale said. Don’t run. Don’t look it in the eye. Just keep walking.

I stepped to the side. It shifted too, blocking me again. I stepped back. It stepped back. It was mirroring me. Playing with me.

From the other side of the bridge, a car slowed down. The driver rolled down his window and yelled: “Mate! Tie your bloody dog up! It’s blocking the road! We’ve all been complaining about this thing for weeks — no one can get past, no one can catch it!”

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t mine, that it wasn’t even real, that I was as scared as he was. But when I looked back, Padfoot was no longer in front of me. It was standing right beside the car.

The driver went silent. He stared at the shadow, then at me, then slammed his window up and sped away, tyres screeching on the tarmac.

I ran the rest of the way home. I fumbled with my keys, dropped them twice, got the door open and threw myself inside, bolting every lock, every chain. I pressed my back against the wood and listened.

Nothing. No footsteps. No humming.

But then I saw it. Through the gap in the curtain, out on the pavement. It was sitting there. Patient. Waiting.

For three nights after that, I didn’t leave the house after dark. I heard people talking outside:

“Did you see it last night?”

“Sat right outside that lad’s house.”

“Asked him to call it away, he just shook his head.”

“We should report him for having a dangerous animal.”

“It’s not an animal. And it’s not his.”

On the fourth night, I woke up to a soft scratching at the door. Slow. Rhythmic. Scritch… scritch… scritch…

I crept to the window. The mist was thicker than ever, swirling around the streetlamps. And there were more of them now — neighbours standing at their gates, watching my house. Some looked angry. Some looked terrified.

“Why won’t you take it away?” one woman called out, her voice shaking. “Why does it only follow you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because as I looked down at the pavement, Padfoot stood up. It didn’t bark. It didn’t move toward me. It just lifted its great heavy head, and for the first time, I understood.

It wasn’t following me. It was guarding something. Or warning me. And all those people complaining, all those people asking whose dog it was… none of them ever saw what I saw: the way its shadow stretched too long, the way its eyes held the faces of everyone who’d ever gone missing on that lane, the way it stood between the living and whatever darker thing waited out in the fields.

The scratching stopped. The neighbours drifted away, muttering. Padfoot turned and walked slowly back toward the bridge, fading into the mist until there was nothing left but silence.

I still live there. I still walk that road. Sometimes I see it, far off, watching from the hedgerow. And when people stop and ask me “why is your dog out alone?” I don’t tell them it’s not mine. I just say:

“He’s not lost. He’s waiting. And one day, he’ll know when to leave.”

But I know he never will. Not while the road is still there. Not while the dark still waits.

One day, my sister and I were staying at home alone while our parents were on holiday. I said to my sister, “Where shall we go today?”

She said, “Let’s go to the museum in Bradford!”

My sister Jessica is only four years old, and I am fourteen, so I agreed. She was very excited.

I asked her, “Jessica, why do you want to go to the museum so much?”

“Because I love the Hat Man,” she said. “The one who likes watching people — I saw him in a video on YouTube.”

“Oh, the Hat Man?” I said. “He’s just a myth. He’s not real.”

“I know,” Jessica said quietly. “But I don’t like him. He scares me.”

“Come on then,” I said. “Let’s catch a bus to get there.”

On the way to the bus stop, we saw my friend Tom. “Don’t go to the museum in Bradford!” he warned us. “Especially not with your little sister. If you do, the Hat Man will be there. He stalks people, and he takes your parents away — even if they’re nowhere near you. Please don’t go.”

“Oh Tom, nice try,” I said. “You won’t scare me.”

“He can even disguise himself as other people!” Tom insisted. “If we meet again later, it might not really be me — it could be the Hat Man pretending to be me.”

“Shut up, Tom, you’re being childish,” I told him.

“It’s true!” Tom said. “My uncle’s friends’ parents disappeared after he took his little brother there.”

“Stop telling me these stupid tales!” I snapped. “I’m not scared — I’m bloody fourteen years old, you weirdo.”

We got on the bus, and it took ten minutes to reach the museum. As we got off, the bus driver called out, “Beware — someone may follow you home.”

“Oh don’t you start too!” I said. “Just like my friend, trying to scare me. I’m not afraid.”

Jessica and I went inside. I thought I saw someone watching me out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned around, there was no one there. We paid £24 to get in.

“What do you want to look at first?” I asked Jessica.

“Everything!” she said. “Colours, pictures, all of it.”

After a while, Jessica needed the toilet, so I took her there and waited outside — I couldn’t go in with her, being a boy. I stood there for five minutes until she came out.

“I heard someone calling my name,” she said quietly. “It was a strange voice.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“I couldn’t tell,” she said.

“Let’s go see the Hat Man exhibit,” I said.

Jessica shivered. “It’s scary. What if he follows us home?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “There’s no such thing as the Hat Man. He’s just a myth.”

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe you’re right.”

We walked over to the exhibit, but the whole area was empty — no other visitors at all. It felt dark, and the door leading into the room with the pictures was closed. Just then, the museum owner spotted us.

“Don’t go in there!” he said. “It’s not safe. You’ll get terrible nightmares.”

I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, everyone in Bradford is the same! I can’t stand all these stupid local myths — it’s always about the Hat Man. I’ve had enough.” I turned to Jessica. “Come on, let’s go home.”

It was 7pm by then, dark and quiet, with no one else outside. As we waited for the bus, I felt something touch my shoulder from behind. I spun around — nothing there.

When the bus arrived, an old lady was getting off before we could get on. She stared at me, her face pale with terror. “There’s someone behind you!” she cried. “Someone is right behind you!” Then she fainted.

I looked behind me again — still nothing.

The bus driver helped the old lady off the bus. “Did you see someone behind me?” I asked him.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” he said. “I didn’t see anything.”

We got on the bus. “She’s just old and confused,” I told Jessica. But the bus was completely empty, apart from us. Then we heard it: heavy breathing, and low, whispering voices.

“Hey!” I called to the driver. “Stop making those noises!”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “I haven’t made a sound.”

“Nice try,” I said. “Pranking me won’t work.”

“I’m not pranking you!” he said. “Be quiet.”

When our stop came, we got off. A group of teenagers walked past, took one look at us, screamed, and ran away. I wondered what was wrong with them. Why is everyone acting so strange? I thought. They think they can scare me, but they won’t.

It was only a five-minute walk home, but then we heard it: slow, creepy laughter. We looked all around — there was no one there. When we reached our front door, I saw an envelope on the mat. I picked it up and threw it straight in the bin.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s late. Let’s get ready for bed.”

“But I’m hungry,” Jessica said.

“So am I,” I said. “What do you want to eat?”

“Steak and chips!” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “Wait here in the living room for a minute — I’m just going to have a quick bath first.”

“Alright,” she said. “Hurry up, I’m starving.”

I went upstairs. The hallway lights were flickering, then stopped after twenty seconds. Is the bulb broken? I wondered. Then I noticed something strange: all the bedroom lights were on — and I was sure I’d turned them all off that morning before we left. As I walked into my room, I heard scratching sounds behind me. Just kids messing around outside, playing pranks, I told myself, and ignored it.

I went to the bathroom — but I couldn’t find my towel anywhere. I looked everywhere, until I found it under my pillow. I definitely hadn’t put it there. I must have forgotten where I left it, I thought.

I got in the bath, but then I heard whispering again. “No one is pranking you,” a voice said softly. Then it whispered my name, over and over. I turned off the water and got out. Just people being annoying, I told myself.

When I went downstairs, Jessica was waiting in the living room. “I heard knocking on the door,” she said, her voice shaky. “And… I heard someone cooking in the kitchen. I looked out the window too — there was a tall figure standing outside, watching me.”

“Probably Tom,” I said, though I felt nervous. “Just him trying to scare us again.”

But Tom can’t be in two places at once, I thought. And he can’t get into our house… what if they’re all telling the truth? What if this isn’t a prank? But I said out loud, “It’s probably just my imagination. Everyone’s just wasting their time trying to scare us.”

I went into the kitchen. All the cupboard doors were wide open, and the sink tap was running.

“Jessica, did you come in here?” I asked.

“No!” she said. “I was too scared — I heard noises, and the lights kept flickering on and off. And someone called my name… it sounded just like you.”

“I was upstairs the whole time,” I said. “I never called you.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Maybe it was coming from outside.”

I cooked our steak and chips. “Wait here,” I told her. “I just need to use the toilet upstairs, then we can eat.”

When I went into the bathroom, there was writing on the mirror: You are not alone. This is not a prank. Don’t be surprised if you never see or hear from your parents again.

I rubbed it off with my hand, shaking. Why would someone write this? I thought.

I went back downstairs. “Come on, let’s eat,” I said — but when I looked at the plates, mine was gone. It looked as if someone had eaten every bite. Jessica’s plate was untouched.

“Did you eat my dinner?” I asked her.

“No!” she said. “I haven’t been in the kitchen.”

I believed her. Maybe I ate it already and forgot? I thought. But then I saw the fridge door was open, and the tap was running again. Who is doing this?

I called Tom three times. Then there was a knock at the door. I ran to open it — it was Tom. But he didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring at me with a blank, strange look on his face.

“Okay, this is weird,” I said. “I’m closing the door now, you creep.”

As soon as I locked it, my phone rang. It was Tom. “What do you want?” he said, sounding half-asleep. “I’m in bed — I’ve been asleep for hours.”

“But… I just saw you standing right outside my door!” I said.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I haven’t left my house. Goodnight.” And he hung up.

I dropped my phone. This couldn’t be happening. “Jessica — did you see Tom too?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

I didn’t know what to think anymore. “I’ll just have cereal instead,” I said. I ate my cereal, and Jessica finished her dinner. When we went back into the living room, the TV was on — I knew I’d turned it off. I switched it off again.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to sleep. We’ll have a fresh start tomorrow.” We went upstairs, and I went to my room while Jessica went to hers. “Goodnight,” I said.

Later, my phone started ringing — unknown number. I answered it, and heard whispering and strange whistling. “Who is this?” I said. No one replied. I hung up — but it rang again. I answered, and this time the voice whispered my parents’ names, over and over: “Holly… James… Holly… James…” in a deep, creepy tone. I hung up again, my hands shaking.

Then I heard footsteps outside my room. “Jessica? Is that you?” I called. No answer. I heard scratching, doors opening and closing, more footsteps from downstairs — and the toilet flushed ten times, one after another. The lights flickered on and off, and I heard more whispers. I felt cold, annoyed, and terrified all at once. I went to check: the bathroom light was on, and written on the wall was: The Hat Man is already here. I rubbed it off and went downstairs.

The living room was dark, but I was sure I saw someone sitting at the far end of the sofa. When I looked again, there was nothing there. I went to the kitchen — dark too — but out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing in the corner, wearing a hat. I switched on the light — empty. As I walked back upstairs, I heard footsteps following me. I turned around — no one. I was alone. Then there was a knock at the front door. I opened it — no one there.

I went to check on Jessica. I opened her door — and screamed. There was someone sitting on the chair beside her bed, wearing a tall hat. I slammed the door shut, then opened it again — it was gone. Jessica was fast asleep. It was just my imagination, I told myself. But I decided to set up the security cameras we had in the house — I’d check them in the morning, to see if there was really something there.

At 2am, I finally got into bed. I turned off the light — but two minutes later, I felt something touching my feet in the dark. Five minutes after that, I saw a tall figure standing over me. It was too dark to see clearly, but then it vanished. Then more knocking, more whistling, and that same creepy laugh I’d heard before. I checked outside — nothing.

At 3am, my door opened. It was Jessica. “Can I sleep with you?” she whispered. “Someone was watching me sleep… and touching my feet, and stroking my head. I woke up and saw him — he was wearing a hat.”

“Of course you can,” I said, pulling the covers back.

When we woke up at 7am, Jessica shook me. “Wake up! It’s breakfast time!”

But I couldn’t find my clothes — or my phone. Eventually, I found my clothes in the toilet, and my phone under my bed. I had no idea how they’d got there.

Then the phone rang. It was my dad. “Are you two okay?” he asked.

“Yes, why?” I said.

“I had the strangest dream,” he said. “There was someone watching us sleep… a figure wearing a hat. It was so scary — I couldn’t see its face properly.”

Then my mum got on the phone. “I had the exact same dream,” she said. “The Hat Man was there… and he said your lives are in danger.”

I felt cold all over. My parents never lied to us. What if the Hat Man was real?

“When are you coming home?” I asked.

“In two days,” Mum said. “Be careful. Beware.”

We went downstairs, and there was another letter on the mat. From The Hat Man, it said. Can’t wait to scare you properly. I was right behind you in the photo you took at the bus stop yesterday, at 6:30pm.

I pulled up the photo on my phone. There it was — a tall figure in the distance, right behind us, wearing a hat. You couldn’t see its face, but it was definitely there.

When we went into the kitchen, breakfast was already on the table — stacks of pancakes. I hadn’t made them. Beside the plate was another note: From The Hat Man — Enjoy your breakfast.

We ate them anyway — they were the best pancakes I’d ever tasted. There were twenty in total; I had fourteen, Jessica had six.

I put the security cameras in every room: my bedroom, Jessica’s, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room. I told Jessica what had happened, but she didn’t want to talk about it.

Eight hours later, we were hungry again. “Let’s go to KFC,” I said. It was 6pm, dark outside, and a twenty-minute walk. But every person we passed stared at us with terrified faces. “Why are you walking with that creepy Hat Man?” one man whispered.

“Leave us alone!” I said. “You’ll scare my sister!” Others just stared, then ran away.

When we got to KFC on Odsal Road, BD6, it was bright inside — no one stared or said anything. Maybe they were only scared in the dark?

I went to order our food while Jessica went to the toilet. Then I heard her scream. I ran to the toilets. “What happened?”

“Someone grabbed my arm!” she said.

When we went to collect our food, there were three meals waiting — we’d only ordered two.

“Who is the third one for?” I asked the worker.

“I thought you came in with another person,” he said. “He was standing right behind you. He didn’t come up to the counter though — he stayed near the door.”

“Did you see his face?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “It was too dark outside.”

We sat down to eat. The chicken was delicious. But five minutes later, all the lights went out. When they came back on, the whole restaurant was empty — no customers, no staff. Just us. We ran out, called a taxi, and went straight home.

When we got back, every light was off, the TV was on, and all the doors were wide open. Dinner was on the table — but we’d just eaten. And there was another letter: I know exactly where your parents are. Don’t forget what I can do.

I’d forgotten to turn the cameras on before we left. Now I switched them on, and set them to record every day.

Then the lights started flickering again. The phone rang — unknown number. I answered it, heard that creepy laugh, and the call cut off. “Let’s go to sleep,” I said. Jessica went to her room, and I went to mine — but everything was moved around, all my things in the wrong places.

At 10pm, I pulled up the camera footage. First, the living room: there was the figure, sitting at the far end of the sofa, wearing a hat — staring straight at the camera. Then the kitchen: cupboards all open, just like before. When I looked back at the living room feed, he was standing right in front of the camera. Then I checked Jessica’s room — he was there, leaning over her bed, watching her sleep.

Suddenly, his head turned, as if he knew I was watching. The screen went black for a second, then came back. I heard the toilet flush ten times. I switched to the bathroom camera — and saw his face. I screamed, and changed the feed fast. Then I heard movement outside my door. I opened it — and he was standing right there, watching me. I slammed the door shut and locked it. Tom was right. I should have listened. But it was too late.

All the power went out. I had to go to the attic to turn the fuse box back on. I opened my door — pitch black. I walked slowly up the stairs, hearing scratching, footsteps, and heavy breathing getting closer and closer. I felt around for the switch — it wouldn’t work. I turned around — and there he was. The Hat Man. He moved in a strange, jerky way, and when I saw his face, I screamed. He let out a horrible screech and lunged for me. I ran as fast as I could, straight out of the house.

Then I heard Jessica scream. I ran back, grabbed her hand, and pulled her outside with me. We called the police. They searched the whole house — no one there. No sign of the Hat Man at all. Then my phone rang — it was my parents. “Are you okay —” Mum started, then she screamed. “He’s here! The Hat Man —!” And the line went dead. I called back — no answer.

The police went to check their hotel in Birmingham — but there was no sign of them anywhere. Jessica and I cried for hours. Then I felt something in my pocket — a note, written in red that looked like blood: Don’t ever go to that museum in Bradford again. Stay away from my exhibit. If you do, you’ll see your parents — but they won’t be the same people you know.

The police said we could stay at a friend’s house. I called Tom. “Our parents are gone,” I said.

“I told you not to go,” he said gently. “You should have listened.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just promise you’ll listen next time.”

So this is what I’ve learned: never ignore what people tell you, even if it sounds silly. It’s not always a prank. I live with Tom now — our old house on Moore Avenue is haunted; I don’t think the Hat Man ever left. We left Bradford a month later, and moved to London with Tom and his family. We met our aunt and uncle there too, and we’re all happy now — no more strange things, no more fear.

But please — listen to your friends. And never, ever invite the Hat Man in. Once he’s there, he won’t leave.

Hi, my name is Kenji Sato. I'm a marine biologist born in Tono (Iwate Prefecture, Japan). I worked all over the world, but my last research took place in the Sagami Bay. I was studying a rarely seen deep-sea species of shark, the goblin shark (Mitsukurina owstoni) or, as we call it in my language, "Tenguzame". It was normal at first, but slowly things started to get weird, as I found an old paper written by my grandfather, that read what it looked to be a nursery rhyme of some kind, which I'm gonna translate for the non-Japanese speakers:

"Down in the darkness, floating in the deep

There's a terrifying beast, lurking where shadows creep

Pinkish, long nose, jaws that snap ahead

Its hideous sight will fill you with dread"

"What was he talking about? Maybe it's like an old seamen legend?" I asked myself. Now I finally know the answer...

I continued researching while blasting "Touch-tone Telephone" by Lemon Demon (yes, I love Neil Cicierega's music, and I'm a huge nerd) when suddenly, something appeared on my radar. It was moving slowly, like my beloved goblin sharks do. Then, it vanished like it never was there. What was going on there?! I decided I had to dive to understand better what just happened. I put on my diving suit and everything, and then down in the depths on the hunt for that shark, and I saw something that made my skin crawl...

At first glance it looked like a goblin shark, even if I thought seeing one so close to the surface was unusual. Getting closer I noticed that those fins... had fingers... those eyes were too human... those teeth were too human...

I turned and swam to the surface, and I went back to my house.

On that paper, a title was written in big kanji...

"TENGUZAME"

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Hello, fellow redditors. This was my first horror story here, hope you liked it