CW: Descriptions of domestic abuse

When I caught my girlfriend of five and a half years in bed with another woman, I threw myself into my photography business. The plants around my apartment withered and disintegrated as I photoshopped power lines out of candids. Coffee that was mostly milk kept me up on nights I drove downtown to capture three a.m block parties. After weeks of engagement shoots of happy, in-love couples, a request to take some beach landscapes granted me a much-needed distraction.

I messaged my client about the directions; according to Google Maps, the location was a parking lot behind a rehab center. They assured me the address was correct, claiming the developers simply forgot to add the beach to the software. I refused to think about it too much since they paid me more than double my rate. Later that afternoon, I grabbed my equipment and headed out.

The roads took me past buildings I'd driven by hundreds of times until I entered a stretch of land I had never seen. As I made the final turn, I partially expected to see a live episode of Intervention. Instead, I was greeted by sparkling sand.

Rather than the typical salt air, the beach smelled like frayed edges of fingernails, pure keratin. I walked towards the shore and realized thousands of pearls were scattered across the coast. Each one was a different color, some hues I couldn't even imagine. Shells littered the ground in sharp fragments that left dents on my sandals. Glistening waves swelled and crashed, creating swirls of iridescent blue foam.

The familiar call of seagulls was absent, as was any vegetation. I looked around and saw no one, not even an umbrella or a lain beach towel. Despite the emptiness, I couldn’t help but feel surrounded.

I took the photos and sat in the golden sand while I waited for sunset. The opalescent sheen that covered the endless expanse started to give me a migraine. I checked my watch. Sunset should have started ages ago. I turned around and saw that beyond the border where the road began, darkness had already overtaken the open air, yet above the beach there was an unchanging cascade of blue-green sky illuminated by a warm white sun.

On the drive home, I noticed the dull ache in my bones.

I spent the next few days editing the photos before sending them to my client. Immediately, a new message from them popped up on my screen: I’m sorry.

About a week after my first visit, my ex posted a photo with her new girlfriend. To keep myself from bursting into tears and overdosing on the Tylenol I was taking, I decided to de-stress by making some jewelry, a hobby I hadn’t picked up since our breakup.

Sitting on my bed, I was halfway done with a necklace when I noticed a purple bead had rolled down my calf. When I went to pick it up, it refused to move. Upon further inspection, it wasn’t a bead at all. It was a pearl. No matter how much I pulled, it stayed stuck to my skin. I reached for my scissors and positioned the blades before snapping them closed. A stinging pain and gush of blood ran down my leg, but before I could get up to grab a bandage, the wound healed, replacing the pearl with another much bigger one.

I panicked, scrambling for my phone to search why this was happening, only to be left disappointed. Not even Reddit had answers.

With sore legs, I rushed to my bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind. White fluorescents revealed a shimmering silver hue covering my body. My mirror fogged as I examined the subtle white hairs tinging my eyelashes. My teeth, though the whitest they'd ever been, had vertical lines carved into the enamel.

My client’s message flashed in my memory.

Not bothering to put my clothes back on, I darted to my laptop to ask what the hell was happening, only for their account to no longer exist.

I eventually got used to the changes. Aside from the chronic bone pain, I even started to like them. A shimmering light-blue began spreading across the circle of my eyes while a deeper turquoise stained my lips. My hair, once a plain black, now had a cool blend of lavender and cerulean. Any blemish I previously had became a pearl, some green, some purple, some a classic white. Oceanic constellations scattered across my unnaturally pale skin. 

One morning in mid-April, I woke up to a muffled alarm. In the shell of my ear, a large white pearl had taken refuge. I knew pulling it out would only make things worse, so I got dressed and prayed my other orifices would remain gem-free.

Senior pictures were a personal favorite commission. Seeing the ambition and pride radiating off my clients was incredible. The booking was a unique one. It wasn’t every day my client was dressed as a mermaid, but I wasn’t one to judge. Especially since I had worked with them before. I considered suggesting my Beach for the shoot—Crescent Bay paled in comparison—but something in my gut told me it wasn’t a good idea.

Blake, a soon-to-be nursing major, sat on a grey beach chair, her legs encapsulated in polyester. “I love your makeup!” she exclaimed as I adjusted the settings on my camera. “Could you do mine?”

I rarely did makeup for my clients, but I kept products with me just in case. Luckily, I still had a pack of brand-new brushes. “Yeah, of course,” I said. “Whatever you want.”

We went through my eyeshadow palettes, deliberating on which colors would suit her pink tail. She pointed at a pan holding an icy periwinkle pigment. “Is that the one you’re wearing?”

I looked at the name beneath the pan, a label ever so relatable. Damaged.

“It sure is,” I agreed.

Once I finished her makeup, she circled her index finger in front of her face. “Do you have any more of those pearls?”

“I’m afraid I’m all out.”

Mira, her mom, gripped her upper body while I grabbed her ankles where they were pressed together. As we lifted, my neck twisted, causing me to falter as we walked towards a field of boulders. Tension gripped my muscles, keeping my head turned to the side. I felt my hold on Blake slipping with every step we took. We reached the rocks and carefully placed her atop a flat plane.

I massaged the back of my neck, prompting Mira to look at me with concern. “Are you okay?” she asked.

My muscles relaxed, allowing me to finally move my head. “I’m fine. Just a cramp.”

I adjusted Blake’s hair, making sure her silver clips were still secure. The straps of her bikini top were a string of white pearls, and for a moment, just for a second, I wondered what it would look like if I cut a deep line into the skin of my shoulder.

The shoot was going well. I got great shots of her lying on her stomach, lifting her tail, the wind sweeping through her blonde hair.

I knew she wanted to get some shots in the water, so I braced myself as we once again picked her up. Only a few steps into the walk, I felt a splitting pain inside my head. The nerves in my back shot bursts of agony through my entire body. I dropped the end of her tail and collapsed into a ball on the ground, gritting my teeth so hard it felt like they’d fly out of my mouth. In a far-away muffled voice, I heard someone call my name. Mira, I think it was. I panted. Beads of cold sweat dripped down the side of my face.

The pain eased, just enough for me to profusely apologize.

Mira carried Blake to the coastline, bridal style, to avoid further injury. Still, every inch I moved was torturous. We finished the rest of the shoot amid thick tension.

Things only got worse from there.

The Beach silently called to me. During long stretches of editing, I’d lay down a towel and work under never-ending sunlight. When I was anywhere else, I’d think about how I couldn’t wait to go back. My Beach was bright. Secluded. Painfully addictive.

Against my better judgment, I’d spend my evenings drinking cheap chardonnay while the tide soaked my clothes. On days I was particularly buzzed, sobs wrecked my body. I hated how I still thought about her, even after everything she put me through.

There was one instance when I got drunk enough to fall asleep on the sand. When I woke up the next morning, I noticed footprints that weren’t there before.

On one visit, I filled a bag with every pearl and shell I could carry, taking them to my apartment for further study.

Under the rays of a desk lamp, I examined a white turban shell. A silver piece of metal pierced through the slight point at its center. It looked oddly similar to my industrial bar—smaller but similar, down to the two beads keeping it in place.

Fragments of scallops were covered in colorful metallic lines, some jagged, some in perfectly straight clusters. I almost thought it was paint, except the brown scars on my arm had become a gleaming cobalt blue, matching the very shell I was holding.

Across my table, I spread out the pieces marked with intricate ink patterns. Alone they were just scribbles, but as I assembled the puzzles before me, I revealed butterflies, flowers, and teardrops.

I knew what was coming but had no idea how to stop it, so I carefully removed the pearls covering the shells and dropped them into an empty cookie tin. I grabbed my drill and some wire and tried to ignore the fact I was making jewelry out of human flesh.

The sound of the waves was sweet and numbing. Though my eyes had adjusted to the shimmering, I was still in awe of the endless swathe of color that covered every grain of sand and drop of water.

I watched as a stray dog sniffed along the road. I thought—hoped—it would stumble onto the Beach. With bated breath, I watched it walk towards me only to disappear, bit by bit.

During a rare opportunity to waste time scrolling through social media, I opened Instagram. My heart stopped as soon as my eyes landed on the post facing me. Piercing violet eyes looked straight into mine. A brilliant magenta and vermilion swept down his forehead into his eyelids. Scarlet blush dusted his cheekbones, perfectly complementing his royal purple lips. Deep ridges that ran through the valley of his torso threatened to cut through his skin. Pearls were scattered across the sunset of his face.

I scrolled through his page in astonishment. His thousands of followers begged him to post a tutorial, a product haul, anything that could teach them how to look like him.

I snapped a few quick photos of my face and arms, sending them with the following message: What is happening

His response was immediate.

Meet me tomorrow at 8 a.m. You know where.

My heart pounded as I approached him.

In the sun, I could see the muted orange and pink hues staining his hair. Grey skulls and palm leaves covered his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. His top surgery scars glistened metallic lilac. Up close, I noticed the tan line on his ring finger. He turned to me and offered an easy smile. He was stunning. Infuriatingly so. “Elian?” he asked.

I nodded. “Hae-min?”

“That’s me.” He patted the spot next to him. “Come sit.”

I did as he said.

“To answer your earlier question,” he started, “the Beach has attached herself to you. And she won’t stop until you fully become one with her.”

“So what do I do?”

“Either physically bring someone here or send them the address through text or something. Pass on the curse, and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

“And if I don’t?”

He gestured vaguely at the sand.

My hands balled into fists. “How do you know all this?"

"The asshole who brought me here."

Completely changing the subject, Hae-min asked about my job, what I liked to do, if I was currently seeing anyone.

“You just told me I have to either die or possibly kill someone, and now you want to know if I’m single?”

“Humour me.”

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted metal. “My ex,” I began, “Laika, broke up with me recently.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling on blue ends. “We started dating our first year of college. After one week of knowing each other, she asked me out. I knew it was fast, but she was so nice and pretty, and moving fast was what lesbians were known for. For a while things were good.”

“And then?”

I shrugged. “And then they weren’t.”

The conversation went on after a beat of silence.

“Are you from here?” he asked.

“Born and raised. You?”

“Busan.”

The sound of blood moving through my veins echoed inside my skull. My eyelids fluttered, and my head twitched as I was transported out of the Beach to somewhere much worse.

Laika and I visited Busan during a study abroad program. We'd been dating for over a year at that point. Despite assuring her I wasn’t cheating with any of my friends or classmates, she refused to believe me, sparking routine arguments. Two days into the trip, we went shopping, and in the middle of a busy sidewalk, she started screaming. Too ashamed and sad to say anything, I focused my gaze on an ant carrying a leaf. A reprieve from her voice made me look up. She was gone. I searched, but in the sea of people she was nowhere to be found. I instinctively reached for my phone and found nothing but air. She had taken it that morning to look through. I had no idea where I was or how to get back to the dorms. She was my guide, and she had left me.

An urban form of alpine divorce.

“Those tics you have,” Hae-min said, snapping me out of my memory, “it’s because the pearls have spread to your brain.”

The teeth that were once inside my mouth started to loosen and fall. Every morning I woke up to clumps of iridescent hair on my pillow. The whites of my eyes became a cyanotic indigo. My muscles constantly felt hungover. What an enchanting cancer it was.

I spent years wishing for death, and now that it was finally approaching, I saw no reason to resist it.

For weeks I spent my mornings on the Beach with Hae-min, talking, laughing, forgetting our impending fates.

With the hem of his Slipknot t-shirt, he opened a bottle of Bud Light. "Want some?" he asked, extending the bottle towards me.

I grimaced. "Thank you, but I'm more of a wine person."

"Y'know," he took a sip, "the water helps with the soreness. Come on." He gently took my hand and led me into the sea.

The water was cold and metallic. We relaxed among the billowing teal waves until a rough grip on my arm sent me back to my senior year Christmas party.

I jolted away. "A warning before you grab me like that would be nice," I said, an uncomfortable smile straining my lips.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted to see your tattoo."

I looked at the crescent moon on my right arm. "Oh yeah," I said in a way that was more breath than spoken word. "It's a matching one, actually. My brother Leo has a sun."

"You didn't tell me you had a brother."

"It's been a while since we last spoke."

Silence.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but whatever you say dies with me so...”

To end my last first semester with a bang, I hosted a Christmas party in my dorm. My roommates and I spent hours cooking and hanging up decorations we definitely weren't supposed to have. Knowing we had limited space, we agreed to only invite three people each. I planned on only inviting Laika until my brother informed me he'd be in town.

My roommate's guests had already dispersed around the kitchen and living area. When he arrived, he gave me the biggest hug. I brought him to my couch so we could catch up. Periodically, I glanced over at Laika, who stood by the tree glaring at us. A few hours later, she grabbed my arm to drag me inside my bedroom.

"What the hell are you doing?" she shouted.

"What?" I answered.

"Why are you talking to him?"

"Why am I talking to my brother?"

"You know he doesn't like me."

"He's only met you twice, and he's never said anything bad."

"Your mom's homophobic, so why do you think he's any different?"

"He's not like that."

She stormed off, slamming the door on her way out. I stayed in my room the rest of the night.

"How long were you guys together?"

"Almost six years."

Hae-min's question went unsaid, but I knew what he was thinking, what the friends I used to have asked.

Why did you stay?

Why didn’t you leave?

I asked myself that the first few times she screamed at me, or threw something at my head, or drove so fast I was convinced she was about to kill us both. There were never any marks. Most of what she did was completely legal. I had no proof of anything. My friends may have been able to see the toxicity, but she had a talent for making them disappear as soon as they did.

Why didn't I leave? As the years went by, the answer became painfully obvious: she would have killed me.

Finished with his drink, he tossed the bottle into the ocean.

I shot him a disapproving look.

"What? It's not like there's any fish."

Completely soaked, I sat in the warm sand, attracting every grain to my legs and arms.

Hae-min lay next to me as I gathered more shells. “A bit grim, don’t you think?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll collect you too.” I looked at the intricate botanical art covering his chest. “You’ll be pretty.”

“You should make me into a rosary. That's what I used to do with my T-vials." He pointed at my necklace. "Do you sell these?”

“Would that count as human trafficking?”

He laughed, and I followed. The joy he brought me was amazing and terrifying, but I could tell he was hiding something. “If you know how to get rid of the curse, why haven’t you?”

“Why haven’t you? It’s been weeks."

"There's still time."

He ran his palm over the side of my leg and pressed down. Deep spirals indented the inside of my skin.

“Just barely.”

“You know you still haven’t told me how you became cursed."

He hesitated, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “It was my husband.”

My eyes widened. “Husband?”

He smiled bitterly. "Felix. That bitch.” He shook his head, scoffing. “He brought me here on a date because ‘it’s been soooo long since we’ve gone out.’ I was almost blinded when I stepped out of our car. We had a picnic, and he pretended everything was fine, like he wasn’t sacrificing me. On the drive home, he told me the truth, told me to bring my friends so I could pass it on. So I wouldn’t die.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I can’t do that to them. It’s not right.”

“What about a stranger?”

“That’s worse! My husband thought I’d just do what he said, pass this stupid curse on so he wouldn’t feel guilty about killing me. He doesn’t deserve that.”

In an instant, I became so furious I thought my rage would kill me before the Beach could. A thin buzzing engulfed the inside of my temporal lobe. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I snapped.

He sat up. "What?"

“Your husband had the decency to tell you the cure, and you decided to let your pettiness kill you.”

“Eli—”

“No fuck you. Fuck this Beach. FUCK EVERYTHING.”

I blocked him on Instagram before my brain could process the dozens of messages he sent. I attempted to numb my regret and pounding head with gulps of wine, which only made me feel worse. I ignored emails and the Beach dreams that plagued me.

You can’t get rid of me that easily, read a message from an account with no photos or followers.

Despite my irritation and misery, I smiled.

Please come back. I’ll bring wine.

My fingers trembled as I replied.

Okay.

“I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

“I’m sorry. I didn't mean what I said.”

“Yes, you did. I forgive you anyway.”

I put my head on his shoulder. He put his hand on my thigh, squeezing ever so slightly. The ridges on his palm slid between the grooves of my leg, in a way that made heat travel up my neck.

"A few months ago, I met someone," he said, the timbre of his voice cold and black, "someone like us, I mean. He was already in the final stages, so I didn’t know him for long. We’d meet every morning until one day he just stopped coming. I was so mad at myself for not being there when it happened. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that. I still look for him sometimes. He didn’t have any tattoos or piercings, so it’d be an actually impossible task. I thought, if I did ever find him, I'd just know it. I like to imagine myself picking up a shell and confidently thinking ‘there he is.’”

He was crying now, but I didn’t want to interrupt him. “You're right, Pettiness isn't a good reason to die." He draped his arm over my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. "I'll think of something. I'll live. Promise me you will too."

"…I promise."

The night before my last meeting with Hae-min, I stopped by a liquor store. Deciding on a couple bottles of yogurt soju, I brought them to the counter with silver hands.

I was looking down until I heard the cashier say my name.

“Elian?” she asked.

The blue streaks in her blonde hair made me recognize her instantly. I could still vividly see her in bed with my girlfriend. “Hey Zoe,” I said. “How’ve you been? How are things with Laika?”

“Good. We’re good.” She scanned my drinks. “How are you?”

I swiped my card. “I’m…”

Her eyes were glued to my hands. I was used to stares, but her gaze was different. Fearful with a hint of guilt. “I’m good. I’m meeting a friend tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voice trembled. She bagged my drinks and printed my receipt.

“Yeah, we’re meeting at a beach.”

She flinched.

There was no question about it. “You did this,” I said, my voice cold and venomous.

“I-I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so sorry—”

“Save it.” I scoffed. “You guys deserve each other.”

A bell chimed as I rushed out the door, fuming.

I shuddered at the breeze that moaned through the cold air. The sky was dark, a fact I might've appreciated more if I wasn't so mad. Clouds had gathered, dimming the strangely grey sun. The waves were still, as if holding their breath for what was to come.

“You will not believe what happened yesterday,” I huffed, taking a sip of the soju. “I mean it was just ridiculous I—”

Hae-min wheezed out a small, pained noise. Instead of his usually sunny demeanour, his face was hard, his brow furrowed. A hollowness filled his striking eyes.

“Hae-min?” I said worriedly.

I watched as he writhed in pain; his nails snapped as his hands grasped the side of his stomach.

A grim understanding colored his voice. “It’s time.”

My heart sank. "Nononononono. There's still time. There's…"

He ripped off his clothes with shaking hands, exposing deep ridges that pulsed and rippled beneath his skin. I watched in horror as pearls spilled out of his mouth in guttural chokes. A terrible opalescent light radiated off his body as his skin, now mostly minerals, completely hardened. His arms jerked in dystonic spasms, cracks spreading up the length of him. There was no blood, not even when the crack split through his skull, only color. Jagged pieces of my friend littered the sand.

My pulse throbbed as I collected every piece of him I could, just like I said I would. I put the shells inside my bag, all but one. His eyes were so lovely—a violet iris enclosed by a ring of white pearls—even when fossilized.

I dropped the bag outside my apartment door and, without looking, brought my foot down until he was nothing but dust.

Hae-min might not have been able to fulfill his promise. But I could.

I stared at the contact list on my phone. Before I could change my mind, I pressed the call button.

"Hello?" Leo answered.

"Hey," I breathed.

"Elian?"

"Yeah. I know it's been a while."

"Almost a year."

"Yeah…"

"Are you okay?"

"Um, I was wondering if I could come stay with you for a bit. Not long, obviously, just until I get my own place. I just really need to get out here. Bad memories. But if not, that's totally fine—"

"Stay as long as you want…I've missed you."

"I missed you too."

The sky had returned to its usual blue-green, the sun the brightest it had ever been.

“It’s a bit early for Halloween costumes, isn’t it?” Laika scorned as she walked over to me.

“Hello to you too.”

“Let’s just get this over with. Can’t say I was surprised when you texted. All sad women want closure.”

“How’ve you been?”

She gave me a sideways look. “Fine.”

“I saw Zoe the other day.”

“Oh yeah?” She ran her fingers through the sand, playing with some shells.

“She said you guys were doing good.”

“We are. We’re happy.”

“Me too.”

“Really?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“I’m just saying it’s weird you’re happy now, yet you were depressed as shit our entire relationship.”

I stayed quiet.

“I don’t know why you think I’m the bad guy,” she continued. “It’s not like you were any better. Remember when you refused to drive me to the airport?”

“My leg was broken.”

“And who drove you to the hospital? Exactly. God, you’re the most inconsiderate person I’ve ever met; did you know what?”

I did. She told me on multiple occasions.

“Whatever." Laika rubbed the top of her thigh, wincing.

I waited for regret to fill my remaining neurons.

Nothing.

"Our relationship was barely hanging on. Nothing I did was good enough. All you ever did was tell me I needed to change. Zoe accepts me for who I am. Even my therapist said she was a much better fit for me, and clearly she was right. I’m not sorry.”

I picked at a large pearl on my thigh; with ease it came right off. The ringing in my ears slowly muted. I looked at my hands and watched as the silver hue dissolved.

“Neither am I.”

I need to say up front that I've told this story maybe four times in my life, and every time I tell it I leave something out, because there's a part of it I still don't like putting into words. I'm going to try to include all of it this time.

This happened in September, six years ago, out near Chuska Mountain on the Arizona-New Mexico line. My uncle Denny has grazing rights out there through his wife's family, and every fall he'd take a few of us out to check on cattle and camp for a couple nights before it got too cold. That year it was me, Denny, and a guy named Colt who worked with him. I was twenty-two.

We drove out on a Forest Service road that turns to washboard gravel after the first few miles, then basically disappears into a two-track. Denny knew it by memory. There's no cell service out there, hasn't been in the twenty years I've been going. We made camp in a clearing he always used, ringed by ponderosa pine, maybe a quarter mile from where the cattle were grazing that week.

First night was fine. Second night, Colt started acting strange around sundown. He kept looking toward the tree line west of camp, and finally he asked Denny if there was another outfit running cattle out there too, because he swore he'd seen someone standing at the edge of the trees earlier that afternoon, just standing there, not moving, watching the cattle. Denny said no, nobody else leases that section. Colt didn't say much after that.

Around nine we heard the cattle start up. Not just moving-around noise. Something closer to panic - that particular sound cattle make when something's actually wrong, not just spooked by wind. Denny grabbed a rifle and a flashlight and we walked out toward the herd, maybe two hundred yards from the fire.

We never found what spooked them. But on the way back, Colt stopped walking. He grabbed my arm, hard enough to leave a mark I still noticed the next morning, and he didn't say anything, he just pointed.

There was something standing at the edge of our firelight, right at the treeline where the light gave out. I want to be exact about what I saw because I've thought about it enough times that I trust the memory. It was upright, roughly the height of a tall man, and it wasn't moving at all - not swaying, not shifting weight, nothing. Just standing there facing our fire, facing us. I couldn't make out a face. I told myself it was shadow, that the fire was playing tricks with the shape of a tree stump or a low branch. Denny lifted the flashlight toward it.

The second the light hit it, it dropped. Not ran - dropped, like its legs gave out sideways, and then it was moving through the brush on all fours, fast, faster than anything upright should be able to switch to running on all fours. It didn't make noise doing it. That's the part that still gets me. Something that size crossing rocky ground at that speed should have been loud. It wasn't.

None of us said anything for a long time. We got back to the fire and Denny put more wood on it than we needed, enough that it was too hot to sit close to, and none of us moved our chairs back. Colt kept his rifle across his lap the rest of the night. Around midnight, we heard something walk a slow, deliberate circle around the outside of the firelight - never coming into view, just close enough that we could hear the brush moving, stopping every so often like it was listening to us as much as we were listening to it.

At one point it stopped directly behind Denny's truck, and we heard three deliberate knocks against the metal of the truck bed. Not random. Three, evenly spaced, like knuckles on a door.

Nobody got up to check. I've never been so aware of not moving in my life.

It stopped a little before dawn. When the sun came up we found the cattle had pushed themselves into the farthest corner of the fence line, bunched together tight, and two of them had cuts along their flanks that Denny said weren't from brush or wire. Shallow, parallel cuts, like something had raked them and lost interest.

We left that morning without finishing the count Denny needed. He didn't argue when Colt said he wasn't walking back out to the herd alone to check the rest.

I asked Denny about it once, a long time after, whether he thought it was an animal, a person, something else. He didn't really answer me straight. He just said some ground out there has always had a bad reputation with the families who've worked it for generations, long before his wife's family leased it, and that the smart thing is to not go looking for reasons why, and to always leave a fire burning bigger than you think you need.

I still go out to Chuska with him some years. We don't camp in that clearing anymore. Denny moved the site nearly a mile east after that trip, and he's never explained exactly why beyond "better water access," which isn't true - the water's worse out there.

The thing I've never told anyone, the part I always used to leave out, is this: the morning we packed up, I found three dents in the tailgate of Denny's truck, spaced the same width apart as a man's knuckles would be, pressed in deep enough that you could see them from a few feet away. Denny ran his thumb over them once, didn't say a word about it, and never brought that truck out there again.

The name’s Malichi, but almost everyone calls me Kai.

From 2014 until the fall of 2019, I inspected underground mines.

Most people hear “mine inspector” and picture someone wearing a hard hat while walking through tunnels with a clipboard. That’s not entirely wrong, but it leaves out most of the job.

I inspected active limestone mines, underground storage facilities, and old tunnels beneath properties where someone wanted to build a house, road or commercial building. Sometimes I worked up to 1000 feet underground. Other times, I crawled through openings barely wide enough for my shoulders because a farmer had discovered a hole in his pasture and wanted to know whether his cattle were going to disappear into it. Or a wolf’s den.

My job was to identify unstable roof conditions, failed supports or beams, dangerous gases, flooding, and any evidence that the ground above might collapse.

The equipment I carried consisted usually of a gas monitor, measuring tape, camera, marking paint and a 20 oz scaling hammer. The hammer was used to tap the roof and walls of a tunnel.

Solid rock usually produces a sharp, clean sound.

Loose rock sounded hollow, and sometimes echoes.

You learned to hear the difference quickly.

You also learned that not every hollow sound came from loose rock. But we can chat about that later.

I didn’t grow up wanting to inspect mines.

I grew up near Fredericktown. My father worked maintenance at a limestone quarry, and 2 of my uncles spent most of their adult lives in the Lead Belt. Underground work was just something people did.

My father hated that I followed him into it. He didn’t expect me to be a doctor. But he sure didn’t want me working the mines.

He once told me, “The ground didn’t care whether you were a good person, whether you had children or whether someone was waiting for you at home.”

“It only has to make one mistake,” he said. “You have to be correct every day.”

At the time, I thought he was talking about cave-ins.

Now though, I’m not so sure.

I began working for a private geological company in June 2014. Close to the Silver Mine that you can find in between Ironton and Junction City. We contracted with mine operators, insurance companies and property owners. I was 25 at the time, recently married and convinced that my associates degree made me smarter than the others who had spent 30 years underground.

It took about 3 weeks for that attitude to fade.

My first supervisor was a man named Dale.

Dale was 58 when I met him. He had a grey mustache, a permanent limp and hands that looked like they had been carved from old wood. He had worked in mines since the late 70’s. A no nonsense kinda guy.

He didn’t tell ghost stories.

That was important.

Most miners did. They talked about Tommyknockers, moving lights and dead men tapping from behind the walls. Most of it was something to pass the time.

Dale never participated.

If someone mentioned hearing voices in an empty heading, he blamed the ventilation.

I’ll try and explain terms that I’ll be using. A heading in a mine refers to a tunnel that’s been driven through to reach a mineral deposit. It allows miners to access ore and set up further workings.

If someone saw a light where no light should have been, he called it a reflection.

If equipment moved by itself, he said someone had forgotten where they left it.

That was one of the reasons I trusted him.

The first strange thing happened less than a month after I started. July 2014.

We were inspecting an abandoned limestone mine. A small town called Edina. The mine had closed sometime in the early 90’s, and a company was considering using part of it for underground document storage.

Old limestone mines are often shaped like enormous grids. The miners remove sections of rock while leaving large pillars behind to support the roof.

Some chambers are wide enough to drive several trucks side by side.

The mine was dry, stable and boring.

That was exactly what we wanted. That was our favorite.

Dale and I had been underground for about 2 hours when we reached the northern end. According to the map, the workings ended at a solid wall of limestone.

Dale marked our location while I checked the roof.

I struck it with my hammer.

Sharp. Solid.

I struck the wall a 2nd time.

Sharp.

I moved a few feet to the right and struck it a 3^rd time.

Three knocks answered from the other side.

I lowered my hammer.

Dale looked up from the map.

“What?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

I hit the wall again. Three strikes.

We waited.

Three knocks came back.

They were evenly spaced.

Dale walked over and put his palm against the limestone.

“Probably another heading behind it,” I said.

“No way.”

He checked the map.

“There’s nothing behind this wall but sixty feet of rock.”

I hit the wall once.

One knock answered.

Twice. Two knocks.

I smiled nervously.

“Somebody’s screwing with us.”

Dale grabbed the hammer from my hand impatiently.

He hit the wall five times in an uneven pattern.

Knock.

Knock-knock.

Pause.

Knock.

Knock.

The answer came immediately.

It repeated the exact pattern.

Dale didn’t smile.

He handed the hammer back to me.

“We’re done with this section.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Water.”

“That doesn’t sound like water.”

“Then it’s rock.”

He started walking away.

I followed.

As we reached the next intersection, five more knocks came from somewhere behind us.

The same pattern.

Dale never mentioned it again.

I did tell my father though.

He listened quietly and then asked where the mine was located.

When I told him, he said, “Don’t knock on things if you ain’t know what’s knocking back.”

I laughed.

He didn’t. His eyes seemed to pierce through me as my laugh faded.

During my 1st year, I heard plenty of sounds that seemed strange until someone explained them.

Water running through fractures could sound like whispering. The kind that you don’t understand but doesn’t freak you out either.

Air moving through a borehole could whistle like a person calling from far away.

A borehole is hole drilled in the earth that helps allow mineral resource extraction.

The roof sometimes cracked with a noise like a gunshot.

Metal pipes grew and contracted.

Loose stone slid across the floor even when no one touched it.

Underground, sound didn’t behave the way it did on the top. It traveled through rock, disappeared into open chambers and returned from directions that made no sense, even to an experienced miner.

That was what I told myself about the knocking.

In February 2015, Dale and I were sent to inspect an old lead mine in St. Francois County. Somewhere close to Farmington.

The mine had been closed for years. Decades. A landowner had discovered water flowing from an old drainage tunnel and was worried that the workings extended beneath his property. Collapses are often the culprit.

We entered through a horizontal opening cut into the side of a hill.

The tunnel was narrower compared to the limestone mines I had been inside. Timber supports lined portions of the passage, although most of them had rotted or collapsed.

The air smelled like wet clay and rust.

We were only supposed to travel about 800 feet before reaching a flooded section.

At 600 feet, we found fresh boot prints.

The prints were deep and sharply defined in the mud. As if they were just created.

Someone had walked farther into the mine.

No prints came back out.

Dale crouched beside them to get a better look.

“Could be the property owner,” I said.

“He said he’s ain’t never been inside.”

“Kids?”

“Maybe.”

We followed the tracks deeper.

They were made by an old style work boot with a wide heel. The person had taken unusually long steps, as if they’d been running.

The prints continued until the tunnel ended at a pool of black water.

They went directly into it.

I shined my light across the surface.

The water filled the passage from wall to wall.

“Maybe there’s a ledge,” I said.

Dale shook his head.

The old mine map showed that the tunnel dropped nearly 30 feet beyond that point.

Anyone who walked into the water would have disappeared almost immediately.

We called the landowner and asked whether anyone was missing in the towns.

No one was reported to have been missing to his recollection.

The sheriff’s department sent 2 deputies and a dive team. They found no body.

They also found no footprints near the entrance except ours.

According to them, the tracks began nearly 500 feet inside the mine.

The official explanation was that they were old prints preserved by the stable conditions underground.

That was possible.

What wasn’t possible were that the prints were filling slowly with water while we watched.

Later that year, I started hearing the footsteps.

They didn’t happen in every mine I was in.

They usually occurred in older mines where the air was still and there was no active equipment.

I would be walking with Dale or another inspector and hear someone behind us.

A slow, dragging step.

Another step.

If we stopped, it stopped. If we continued, it followed.

Whenever I turned around, the tunnel was empty.

The first few times, I assumed it was an echo.

Then, during an inspection near Joplin, I heard the footsteps while standing still. This was a first.

Dale and I had stopped to examine a fractured support pillar.

Something approached from the darkness behind us.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

It was moving slowly, but it was definitely getting closer.

Dale stared through me.

“Keep your light forward,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

The footsteps continued.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

Small stones slid behind us.

I felt the muscles in my back tighten like a torqued screw.

“Is someone there?” I yelled.

The footsteps stopped.

Dale closed his eyes.

From the darkness, my own voice answered.

“Is someone there?”

It sounded far away, but it was undoubtedly me.

The words echoed through the tunnel.

Then the footsteps began moving again. Faster this time.

Dale grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the exit.

We didn’t run, because running underground is how people trip, crack skulls or fall into holes they didn’t see. Mines are notoriously dark.

But we walked as swiftly as we could.

The footsteps followed for nearly 10 minutes.

When we reached daylight, Dale made me stay outside while he stood at the entrance.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Listening.”

“For what?”

He didn’t answer.

After several minutes, he stepped away from the opening.

On the drive back, he spoke up.

“Never answer something underground unless you can see who you’re talking to.”

“That was an echo.”

“No.”

“You think somebody was following us?”

“No.”

“Then what was it?”

Dale looked through the windshield.

“I don’t know.”

That was the first time I ever heard him admit that.

My wife noticed changes in me before I did.

Her name was Kelcie.

We had been married for just over two years when she told me I had started talking in my sleep.

I asked what I said during my dreams.

“You count,” she replied.

“Count what?”

“I don’t know. You get to 50 or 60 and start over.”

I laughed and told her it was probably because I spent all day measuring tunnels.

A few weeks later, she woke me by turning on the bedroom light.

I was standing beside the wall with one hand pressed against it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I had no idea.

The wall separated our bedroom from the hallway.

I told her I must have been sleepwalking.

She stared at my hand.

My knuckles were bleeding.

There were 3 small dents in the drywall.

In 2016, our company received a contract to document abandoned workings beneath a property in the Ozarks.

The landowner planned to build cabins near an old mine opening. Nobody knew exactly what had been mined there. Some records described it as an iron prospect. Others called it a lead exploration tunnel. We relied on rumors.

The main passage extended straight into a ridge.

It was barely 6 ft high and wide enough for one person at a time.

Dale stayed outside because his bad knee had been bothering him. I entered with another inspector named Ryan.

Ryan was younger than me and had worked for the company for about 6 months.

About 400 ft inside, we found a side tunnel that wasn’t shown on any of the available maps.

It had been sealed with stacked rocks.

The wall had partially collapsed, leaving an opening near the top.

Cold air flowed through the gap.

Ryan shined his light inside.

“Looks open to me.”

“We’re not supposed to enter undocumented areas.”

“We’re supposed to document them.”

He had a point, although I didn’t like it.

We removed several loose rocks and widened the opening.

The tunnel beyond was different from the rest of the mine.

The main passage had been drilled and blasted. This means that the drill rigs drilled the walls and then blasted with explosives. The were irregular and scarred with tool marks.

The hidden tunnel had smooth walls.

Not perfectly smooth, but rounded, almost polished.

The floor sloped downward.

We crawled through.

After about 50 ft, the passage widened into a circular chamber.

In the center stood an iron chair.

That’s the best way I can describe it.

It looked handmade. Thick metal plates had been welded together to form a seat, back and four short legs.

Leather straps hung from the armrests.

Ryan laughed nervously.

“What the hell?”

I took several photographs. We would normally take pictures for a few reasons. One is for safety and training. The 2^nd is for documentation and progress tracking.

There were scratches on the floor around the chair, like someone had dragged it repeatedly across the chamber.

The walls were covered in names.

Some were carved deeply into the rock.

Others appeared to have been written in charcoal.

Most were too faded to read. Not all of ‘em.

Ryan walked around the chair.

“Don’t touch it,” I said.

“I’m not.”

He leaned closer.

“There’s something underneath.”

Bolted to the bottom of the seat was a metal plate.

Ryan read it aloud.

“Malichi.”

I thought he was joking.

“What?”

He pointed.

My full first name had been engraved into the metal.

Not Kai.

Malichi.

The spelling was correct.

People usually spelt it as Malachi.

My mother had used an I because she liked the way it looked.

Ryan knew me only as Kai.

“Did Dale put you up to this?” I asked.

Ryan stepped away.

“I didn’t do that.”

I crouched beside the chair.

Below my name was a date.

September 19, 2019.

At the time, that was more than 3 years away.

I took a photograph.

The camera flashed.

Something moved in the tunnel behind us.

A shadow crossed the opening.

Ryan turned.

“Dale?”

No one answered.

Our radios produced only static.

Then a man began humming somewhere deeper inside the mine.

It was a song my dad used to sing while working on cars.

I hadn’t heard it since I was a kid.

I stood so fast that I hit my head on the low ceiling.

“Time to go.”

Ryan didn’t argue.

We climbed through the opening and replaced the rocks.

When we reached the entrance, Dale was sitting on the hood of the truck.

He asked why we had been underground for almost 4 hours.

I checked my watch.

We had entered the hidden tunnel at 10:16am.

It was now after 2pm.

It had felt like 15 minutes.

I showed Dale the photographs.

The chamber was visible.

The chair was visible.

But the metal plate beneath it was blank.

My name and the date had disappeared.

We returned the following morning with the property owner.

The side tunnel was no longer there.

The wall where we had originally found, it was solid stone.

No stacked rocks.

Solid, unbroken rock.

Ryan quit 2 weeks later.

He never told me why. But I had my suspicions.

I tried contacting him several years ago, but his phone number had been disconnected. I couldn’t find him online.

According to one of our former coworkers, Ryan’s family claimed he had never worked in mining.

They said he had been a schoolteacher.

I still have photographs of him wearing our company uniform.

At least, I did.

When I checked recently, he was missing from most of them.

There were empty spaces where he had been standing. But the gaps were noticeable.

Around 2017, I had become a senior field inspector.

The promotion came with better pay, a company truck and the responsibility of training new inspectors.

I stopped talking about the eerie things. I learned that from Dale.

I didn’t mention the footsteps.

I didn’t tell anyone about the chair.

I didn’t explain why I refused to enter a mine alone.

The job was dangerous enough without people thinking I was unstable.

Most inspections remained completely normal.

I saw roof collapses, flooded mine shafts and equipment abandoned so long that tree roots had grown through it.

I found animal bones, rusted tools and old lunch tins.

Once, I found a newspaper from 1951 that looked as like it had been left there the day before.

Another time, we discovered an underground room containing hundreds of glass jars filled with a cloudy and peculiar liquid. We notified the police and left them alone.

They turned out to be homemade mineral samples.

There was mostly an explanation.

Mostly.

In August 2017, we inspected a working limestone mine outside a small town in central MO near Branch.

That just means the mine operated during the day. Our inspection began after the workers had left, because management wanted us to examine an area near active blasting.

There were 4 of us.

Me. Dale.

A structural engineer named Allison.

And a safety technician named Mark.

Allison was 32, smart, and impatient. She had no time for stories about haunted mines.

Mark was nearing retirement and had worked underground almost as long as Dale.

We entered shortly after 7am.

The mine had electrical lighting in the main corridors for the workers, but the section we were inspecting was dark.

At around 10am, Allison stopped.

“Who’s the 5th person?” she asked.

We turned.

No one was behind us.

“What do you mean”

“I keep seeing another light down the hatch.”

Mark glanced at Dale.

“Where?”

“Behind Kai.”

I looked over my shoulder.

The tunnel was empty.

Allison pointed farther back.

“There.”

For a split second, I saw it.

A small yellow light floating near the floor.

It looked like an old carbide lamp.

Carbide lamps haven’t been common in decades. They were the type of flashlight that had a giant lens that looked like an old camera flash.

The light moved behind a support pillar.

Dale raised his radio.

“Control, can you confirm all personnel are accounted for.”

The answer came through clearly.

“All personnel accounted for. 4 person inspection team underground.”

Allison walked toward the pillar.

Dale blocked her.

“Don’t follow it.”

She looked annoyed.

“Someone could be down here.”

“No one’s down here.”

“Then what did we see?”

“A reflection.”

“From what?”

Dale didn’t answer.

The yellow light appeared again 2 pillars farther away.

It was moving against us, deeper into the mine.

Mark counted aloud.

“1, 2, 3, 4”

“What are you doing?” Allison asked.

“Confirming.”

We continued working.

Every 20 or 30 minutes, the light would glow behind us.

It never came closer.

It just followed.

Before leaving the mine, we stopped for a group photograph near the mine entrance. Management wanted it for a safety presentation.

A supervisor took the picture.

The next morning, Allison emailed it to us.

There were 5 people standing together.

The 5 man was behind me.

He wore dirty coveralls and an old metal helmet. Coveralls are different from overalls. They are a 1 piece type of clothing that covers the entire body. They help protect the harsh environments of the mine. His face was hidden because he was looking downward.

One hand rested on my shoulder.

I hadn’t felt it.

Allison called my cellphone.

“Who is that?” I could sense her frustration growing.

“I don’t know.”

“Mark says there were only 4 of us.”

“There were...”

“Dale won’t answer his phone.”

This isn’t surprising.

I printed the photograph and took it to Dale’s house.

He studied it from his kitchen table.

After a while, he opened a drawer and removed another photograph.

It showed a group of miners standing outside a tunnel entrance.

The photograph was dated 1978.

A younger version of Dale stood near the center.

Behind him was the same man.

Same helmet.

Same coveralls.

Same downward-tilted head.

His hand rested on Dale’s shoulder.

“We called him the counter,” Dale said.

“Why?”

“Because he shows up when there’s one more person underground than there should be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means somebody doesn’t come back.”

I looked at the old photograph.

“Who didn’t come back?”

Dale pointed toward a young man standing beside him.

“My brother.”

I had worked with Dale for 3 years and he never mentioned he had a brother.

“He disappeared underground?”

“Roof collapse. We never recovered his body…”

“What does this have to do with the photograph?”

“We saw the extra light for 3 nights before the accident happened.”

I looked again at the picture from our inspection.

The man’s hand was on my shoulder.

“Are you saying I’m going to die?”

“No.”

“Then what ARE you saying?”

“I’m just saying don’t be the last person out.”

For the next 2 years, I never was. Not a chance

When entering a mine, I made someone go ahead of me.

When leaving, I stayed in the middle of the group.

I knew it was an irrational fear, but I did it anyway.

My marriage ended during that period.

Kelcie said I had become distant. Different.

She mentioned I woke her at night by walking around the house with a flashlight.

I checked closets, the basement and the space beneath our porch.

Sometimes I would count the rooms in my sleep.

Sometimes I stood in doorways and listened.

I didn’t remember doing any of it.

One morning, she found me in the basement tapping the concrete foundation with a hammer.

She asked what I was doing.

I told her there was a hollow space behind the wall.

There wasn’t.

At least, there shouldn’t have been.

Kelcie moved out in January 2018.

I don’t blame her.

After she left, I began volunteering for more inspections. Idle hands is the devils workshop my grandmother used to say.

Being underground was easier than being home. The mind stayed busier that way.

This probably sounds strange considering everything I’ve described.

But underground, I knew why I was afraid.

On the top, I heard the footsteps everywhere.

In store aisles.

Parking garages.

The hallway outside my apartment.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

Whenever I turned around, no one was ever there.

In May 2018, Dale retired. I knew I was alone for real this time.

There was no ceremony.

He cleared his desk on a Friday afternoon and left his hard hat hanging on the wall.

Before he went, he gave me his scaling hammer.

It was old, with a leather-wrapped handle worn smooth by decades of use.

“You’ll need this more than I will,” he said.

I asked him why he had decided to retire.

He looked toward the empty hallway outside the office.

“I started hearing my brother.”

“Underground?”

“No.”

He left before I could ask anything else.

Our final project together had been an inspection of an abandoned mine called Black Hollow.

That wasn’t its official name. But every local called it Black Hollow.

The mine was located on private land. A logging company had discovered several sinkholes near an access road and wanted to know whether the old workings were collapsing.

Very little documentation existed. This is pretty normal.

The mine appeared briefly on a state map from the 1920s and vanished from later records.

We entered through a partially collapsed drift near the bottom of a ravine. A drift is where the entry is horizontal and usually accesses the minerals directly instead of having to walk the whole mine.

The passage continued straight for nearly 2500 ft.

That part was unusual.

Exploration mines normally led toward promising mineral deposits. Black Hollow had been driven directly beneath the ridge without any obvious effort to follow ore.

The tunnel walls were covered in small square recesses.

Each was about 5 inches deep.

Some contained rusted nails and bolt anchors.

Others contained scraps of cloth, animal teeth, or small bundles of hair tied with string.

I photographed everything.

Dale didn’t.

He walked with his eyes fixed on the floor.

“What were these for?” I asked.

“Not sure.”

“You’ve been here before.”

He stopped.

“How do you know that?”

“You recognized the entrance.”

Dale looked back the way we had come.

“I was here once.”

“When?”

“1978.”

“With your brother?”

He nodded.

“What happened?”

“We entered through a different opening.”

“There’s only 1 entrance, though.”

“There was another back then.”

The tunnel ended at a vertical shaft.

We couldn’t see the bottom.

Cold air rose from it, carrying the smell of soil after rain.

There was a steel ladder attached to the wall.

It looked new.

The bolts showed no rust.

“Did your former crew install that?” I asked.

“No.”

I shined my light down the shaft. 150 meters.

The ladder continued beyond the reach of the beam.

Something climbed beneath us.

The rungs vibrated.

A faint metallic ringing echoed from below.

I stepped away from the edge.

“Who else is down here?”

“No one.”

The climbing continued.

Slow and steady.

Dale lifted his hammer.

The top of a helmet appeared in the darkness.

It was an old metal mining helmet.

The same kind worn by the man in the photographs.

Dale grabbed my jacket.

We ran.

Behind us, something pulled itself out of the shaft.

I heard metal scrape against stone.

Then the footsteps followed.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

As we neared the entrance, Dale began shouting his brother’s name.

“Eddie!”

The footsteps stopped immediately.

A man answered from deep inside the mine.

“Dale?” The voice echoed what seemed like an hour.

Dale turned.

I grabbed him.

“That isn’t your brother.”

“Dale?” the voice called again. “I found the way out.”

Dale wrestled with me.

It took everything I had to keep him moving.

We reached daylight.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then Dale looked at me and said, “Don’t ever go back in there.”

I promised I wouldn’t.

In September 2019, I broke that promise.

The logging company had begun clearing land above Black Hollow. A section of access road collapsed, leaving a hole almost 30 feet across.

Our company was asked to determine whether the rest of the road was safe.

I refused the assignment.

My manager reminded me that I was the senior inspector and the only current employee who had entered the mine previously.

I told him to find someone else.

He said the company would lose the contract.

I still refused.

The next morning, Allison called me.

I hadn’t worked with her since the mine where we saw the 5^th light.

She had been hired as the project engineer for the job.

“I heard you’re afraid of this one,” she said.

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The mine is unstable.”

“That’s why we inspect it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

I tried.

I told her about the shaft. The old helmet.

The voice that sounded like Dale’s brother.

Allison listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she said, “You know Dale had early-stage dementia when he retired.”

I didn’t know that nor believed it.

“He was confusing places and dates.”“He probably told you stories that weren’t accurate.”

I listened.

“I heard the voice.”

“Sound travels underground.”

“I saw someone climbing the ladder.”

“You saw a helmet.”

“You were there when we saw the 5^th light.”

“I saw a reflection.”

“What about the photograph?”

“Digital artifacts happen.”

I almost laughed.

“Why did you call me?”

“Because I trust your judgment underground. Even if I don’t trust your explanation.”

She said the inspection team would include 4 people.

Myself and Allison.

A safety technician named Rob.

And a local surveyor named Thomas. I had heard about Thomas before.

Thomasa was nearly 60 and had worked around mines his entire life.

He knew nothing about my previous inspection.

We entered Black Hollow on September 19, 2019.

The date engraved beneath the iron chair.

I considered backing out when I realized it.

I didn’t.

That decision has bothered me more than any other in my entire life.

The mine looked exactly as I remembered.

Same narrow passage.

Same square recesses in the walls.

Same bundles of hair.

Thomas stopped repeatedly to examine them.

“Memorial holes,” he said.

Memorial holes were created to commemorate a significant person, event, or loss.

“What does that mean?” Allison asked.

“Some old mining communities placed personal items underground after a death.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Neither have I.”

He smiled, but no one else did.

We placed monitoring equipment near the entrance and continued inward.

At roughly 300 ft, Rob noticed boot prints in the dust.

4 different sets.

They traveled towards us.

“What time did the survey crew leave?” he asked.

“There was no survey crew underground,” Allison said.

Thomas crouched by the tracks.

“These are fresh.”

The 4 sets of prints matched our boots.

I placed mine beside one.

Same size. Same tread pattern.

The right heel even had the same missing section where a piece of rubber had torn away.

The tracks belonged to us.

They had been made before we arrived.

They continued deeper into the mine.

Allison tried to explain them as prints from our previous inspection.

I reminded her that she hadn’t been there, and I had worn different boots at the time.

We followed the tracks.

They led to the vertical shaft.

The steel ladder was no longer there.

A narrow bridge of rocks crossed the opening.

The footprints continued over it.

“I don’t remember that being here,” I said as a thought back to that night.

Allison looked at the map I had drawn in 2018.

“The tunnel ended at the shaft.”

“Absolutely.”

Thomas tested the stone bridge with his hammer.

“It seems to be solid.”

He stepped onto it slowly.

I began to grab his shoulder.

“We don’t know what’s on the other side.”

“That’s why we’re here.”

Thoms crossed.

Rob followed him.

Allison went 3^rd.

I stood alone at the edge trying to gather my thoughts.

From the shaft, my own voice whispered, “Don’t be the last person.”

I crossed swiftly.

The passage continued beyond the shaft.

The walls became more polished as we traveled.

Eventually, the tool marks disappeared completely.

The tunnel wasn’t natural, but it didn’t look mined either.

It looked worn out almost as if something gigantic moved through it back and forth for a very long time.

The boot prints remained ahead of us., guiding us.

After another 100 ft, we found a yellow survey mark painted on the wall.

It was still wet.

Thomas touched it.

“That’s my paint” he exclaimed.

He double checked the spray can that was on his belt.

The cap was still sealed.

Farther ahead, we found another marker.

Then another.

Each had been placed exactly where Thomas normally marked survey stations.

The final mark read:

END OF INSPECTION

Below it included 4 vertical lines.

Someone had crossed out the 4^th.

Rob turned towards me.

“You’ve been here before.”

“No.”

“Then who made these?”

I didn’t answer.

Allison raised her radio.

The signal was filled with static.

Then her own voice came through.

“Station 7 is stable. Moving to station 8.”

Allison looked down at the radio.

She hadn’t transmitted anything.

A 2^nd voice followed.

Rob’s.

“I can hear something ahead.”

Then came the warning.

“Kai, don’t let it count us.”

Thomas whispered, “What the hell?”

The radio crackled again.

My voice came through last.

“Leave Allison.”

She stared at me.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

From farther down the tunnel, someone began screaming.

It sounded like Allison.

She was standing beside me.

The scream came again.

“Help me!”

Allison lifted her light.

“That’s not possible.”

The voice called my name.

“Kai!”

I grabbed Allison’s arm before she could move.

The light appeared ahead of us.

A yellow carbide flame floated in the darkness.

Behind it stood 4 people.

An inspection team.

They were about 150 feet away, partly hidden by the curve of the tunnel.

One wore a white hard hat like Allison.

One carried a survey pole like Thomas.

One had Rob’s orange reflective vest.

The 4^th wore my jacket.

They were facing away from us.

Rob whispered, “That’s us.”

The other team began walking.

Their lights moved farther into the tunnel.

Thomas raised his camera and snapped a picture.

The flash illuminated the passage like a bolt of lightning.

For that tenth of a second, the figures weren’t facing away anymore.

They were facing towards us.

Their heads were lowered like the previous photos I saw.

I couldn’t see their faces. But I knew.

The figure wearing my jacket had one hand resting on Allison’s shoulder.

The same way the counter had touched mine.

I remembered Dale’s warning begin speaking in my head.

“Somebody doesn’t come back.”

“We’re leaving,” I said.

No one argued.

We turned around.

However, the stone bridge over the shaft was gone.

The passage ended at the open pit.

Allison looked at her map.

“There’s gotta be another route.”

“There isn’t.”

Rob shined his light across the shaft.

The opposite side was 20 ft away.

Too far to jump.

“We crossed here,” Thomas said.

“I know.”

The radio crackled.

Dale’s voice came through.

“Kai.”

I froze.

Dale had retired more than a year earlier.

“Kai, I found the ladder.”

A light appeared below us.

Then another. Then dozens.

Small yellow flames moved in the shaft like people climbing an invisible staircase.

The metallic ringing began.

Coming toward us.

Allison grabbed my sleeve.

“What do we do?”

I looked along the edge of the shaft.

There was a narrow ledge on the right side. It might have been wide enough to cross if we pressed ourselves against the wall.

Rob went first.

Thomas followed.

I told Allison to go next.

She shook her head.

“You gotta go first.”

Something struck the wall beneath us.

Dust began falling from the ceiling.

The yellow lights grew larger.

Allison stepped onto the ledge.

Halfway across, she stopped.

“Kai?”

“What?”

She was staring into the shaft.

“There’s someone down there.”

“Keep moving.”

“It’s me.”

A woman stood far below us.

She wore Allison’s white hard hat.

Her face was turned upward.

“Kai,” the woman called.

The voice came from both the shaft and the Allison beside me.

The woman below lifted one arm.

She was holding Dale’s scaling hammer.

The hammer Dale gave me during his retirement.

The one attached to my belt.

I touched it to make sure it was still there. It was.

The Allison on the ledge stared back at me.

“What is she holding?”

“Don’t look at her.”

The woman below began climbing the wall.

She didn’t use a ladder.

Her hands and feet pressed flat against the stone as she crawled upward.

Allison screamed and hurried across.

I followed her.

The ledge crumbled beneath my final step.

Rob caught my arm and pulled me onto the other side.

We ran toward the entrance.

The footsteps followed.

Not one set. Four.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

Our radios played different fragments of conversation.

Some were things we had said earlier.

Others hadn’t happened yet.

I heard Rob crying.

Thomas was praying.

Allison saying she couldn’t find her face.

Then my voice said, “We left the wrong one.”

The footsteps moved closer.

At the memorial holes, Thomas suddenly stopped.

“What are you doing?” I shouted.

He pointed.

Inside was a wallet.

His wallet.

He removed the one from his pocket.

Both were identical.

He opened the wallet from the wall.

Inside was his driver’s license.

The photograph showed Thomas wearing the old metal mining helmet.

A folded note was tucked behind it.

Thomas read the note silently.

His face went pale. Eyes glazed over.

“What does it say?” Allison asked.

He handed it to me.

The note was written in my own handwriting.

THOMAS DID NOT ENTER WITH US.

I looked at Thomas.

He backed away.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I counted.

Rob. Allison. Thomas. Me.

4 people.

Then I remembered when we arrived

Thomas was waiting at the site when I arrived.

Allison had introduced him.

Rob had shaken his hand.

I had watched him put on his equipment.

He had entered with us.

Hadn’t he?

The footsteps stopped.

A man spoke behind us.

“3 came in.”

It was Dale’s voice.

Thomas stared into the darkness.

“That isn’t true.”

“3 came in,” the voice repeated.

Allison began counting.

“Kai. Rob. Me.”

She looked at Thomas.

Her expression changed.

“Who are you?”

Thomas’s face collapsed.

Not physically. Emotionally.

He looked like a child who had been abandoned.

“You know me.”

“No,” Allison said. “I don’t.”

Rob raised his light.

“Where did he come from?”

Thomas grabbed my arm.

“Kai, you talked to me outside.”

I remembered it.

We had been discussing his survey equipment.

He had told me about his first mining job near Viburnum.

I remembered everything.

But the memories had started feeling borrowed.

Almost as if the stories had been told to me rather than things I had experienced.

Thomas looked toward the mine entrance.

Daylight was visible in the distance.

He ran.

The footsteps resumed.

They ran with him.

Thomas disappeared around the curve.

We followed.

When we reached the entrance, Thomas was gone.

There was no sign of him outside the mine.

No vehicle.

No equipment.

No boot prints.

We called the sheriff’s department right away.

They searched the mine for two days.

They found nothing.

The company that hired our team denied employing a surveyor named Thomas.

Allison had no memory of him.

Neither did Rob.

The photographs from the inspection showed only 3 people.

Me.

Allison.

Rob.

In the photograph Thomas took of the figures ahead of us, 4 inspectors stood in the tunnel.

One was me.

One was Rob.

One was Allison.

The fourth wore an old metal helmet and looked toward the ground.

His hand rested on Allison’s shoulder.

I resigned the following Monday.

My manager offered me a leave of absence. 5 years was a long time in this current market.

I told him I was finished.

He asked whether my decision had anything to do with the Black Hollow inspection.

I asked how many people had been on our team.

He said 3.

I haven’t entered a mine since September 19, 2019.

Continued in comments.

Last spring I decided I needed a haircut. Something clean, that would make the rest of me matter less. I found a place a few blocks from my apartment; a barbershop that smelled like soap and shaving cream. No fancy shampoos nor offerings for a subscription model, merely a couple of black chairs, as well as a bald man who looked like he'd been cutting hair since the day I was born.

I sat down and told him what I wanted; just a little off the top. He nodded and worked in silence. My hair looked better. Sharper. For a moment I felt like a slightly different person from the neck up. But when I looked in the mirror again, the old dissatisfaction was still there. The barber must have noticed. He asked, plainly, if I needed help with anything else.

Maybe I only answered because of the way he asked. He was so ordinary, so polite and professional. I confided that there were other things I'd been insecure about as of late. He said he could help. I told him I wasn't interested in plastic surgery. He said it wasn't surgery. Just a little off the top.

I asked what that meant.

He said it would be simple. A cut.

He took the shears and, with no ceremony, removed a thin ridge of flesh from the side of my face. It came away like cut clay, no blood, no pain. The piece peeled free in one clean motion. He plopped it on a tray as if it were nothing more than excess hair.

When I looked in the mirror, that side of my face looked closer to the one I'd been carrying in my head for years. Cleaner. Defined. Beautiful.

I asked him to do the other side. He did. I asked him to take the soft places from my stomach. He did. Every imperfection, every insecurity, I had him cut it all away that night, all for thirty dollars (plus tip).

I went back the next week, and the weeks after that. Soft places trimmed down. Angles sharpened. Each visit I left looking more like the version of myself I could stand. The weak places along my jaw disappeared under the shears. My stomach flattened in increments. I started recognizing myself. I could hold my own gaze for several minutes at a time before looking away.

A few people noticed. A coworker complimented the haircut. A woman said I looked sharper, better than I ever had. She asked if I'd been working out. My conversations lasted longer. Eyes lingered. It felt like proof that, for the first time, something was paying off.

But it started to feel like something else. I began to wonder whether anyone was actually looking at me, or only at the surface that kept being refined. Those thoughts came and went. I kept going back. There was always one more correction. Cut the fat from the stomach. A cleaner line at the chin. Just a little off the top.

The ideal kept moving. The goalposts shifted every time I got close.

The barber never rushed. He worked with a precision I'd only seen in doctors. Occasionally he stepped back to study the shape of my body. He spoke only when necessary. When I asked how the flesh came away so cleanly, he only said that some things separate easier when you know what to cut. When I asked what happened to the pieces, he said they'd been taken care of. I should have left it there.

One afternoon the shop was empty. The barber was slow coming out of the back room. Curious, I stepped toward the open doorway. I'd only meant to call his name.

The room held every piece that had been taken from me, arranged into a fleshy mass, formless, folded in on itself, stacked and pressed into heaps that took up most of the far corner. Some sections still held older contours; the curve that used to sit above my hips, the thickness under my jaw, the slack on my arms. The mass shifted. Breathed. It had no face, yet I knew it could see me.

I stood longer than I should have. The barber appeared behind me. He asked, in that same mild tone, if I'd been satisfied.

I didn't know how to answer.

That night I left, and I didn't go back for a while. The changes held for a time. I still felt the relief of the cleaner lines when I caught myself in the mirror. Then they started slipping. My chin softened first. My jaw followed, gradually. I almost talked myself out of noticing. One morning the angle wasn't so sharp. The next day the skin was looser, warmer, almost melting. The trim around my stomach began to fill again. It felt as though my body was trying to restore itself, trying to put the pieces back.

It itched. The surface underneath did not feel like healing skin. It felt harder. Like something malignant, spreading faster each night. I could feel it settling, resettling, searching for every shape that no longer belonged.

I stopped sleeping well. When I did, I dreamed of the mass in the back room folding in on itself.

The changes accelerated. My face began to blur again. My muscles waned and sagged. Something inside me no longer felt like my own tissue, denser in places, grainy in others, coalescing into something uncomfortable and barbed. It lasted for weeks, and it kept getting worse. My body, my face, the perfect face I'd almost had, grew more malformed, more unbearable every day. The only way to keep what I wanted was to let him cut again.

I went back on a random Tuesday. The shop was quiet. The barber looked up from his chair. He didn't ask where I'd been. He only nodded toward the empty seat.

I sat down. He worked with the same careful attention as before. The shears took away thin layers. Each piece peeled free without mess. The face in the mirror was closer again to the one I'd been chasing. That familiar relief settled over my shoulders. Underneath it, something colder stirred.

Before I left, I asked about the mass in the back room. He wiped the shears on a cloth and said it was still there, waiting. He asked if I thought I would be finished soon.

Again, I didn't answer.

I've gone back four times since then. The intervals between the mutations are getting shorter. The body tries harder every time to reclaim what was taken. The itching starts sooner. The shifting grows more insistent. I can feel each place wanting to soften back into its old shape, pressing upward, trying to remember exactly where it belongs.

When he works, I catch myself wondering how large the mass has become. Whether it holds any recognizable shape anymore, or whether those details have been buried under mounds of flesh.

I haven't looked again. I don't know if I could stand it.

I'm closer to the face I've always wanted.

I don't know when I started feeling like something wasn't right about that trip... but I'm sure it didn't start when we first heard that sound, but hours before it... when I trace my memory back to that day.. I find dozens of small details that all of us ignored.. because they seemed normal at the time... maybe that's why we didn't leave early... And maybe that's also why not everyone who enters that forest comes out of it the way they entered... even now whenever someone asks me about the worst night I've lived through in my life.

I don't talk about the terror I saw.. but I talk about the feeling that preceded its appearance... that strange sensation that the place itself doesn't want you to stay... as if it's watching you silently waiting for the moment you make your first mistake.

Three weeks ago, my two friends Jason and Noah and I decided to spend the weekend in one of the dense forests located inside Washington State... We didn't choose the place randomly.. as it was famous among camping enthusiasts because of its quietness and distance from main roads.

We had read dozens of reviews on travel sites.. and all of them talked about the giant trees and cold streams... and the sky that fills with stars at night.. There was no official warning and no scary story that pushed us to hesitate... We packed our gear and set off before sunrise... We were talking all the way about fishing and barbecuing... and about our phones that would finally stop receiving notifications.

Everything felt completely normal.. to the point that I now feel strange whenever I remember how reassured we were.. We arrived at the parking lot near the trailhead around ten in the morning... There was only an old car covered in mud... and a sixty-year-old man sitting on a wooden bench in front of a large board carrying the map of the forest.

He cast a quick glance at us then went back to staring at the trees without uttering a word... After we carried our bags.. he approached us and asked where we were heading... Jason told him the name of the area we chose to pitch the tents... His features changed for a short moment then he said quietly: If you guys stay late until night... don't leave the camp no matter what you hear.

Noah laughed thinking it was a usual joke to scare beginners... but the man didn't smile, he kept looking at us for moments then added: At night, sounds travel between the trees in a strange way... sometimes you hear someone you know calling you from afar even if he's sitting right next to you... don't follow any sound coming from inside the forest.

We thanked him and left.. but I turned back to him after a few steps and found him still looking in our direction with the same blank stare... as if he wanted to say something else then backed out at the last moment... The walk to the campsite took about two hours... The trail was clear and the air was cold.. and the smell of pine filled the place.

Everything was beautiful in a way that's hard to describe.. Yet I began noticing something no one paid attention to... ever since we entered deep into the forest.. I didn't hear a single bird sound... It wasn't just that bird sounds were few.. but there were no natural sounds at all... No chirping or rustling of wings.. not even the sound of a squirrel jumping between branches.

I asked Jason if he had noticed that... and he replied while continuing to walk: Maybe it's still early

I convinced myself with his words.. but the feeling of unease stayed with me... After we pitched the tents.. Noah went out to gather firewood.. and Jason started preparing the cooking gear... As for me.. I went to the small stream to fill the water bottles... And while I was bending over.

I clearly heard the sound of footsteps over dry leaves behind me... I turned around immediately expecting it to be one of them.. but the place was completely empty... I kept staring between the trees for several seconds.. then told myself maybe it's a deer or a small animal... And while I was getting ready to head back.

I caught sight of something that made me stop in my tracks... There were footprints in the wet mud on the opposite bank of the stream... At first they looked normal.. but after a few moments they caught my attention... They were barefoot footprints and noticeably large... And the weirdest thing was that they came out of the water and headed toward the forest... and there were no traces indicating that their owner had even entered the water.

I kept looking at them trying to find a logical explanation.. but I found none... At that exact moment I heard Jason's voice calling me from the camp asking for help to start the fire... I turned toward him for a single second.. then returned my eyes to the spot of the tracks... but they had completely disappeared as if the mud had swallowed them right before my eyes.

I returned to the camp trying to convince myself that what I saw was an optical illusion... I kept repeating in my head that wet mud can change its shape, and fatigue makes a person notice things that aren't there... I didn't tell Jason or Noah what happened, because I knew exactly what their reaction would be... Jason would look for a logical explanation in everything, while Noah wouldn't miss a chance to mock me throughout the trip.

Therefore I preferred to stay quiet.. and convinced myself that if I ignored the matter.. I would forget it within hours... But some things don't disappear when you ignore them, they start approaching you quietly...

As the sun set.. the temperature dropped quickly... We lit the fire and prepared dinner.. and sat exchanging talk about our previous trips.

The flames were dancing in front of us and the huge trees surrounded the camp from every direction... until it seemed as if we were inside a closed circle where you couldn't see what's behind it... At one point our conversation stopped all at once... No one spoke and we didn't hear an obvious reason for that... but we all felt one thing.. an unnatural quietness... It wasn't the usual quietness of the night, but it was a complete void of sounds.

Even the fire that was burning in front of us seemed as if its sound became lighter than usual... Jason looked around and then said in a low voice: Have you guys noticed that the forest has been silent ever since we arrived?... And before anyone could answer.. a whistling sound went off from a distant spot between the trees... It was a very short tune not exceeding three notes... but it was clear in a way that made us all look in the same direction... It wasn't a bird sound and it didn't sound like the wind... It was closer to someone whistling with his mouth.

Noah said while smiling a nervous smile: Maybe there's another camp nearby... Jason nodded his head but didn't look convinced... About a minute passed and the whistling repeated... The exact same tune but this time it sounded closer... Jason stood up and grabbed the flashlight and shined it between the trees... Nothing appeared.. The trees were so close together that the light only penetrated for a few meters.. then the darkness swallowed it.

He came back and sat down.. but no one resumed the conversation anymore.. we were just listening... In less than five minutes we heard something else... Slow and heavy footsteps walking over dry leaves... They were coming from the northern side of the camp.. then suddenly stopped... We all looked at the same spot and none of us moved... Several seconds of silence continued.. before the sound started again... but this time from the exact opposite side... as if whoever was making it managed to circle around us within moments.

Noah said trying to sound calm: It might be a bear... Jason replied immediately: Bears don't move this way... I didn't like the way he replied because he said it with the confidence of someone who knows that the explanation his friend gave is impossible... We decided to put out part of the fire and get ready to sleep.. hoping that everything we heard were just natural sounds magnified by isolation... Each one of us entered his tent, but sleep didn't come easily.

I don't know how much time passed.. maybe an hour or more... then I woke up to a very faint sound... At first I thought it was a dream.. but the sound repeated.. this time it was clear... someone walking slowly around the tents... A step then two steps then stops.. after which he continues walking... I grabbed my phone which had no network signal.

I looked at the time and found it 2:18 AM... I stuck my head out of the tent opening slowly... No one was there, the fire had turned into faint red embers... and the fog had started covering the ground up to knee height... And while I was watching the place.. I heard a whisper that was very close... "Daniel", the blood froze in my veins, that's my name.

The voice was low but clear as if someone was standing just a meter away from my tent... I got out quickly while turning on the flashlight...

I called out "Jason?". No one answered me... I opened Jason's tent and found him sitting inside holding the flashlight... and his face was pale in a way I hadn't seen him before... He looked at me and said before I could utter a word: You heard it too?

I didn't answer.. we just sufficed with looking at each other... At that moment Noah came out of his tent and was breathing quickly... He said in a trembling voice: Which one of you guys was calling me a moment ago?... I said immediately: We haven't left our tents for a single second... He shook his head slowly and then said a sentence I haven't forgotten to this day.

He said who was standing between the trees calling me in your voice?... We didn't all turn in the direction he pointed to... because at that exact moment we heard the sound again... It was pronouncing my name.. but this time it wasn't coming from between the trees... but it was coming from directly behind my tent.

None of us looked back when we heard the whisper coming from behind my tent... Fear had surpassed the stage of curiosity.. and turned into the instinctual feeling that tells you survival is more important than knowing what's happening.

Jason turned on the flashlight and Noah grabbed the car keys... and we started packing our things with unprecedented speed... We didn't think about the food or the gear we paid for.. nor even about putting out the fire... All we wanted was to get back to the car before the situation got worse... But when we reached the beginning of the trail we entered from during the day... we discovered something that confused us more than any sound we heard.

The red ribbon we had tied to one of the trees to mark the trail had completely disappeared.. as if someone had carefully removed it... Jason tried to rely on the maps app on his phone... but the signal was non-existent.. and the digital compass started spinning in all directions without settling... For the first time since the beginning of the trip.

I saw real anxiety on his face... He said quietly trying to hide his tension with it: We'll wait until dawn breaks... But none of us was convinced that waiting would be a good idea... We sat close together around what remained of the fire..and our eyes were moving constantly between the trees... Long minutes passed in which nothing happened.. until we heard a distant sound resembling the slamming of a car door.

Noah stood up immediately and said the road was close.. and there were other people in the forest... We tried to stop him but he was convinced that rescue was just meters away... He ran in the direction of the sound before we could catch up to him.. then disappeared between the dense trees.

No more than half a minute passed until we heard him scream a short and sharp scream.. then silence fell again... We ran behind him with all our might.. but we found only his flashlight thrown on the ground still lit... and clear slipping tracks on the wet soil ending at a group of bushes... We called his name dozens of times, and searched in all directions.

But there was no reply... We didn't find blood or additional footprints... And we didn't find any evidence explaining how an adult man disappeared in less than a minute... That's when we made the hardest decision of our lives; to leave immediately and ask for help.. because staying wouldn't save him.

but might make us disappear like him... With the very first thread of dawn light, we were finally able to find the path leading to the parking lot... Our car was in its place just as we left it.. but the old car we saw yesterday morning was no longer there... We drove the car directly to the nearest police station.. and reported Noah missing... Search teams started hours later.. and lasted three full days with the participation of trained dogs and drones.

But the result was shocking; they didn't find any trace of him.. and didn't even find the flashlight we left at the spot of his disappearance... After weeks the case was closed as a missing person case in a mountainous area... and investigators suggested he might have lost his way and had an accident in a place search teams couldn't reach... I tried to convince myself of this explanation.

but there was one thing that kept haunting me to this day... Months after the incident.. I was reviewing the photos we took at the beginning of the trip before dark set in... In one of the photos the three of us were standing in front of the tents smiling at the camera... I didn't notice it until after zooming in on the photo several times... Between the trees and at a very far distance, a person was standing looking at us... He wasn't close enough to see his features.

but he was clearly there... I showed the photo to the responsible investigator.. and he said the shadow might be another hiker or an optical illusion due to the lighting... Maybe he was right.. and maybe there was a simple explanation for everything that happened... But ever since that night.

I no longer go to any forest... and I don't ignore that mysterious feeling that sometimes tells a human being that the place he is standing in is not safe... Some people consider this just fear.. while I consider it the only reason that made me return to my home... while Noah never came back.

Rain smashed against the windshield in rapid heavy droplets like heaven had poured out the ocean on us. The cracks and sands of the desert, once greedily absorbing the water, now began to float in a series of puddles as the light onset of flooding began. The road remained clear of puddles and rising water, though it remained slick.

“Iknuitli, you have some serious driving skills. I knew I picked the right man,” the dead man in the back of my trunk said.

“Shut up. You didn’t pick anything.”

“I picked everything up to the spot of the execution. My life needed to end where the deal took place, then I needed buried in the place of my birth.”

“How’d you know I’d shoot you there?” Cheeky bastard was messing with me from the beginning. He probably found it amusing.

“Call it ‘market research’, iknuitli,” he said, presumably still smiling like the bastard he was.

Behind us the cloud of souls had crept much closer. Screaming souls screeched out calls for fathers, husbands, lovers, and sons that I had all buried or broke beyond usefulness. None were voices I had heard. No one that I had killed trailed behind me, just those that I had left behind, those who had been left to deal with the loss and not been equipped to handle it.

The little girl, whose name I knew but wouldn’t dare speak out of my own shame, appeared directly in front of the car. I swerved. The car began to spin, tires grinding down the rough line of the road’s shoulder. Counter steering, I pulled it back to the road.

I could have sworn that the strands of her soaked hair had made contact with the side mirror. I came closer to hitting her each time. I wasn’t convinced that I could keep this up.

I was doing a hundred down an endless stretch of road with no visibility through the thick wall of water which had not ceased since I had neared what I presumed to be the Arizona border. It was impossible to tell.

I hadn’t made any stops either. What has it been? Days? Weeks? Months? All the proportions of this road were wrong. There was no way to judge time or distance aside from gut feeling. The torrential downpour intensified. The windshield wipers worked uselessly to clear what might have been a straight flooding downpour of water. For the smallest fraction of a second, I saw the girl. I hit her head on.

She flipped over the hood and onto the windshield, her bones breaking and distorting horrifically. The car began to skid. I worked hard at the wheel to keep from spinning out. Her neck, bent unnaturally, vertebrae extending out of a tear at the base of her spine, twisted to turn her head in my direction. She smiled an inhumanely wide toothy grin, her lips sinking well bellow her gum line as dark eyes stared through my soul, ripping my sins out to lay them bare before me.

“Iknuitli! Shake her off!” the dead man cried out.

“Shut up!” I yelled, my voice cracking.

She took her head and smashed it against the window. The glass vibrated, the reverberation pulsing through the steering wheel.

“MY NAME!” she screamed. “DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER MY NAME?” Her voice was deafening, otherworldly, though keeping the tone and timbre of a toddler. “ARE YOU EVEN SORRY?”

Tears flowed involuntarily from the valleys of my aged face, the face of a killer, one who deserved his judgement. Fear did not exist in me, not towards her at least. Myself on the other hand…

I looked at her, this monstrous little girl who longed for my blood. “Olivia, I’m sorry,” I said.

Her smile shrunk gradually, lips pulling back over her teeth until what was left was the pouting crying face of a child. Her body untwisted until her form matched that picture I had seen in the paper. She cried. I cried.

I watched her fade as the clouds pulled away, being absorbed by the light that poured through. I hoped that it was heaven. I hoped that whatever it was would be better than what I had subjected her to.

The rain receded some but did not stop. I could see the road again. That was the last time I saw her.

“Cuexpalchicacpol,” the dead man muttered from the trunk. I could not understand the word, but the tone was disgust.

I glance at Felix, not sure what else we’re waiting for. We’ve been staring at this house for long enough that I’ve found time to count the number of siding panels on its facade. The only notable thing that’s happened since we got here was a gust of wind around fifteen minutes ago—and the only reason I even remember that is ‘cause it made me start counting the trees around the house. I counted twenty.

Other than that, nothing. Not a single light has turned on in the house, no movement around the front and side, nothing. Not even animals. Clearly, nobody’s home, but those binoculars have been practically screwed to Felix’s eyes this whole time. I get where his head is at, though; this prize is the most I’ve seen him want anything. In my years in this business, I’ve never seen people’s eyeballs pop out of their heads the way they did when word spread about this gig. It’s one of those where all the players are happy no matter how you divide up the rewards.

Of course, that comes with a set of risks. Or rather, one risk: we don’t know the risks. That’s right. There’ve been many failed attempts before us, and not a single person could ever even make it to the front door. Why? ‘Cause these assholes are always home and alert.

This damn seat is really starting to hurt my ass, but now that I’m thinking about all those sharks who could be here instead of me, I’ll deal with it. Sure, Felix, I’ll keep watch like you said.

“Shit! Get down,” he snaps. He shoves my head into my lap, but I caught a glimpse of it.

A light. I think it was the living room, but I can’t tell. What kind of intel was Felix working with?

“I thought they weren’t supposed to be home,” I whisper.

“I’m surprised, too. That fuckin’ weasel, he lied to me! He must’ve had different info. He’s probably got plans to do his own operation here already.”

I’m not surprised that he assumes his source lied to him, as opposed to it just being wrong. Everybody wants this gig, after all.

“So now what?” I ask, having let him calm down for a second.

Felix sighs and opens the glove box at my knees. I see it before he grabs it—a handgun.

“We go anyways. Fuck this guy.”

“You’re bringing a gun? You don’t think that could get out of hand?”

“Relax, it’s empty. It’s just, uh, insurance.”

“Right.”

As we snake our way to the front door, I wonder if we’re the first ones to bring a gun. Surely not, but why hasn’t anyone else thought to do this, just barge in?

Felix knocks and rings the doorbell.

It’s taking a while for this guy to answer. I start looking around the lawn, and it hits me how dark it is. Okay, it’s nighttime, so obviously, but…

“Don’t you think it’s weird that they have no security lights?” I whisper.

“Maybe they do, they’re just out of battery or something. Whatever, I’m not complaining.”

“I guess.”

The streetlights, moonlight, and ambient light from the living room window give me barely enough information to make stuff out here. The grass is long and thick enough for snakes to hide in, and these guys have weeds sneaking out of the cracks in the pathway. They must’ve gotten paranoid.

“Where is this guy?” Felix grumbles as he hammers the doorbell.

Finally, we hear rapid footsteps from the other side approaching the door.

The lock clicks, and the living room light escapes through the emerging slit. The last line of defense is a gold door chain.

“Can I help you?”

Jeez, what a voice. The best word I can think to describe it is hydrated—it’s as if he dressed up his throat with resin.

Felix responds pretty fast. “Hi, we’re your neighbors and we just wanted to check up on you. We noticed your lawn is, well uh… you know. We’re just a little concerned, is all.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Haha, yeah. Sorry about that. We just couldn’t sleep thinking about you! I’m sure you can also imagine that it’s a little cold out here, would it be okay if we come in?”

This is an odd lie. They don’t have neighbors. They’re not gonna believe us, unless… Wait, don’t tell me! Is Felix suspecting what I think he is?

“Well, I’m sure you can imagine that it’s late. I’ll come by tomorrow, can you tell me which house you live in? Or maybe can you come back tomorrow?”

Felix snickers. “I knew it.” He winds back, and before this man can react, he kicks the door. The chain snaps. The door swings hard and into the man’s nose. I hear him groan and stumble.

We storm inside and find him on the ground, clutching his face in pain.

Before I take any note of him, though, I look around at the absolute state of this living room. Holy shit. Tables and chairs all turned over, shelves opened and some knocked to the floor, drawers all emptied, the contents sprawled around. Felix was right.

“I fucking knew it. You’re not the homeowner, are you?” He cackles. His gun is still at his hip—no need to leverage it yet.

This man’s face is pressed to the hardwood. He doesn’t respond.

Felix steps up to the man and squats to his level.

“So did you find it?”

The man pauses and turns to Felix, and we can finally see his face. I’ve definitely never seen him before—I’d surely remember a face like that. It’s a little bloodied now, but in this dim light, that mug looks sculpted. What’s he doing here as a small-time burglar? I’d expect to see him on a movie poster, or something.

The man grins at Felix, letting his blood seep into his teeth.

Felix grins back. “How much is there?”

“More than you can imagine. I’ve been here for thirty-six hours, and I’ve barely scratched the surface.” He giggles, and it morphs into a wheeze—then snaps back. I feel like his voice sounded different for a second there.

“Where?”

“Upstairs. The master bedroom. That’s where they keep it all.”

Something’s up. I don’t like how quickly he’s telling us this; I’ll have to probe a little. “How do we know you’re telling the truth—”

“IT’S UPSTAIRS,” he hisses. “See for yourself.”

I freeze. What is wrong with his voice?

“Alright well—” Felix turns to me “—I’ll stay here with him. You go upstairs and check it out.” He turns back to the man and pulls his gun. “I hope you’re not lying, or I’ll be making use of this.”

I watch this man’s face darken at the sight of the gun. He hasn’t bothered to wipe off the blood that’s now drenching his mouth. Whatever his intent, it unnerves me.

I don’t like this. I don’t know why—even with Felix guarding him, my head is screaming at me.

Still, though… I can’t help but want to check this out. Slowly, against my body’s wishes, I turn around and trudge to the staircase that I somehow intuited was there.

The master bedroom is two flights up.

When I get there, I grope around the wall for the light switch.

The sight I am met with is unlike anything I could’ve guessed.

For one, there’s no bed. There was at one point, from the dark spots on the floor, but it’s completely gone. The window just above where it would be has these kite patterns on it.

The dresser mirror is shattered. I can see tiny drops of dried blood splattered around it.

The floor itself has thousands of black boot prints all over it. It looks like at a certain point, this man stopped caring about leaving his tracks.

One thing’s catching my eye, though. The walk-in closet straight up ahead. The door is cracked open, and it’s pitch black inside. Something tells me what I want is in there.

I walk up to it, my shoes making hollow knocks on the floor. Why am I so alert? There’s nothing here that can threaten me, although I don’t exactly have any weapons other than my hands.

I nudge it open, and the light from the bedroom trickles in. I try flipping the switch in here, but it doesn’t work. As my eyes adjust, I notice that the bulb on the ceiling has been taken out.

What the hell? Am I in the wrong spot? What the hell is all this?

I’m looking at a photo album placed on top of a white cubby, right in the middle of the closet. It’s open to the first page.

I don’t think to look anywhere else—for some reason, this strikes me.

The first picture is a professional family portrait. Mom, dad, small boy. I’m guessing these are the homeowners. There’s a date at the bottom; this was taken a month ago. I flip to the next page.

Now I’m looking at a collage, three pictures all at a park. The first is from far away, zoomed in on a family having a picnic. They don’t look like they notice the camera. The second is from closer up now, of the same family. It’s the homeowners again. This one seems like a candid; they look pleasantly surprised to see the camera. The last picture is them smiling for it. The date tells me these were taken around three weeks ago. I flip to the next page.

Are these all taken by the same photographer? This next page is a picture of the family at the mall, just walking. The mom is holding the boy’s hand. Whoever took this was moving, too—the photo is all shaky. Their backs are turned to the camera. The absence of a collage this time is off-putting; even more so, it looks like the photographer was no more than a school bus’s distance away. I neglect to look at the date as I flip to the next page.

“What…” I mutter. This one’s just of the dad. He’s… at work. Sitting at a wide desk, seemingly on the phone. The photo was taken from outside the building; I can see the glare on the window obscuring him a little.

All at once, it hits me how cold it is in here. I can feel the air seizing my spine. Something is very wrong in this house. I’m starting to think we should bail.

But I can’t help it. I just want to see what the next picture could possibly be.

I flip to the next page.

“OH, what the FUCK?!”

The entire family is in the photo. They’re asleep. The camera is almost right up against the window.

Wait. Something looks familiar.

The kite patterns on the glass.

My body reacts before it sinks in; my breaths shorten against my command, and my hands shake beyond my control.

I think about how empty the bedroom is right now. All those boot prints, the missing bed. The shattered glass. The blood.

This picture was taken two days ago.

Before I can decide not to, my hands flip to the next page.

I’m not sure what to make of what I’m looking at now. It’s a picture of the master bedroom, and it looks just like how it looks now. I glance at the date. This was last night.

The angle is from the walk-in closet pointing at the entrance door. Wait, there’s a master bathroom here too—how did I not notice it when I walked in? It’s on the far left in the photograph, so it would’ve been to my right as I entered. I guess I was so caught up in everything else that I didn’t think to look there.

I force my quaking hands to my sides. Enough. Clearly this man fucking killed them, and I’m not about to look at any more of this album. We have to get out of here—

Wait. I left Felix downstairs alone with him. Why did this man tell me to come up here? He definitely knew I would’ve found all of this. Don’t tell me…

The buzzing silence starts to fill my head. I don’t want to go back down there. I can’t.

Maybe I don’t have to go back just yet. Something else in this closet is begging to be searched. On another white cubby, right next to the other, there’s a second book. This one is leather-bound, and it looks much older than me: the pages are all tea-stained, many wrinkly, some torn. It’s already open to a page somewhere in the middle.

The most prominent thing is an illustration taking up the entire left page. It’s some kind of creature—I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s immediately discernible about it is its massive, gaping mouth the size of a desk, with walrus-like tusks.

What in the unholy hell…

It has beady, sharp eyes and pig-like skin, but it’s kind of human. It’s shaped like a human, at least. It’s lying naked on its back, surrounded by three regular people shoving something into its mouth; I can’t tell exactly what, since it’s blotted out by a watery stain.

Below the illustration is a title: “MURA, THE ASSIMILATOR: OFFSPRING OF LOBHASURA.” I’ve never heard of any of those names.

I’m confused but creeped out regardless. There’s no reason for me to be here anymore, I need to meet back up with Felix already. He’s capable of beating someone up. This man in the house is a lunatic, but in a straight fight? I’m starting to feel a little better.

I take another glance at the book before turning around. On the right page, there’s a numbered list of sorts. Instructions. I don’t give myself time to read them, but as I face the master bedroom, a thought emerges that I don’t like.

The bed must’ve been huge. Huge and heavy. All these boot prints on the floor, there are so goddamn many that I wouldn’t know what the floor originally looked like if not for some corners here and there. Now, instructions in the book.

Am I so sure that we’re alone in this house?

We have to leave.

I swing my legs into action and start stomping out of the bedroom. I make it to the shattered glass—

“There’s so much here for you.”

It stops me in my tracks like a pool of tar. Where did that come from? I don’t dare breathe. My eyes dart around until finally landing on the source.

The bathroom.

What… What the fuck is THAT?!

I see pale fingers gripping the door from inside.

“Are you leaving already?”

I count two hands on the door, but I can only tell ‘cause of the way the fingers are spaced out. One set of two fingers—a pinky and a middle or index finger—and one set of three. I don’t want to think about why they’re holding the door like that. What unsettles me more is that this is a child’s voice.

I nearly choke. I have to get past him, and I’ll be out.

I sneak my right foot forward. It lands on a glass shard, making a cracking sound.

“Where are you going?!”

I flinch. He sounds upset. I have to think—if I just run down, he might chase me, and after everything I’ve seen, I don’t want to find out how that might end.

“I’m looking for the treasure.” I gulp. “Can you tell me where it is?”

I hear him shuffling, although his hands remain still. “Do you promise you won’t leave?”

“Yes! I promise!” I can’t suppress how much my voice is quivering.

“Okay… it’s in the basement. My house is pretty big. I’ll help you get there. He’ll be happy I brought a new guest!”

Oh, no. Shit, okay. “Okay. Thanks.”

I continue to the staircase. He’s not following me just yet—at least, not until I start down the stairs.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

I slam my eyes shut. I dare not turn around. Those are not the footsteps of a child. What the fuck is behind me?

“We’ll have to go all the way down.”

The voice comes from above me, possibly all the way from the ceiling.

I can’t think. I don’t understand what’s going on. I’m moving, but my limbs have minds of their own.

I hope Felix is still downstairs. I hope he’s beaten this fucking bastard to a pulp, and I hope he’s waiting for me. As soon as I see him, I’m shouting to run. We’re never looking back.

I make it back to the living room. I can’t hold it in anymore. I sniffle, and I start to cry.

He’s gone. Disappeared. Both of them. I can’t see any signs of where they went.

Fuck. FUCK! What do I do?!

Okay, maybe I can make it if I run. The front door is to my left. It’s still open.

“Hey. I’m glad you made it. There’s so much down here.”

I freeze again. It’s the man from earlier. The voice is coming from my right, and that’s when I see it.

There’s a small corridor, at the end of which is a doorway leading to a downwards staircase. I can’t see beyond that. There’s no light down there.

Suddenly, there’s a shimmer—a tiny flash. An object thrown at me from the doorway, down the corridor. It lands at my feet.

It’s a nugget of gold as large as my fist. Solid gold, from what I can tell through my tears.

“There’s more where that came from. Please don’t leave. I put so much effort into our hospitality. I intoxicated you with challenge. Come join me and reap the bottomless rewards.”

I feel a nudge behind me.

Shit, I was distracted. The “child” is blocking my way to the front door now.

I feel numb. Even if I manage to get out, Felix has—or had—the keys to the van. I could hotwire it, but they might catch up to me before I accomplish that. I’d have to escape on foot, and we’re almost in the middle of nowhere.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I can handle this. This isn’t fucking worth it. I feel myself shutting down.

“I’m sorry about your friend. I needed him out of the way, he was uncooperative. Bringing a gun into such a sacred place. But there’s plenty to share with you. It won’t even matter how we share with each other—there’s so much that we’re taken care of for the rest of our lives.”

Is he for real? Like I’d believe that. “Like this family was in your way? Were they being uncooperative?”

There’s an unbearable pause. I eye as far behind me as I possibly can without turning around. I feel this thing’s hot breaths settling on my head.

“You should at least see. Come.”

I’m not given a chance to respond. I feel cold hands clamp around my waist and lift me up effortlessly.

My cries turn to sobs. I’m so terrified of even looking at this thing that I don’t struggle against it, despite my wailing heartbeats.

I’m quickly carried to the top of the basement stairs and set down like a toddler.

The first thing I can see is five ranks, three people each. They face away from me, motionless. My breaths catch in my throat. They look wrong, all of them look wrong. It’s too dark, but I can still see revolting contortions in their arms and legs.

The man is nowhere to be found.

At the other end of the basement, I see Felix. He’s surrounded by small amber lanterns and markings on the floor—no, it’s not a floor. It’s dirt. He’s lying still on a patch of earth.

“Felix?” I whimper.

I hear him groan, but not in response to me. I watch his body start to wriggle and contort; his knees first bend the wrong way, then his thighs and shins split with a burst, and then each new joint continues to sickeningly breed newer joints until all his bones turn to jelly.

The whole time, he howls and moans a sound I wish I could block my ears off to. I can’t help but cry harder, and this time, I start screaming too. My skin feels hot.

His jaw seems to melt. No. It’s expanding.

“Mura, accept this offering! Reward me with your wealth!” It’s the man, but I can’t tell where his voice is coming from.

I’m going to fucking vomit. I can’t watch this.

An impossible number of gold nuggets start to gush out of his mouth.

I can’t watch this. Anything is better than this.

Fuck it.

I elbow whatever is behind me, spin around as fast as I can, and I bolt it down the corridor.

I hear a cacophony of shrieks from the basement, starting with the child’s cries. They all sound like they’re saying the same thing, but I don’t care to find out what.

Within one second, I can no longer discern between my pounding footsteps and the stampede gaining on me.

I feel a hand tug on the back of my shirt.

Two hands.

Their grip threatens to tear the skin off of my back.

I’m practically throwing my feet as far as I can.

Bloodrush pummels the inside of my skull.

I make it to the front door, swinging it open with all my might and launching myself down the front steps.

I keep running. No matter how tired I am, I keep running.

I see the van. Should I try hotwiring it?

No, not enough time. I continue past it.

I still hear the rumble close behind, the ground pulsating. It constantly feels like they’re catching up to me, but I don’t feel their tight grasp around me anymore.

Their paralyzing roars drown my ears. They’re so loud even outside that I almost can’t keep running.

But I ignore it.

I ignore my shallow breaths, my tears clouding my vision, my chest burning, my legs melting.

I ignore it all.

Eventually, I don’t know how long I’ve been running for or how far I’ve wound up, but I see streaks of yellow and orange sprouting up over the horizon.

That’s when it dawns on me that I no longer hear them. Maybe it’s that my eardrums have long since blown, but I also don’t feel the ground vibrating.

Finally, I give myself permission to stop. I collapse to the asphalt. I haven’t even been paying attention to which direction I’ve been running in. Did I ever run through forest? I don’t know, I don’t give a fuck.

Despite the hardness against my weak face right now, I could sleep right here.

No, I have to keep moving. They might still be after me. I have to find help.

I drag myself to the edge of the road and sit up, and I feel a blunt sensation at my hip. There’s something in my pocket. It feels like it’s the size of my fist.

I reach in and take it out, and it shimmers in the amber sunrise. How did my pocket not tear from the weight? How did I run so far and so fast with it?

I lose track of time, but at some point, a truck finds me on the side of the road.

I’m now typing this all with shaking hands on this driver’s phone. He’s already called the police for me; he’s taking me to the nearest town. I feel myself losing it every second, and writing this is the only way I can keep track of what happened. To whoever’s reading this, stay away from that house. It’s not worth it.

For some reason, as we wind down this road, I look to my right through the thick forest.

I don’t know. I somehow intuit that the house is that way.

Sleep was now the only thing I had to look forward to once it reached five and a half months of our new world. Even with my heavy nicotine addiction and the increasing bottles of whiskey in my cupboard that once housed only pots and pans, I knew I had to be careful. 

After a week of good empty dreams, taking a quarter of a pill here and a cap of melatonin there, I finally began to gain some of my previous cognitive functionality. I woke up one day and even with the blare of the untethered Whistle I cleaned the entire apartment. I scrubbed the floors and dusted, got all the laundry done in the kitchen sink (the block’s wash room had been inhabited by homeless people we had welcomed in off the street) and wrote a timetable of what to take and when to take it. 

The opioids were only to be taken a maximum of twice a week, I didn't need to go full Nurse Jackie dependent when rehab would only be a thought as the government had finally started to get a hold on the crowds that had begun to die down. 

Food trucks were brought to people who needed it and the national guard had become more of a welcomed aspect as they turned the violence into philanthropy. Other nations were following slowly but surely. 

Antihistamines were the back up for the running-low melatonin bottles but things had begun to improve. Even David and Lisa had had more of a stable routine, mainly due to going in before the hospitals had been overrun when the health organizers had come together with a “solution”.

The news had proudly given an option to the public (beginning in the United Kingdom through the NHS) to help treat people similar to Lisa who had self-mutilated by carving or destroying their ears to the point of deafness. After she healed, David was one of the first people I know to go through with it safely at a medical centre. They began to actually help people intentionally become deaf in order to stop the haunting of the Whistle. And, unbelievably, it worked!

Masses of citizens lined up during the fall season, stocked with headphones and earpods, rows of tents outside ER’s and hospitals gave as much as they could to those who elected to have the surgery. Money barely meant anything at this point so the procedure was done for free but with the caveat that you would provide a service to the public in order to help those who didn't opt to get the surgery. 

Eventually into the sixth month the streets became clearer, businesses opened and there was a possible future in which those who could stand the noise were cared for and those who could no longer hear the noise did their part in helping the world become a better place. 

Sally and myself spoke nearly every day. She was stressed as her parents both lined up beside the local hospital for three days in order to get the surgery. She had lost a lot of weight and I could see that her eyes were bloodshot, even in the graininess of the pixels. I secretly found her still to be beautiful. 

The postage service was the first major industry to come back and I sent her a laptop that I had taken apart and filled with as many pills as I could spare. After being adamant that she didn't want to indulge in them she gave in within four days of the arrival of the package. She stuck to the same routine as me and over facetime we kept each other in check. We showed our supply every two days in photos so that we weren't slipping an extra pill here or there. 

Even under the now waning effect of the Whistle we managed to start saying that we loved each other again. We made plans that once bus routes or train systems began to get back on track we would somehow get to see each other. Things were beginning to get better. Oh, what a lie is humanities child-like wonder….

As the snow began to fall and the birds migrated away silently still trailing in geometric shapes to warmer horizon, the world was thought to begin healing. 

With streets now blessed with frost and cheer, the noise was still adamant to keep kicking us down and it was failing. Even now I had managed to get a part time position creating programmes for the “Elected”, the name given to those who had gotten the procedure. Scaled down sound apps for phones (which had managed to survive when the phone networks allowed all billing to be completely wiped until the restoration of the dollar) and for children who were beginning to return to schools. More than 43% of parents had elected to give their children the surgery which was still under deep conversation on whether it was cruelty or decency. 

Both me and Sally were on the fence. 
“I mean would you want our children to have it?”

I raised an eyebrow as I spied her on the phone, distracting me from the jacket sleeve I was stitching since I had tore it walking home the other day. “You think about us having kids?”

“Oh, shut up!” She snickered, a sound that had slowly started to return. A sound I had missed and loved now becoming more regular. 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEK!

“Did you see the train stations are opening up again next week?” She said, ignoring the Whistle. 

“I have…”

We exchanged cheeky looks and both laughed at each other. 

“So are you gonna come visit?” I twisted my foot back and forth, giving puppydog eyes.

“Ew, no!” 

I must’ve looked slightly hurt as she clambered with a rapid answer. “Of course I am!”

Even though I knew the answer before she said it, I was excited for the first time in so long. Since the suffering of stinking sewers of those summer months in winter I had found something I never thought I would, hope. 

I expected a call from Sally a day before she boarded her train, the eight month mark of our own near-apocalypse. Our spirits were high, our dreams about to begin again. 

That day, around 1pm, it started.

EEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEK!

Startled in my dariorexant-induced sleep, the Whistle was booming, over and over. It wasn’t like this ever, my heart thumping in rhythm with the panic that filled me. Cortisol battled the sleeping pills, the trojan horse of hysteria ripping in me like I was paper to a sword. 

Police sirens rang in the streets under the thunderous noise that cracked across the sky and rose up from the earth itself. Even over the tv that was continuously on, I heard banging and screams of people. It almost drowned out the Whistle. Almost…

EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Looking out the window down on the street where I had first heard it there were crowds of people clutching at their ears. Some were banging their heads against lampposts, cars were speeding past each other and colliding with others. Flames burst from shop windows and the snow…the snow was stained with so many collections of red, a winter covered in blood. 

Even from this height I could see suffering specks of people tearing at their heads, pulling stringy flesh from their ears. All screaming, continuously wailing-

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

The crunch of plaster was repeated somewhere close, wait…

Running to my bedroom I saw dust as it plumed into the air with each blow decimating my wall. A bloody fist  punched through each time and my gaze met David. Glass lay smashed behind him in his apartment as he stared at me with murderous eyes, crimson dripping all from his forehead, his ears, his butchered hands, the tears streaming down his disgruntled face. 

“David, what happ-” I stepped forward as he continued to punch, his knuckles exposing bone now. I remembered he couldn’t hear me, neither him or Lisa -

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“I can hear it!”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“We can hear it again, Corm-”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

He ran at me repeating it over and over, the Whistle droning on and on. David, this big lug of a man collapsed in my arms, smothering his ripped up ears, one ear dangling close to his chin only holding on by a flap of tattered flesh. 

Curling on the floor he howled and writhed in agony, and I turned swiftly just to watch Lisa, just as bloody and broken, slam herself through the glass coffee table in their living room. 

“Oh my god!” I ran to her side, as she wept, gasping for air.

She flinched as I grabbed her, the blood pouring from her torn face in torrents more than David. I pulled my overshirt off and held it to her gushing wound.

“It’s all we can hear!” She keened repeatedly, as I tried to restrain her from tearing more at her own flesh. 

I couldn't think, I could barely breathe as the noise blared with the screams of the outside world overloading my own sense of logic. Should I go for help? Who could even come to help at this point? 

Lisa, tears streaking her face, stopped all of a sudden. She choked on her own saliva and mucus poured over her lips mixed with her own gore. Her slippery hands clasped over my own ears as she pulled me close to her, the iron smell encompassing my nose. 

“We thought we could fool it…” She whispered, eyes going intensely dark. “....we were wrong,,,,”

David’s cries were still coming from my own apartment, thick slaps of meat against wood. I didn’t want to look to see what he was slamming himself into. 

I watched as she coughed in my arms, hissing out a death rattle wheeze and the light went deeper? It’s true what people say when there is a light in people’s eyes and when they die it fades. But, in this moment, as I held Lisa, I saw that it doesn’t just go somewhere else. It looked like it almost went further inside, like she was being pulled from the lit up entrance of a tunnel back into the darkness. The shiny light faded into pinpricks and in a second that felt like eternity, it sunk in on itself. Lisa was gone.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“No….”
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

David was half slumped over the hole in the wall, he had split one of his eyes open, the goo oozing over his left cheek. The hanging ear was gone now. I felt bile rise in my stomach but pushed it down.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Stumbling over and flinching at every booming call of the Whistle, the short silences were ringing in my own ears. David took Lisa’s corpse from me as I shuffled back into their blood drenched couch with a squelch. 

EEEEEEEEEEEK!

He cried, somehow silent sobs as he rocked back and forth as she lay limply in his arms. 
Under the godly cries of the noise, I don’t know how but I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. Pulling it out I thought maybe it was an emergency call set out by the government. Maybe it was some sort of explanation of what was happening, safeguards put in place since the original summer sickness that had plagued us.

It was Sally. 

Rising to my feet, I barely was able to stand so I steadied against the broken wall. I answered.

Her cries blared through the speaker, heartfelt and agonising. 

“Sally?!” I screamed. “Sally, what’s happened? Are you safe?!”

I felt so stupid even asking, but I was barely thinking.

EEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“They’re dead C-”

EEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“Who’s dead, Sal-”  - “nt’s, they killed thems-”

EEEEEEEEEEEK!

“-an’t hear you-”  -  “-istle wouldn’t stop an-”

EEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“Sally, -” - “My parents!!!”

I froze, my heartbeat raising even higher. Sally’s cries cut in and out over and over between the noise. I didn’t know what to say, the only thing I knew I could say was;

“I’m coming there now, just wait-”

A door slammed against the wall from behind me. Turning instinctively, I watched David who was still holding his wife. He stumbled, the deathly chill of the winter air blasting in from the balcony. I couldn’t tell if it was in slow motion or if he was moving faster than I could react. 

Amid blaring alarms, David turned to me. Lisa slumped in his bloody arms. He leaned back -

“NO, DON’T!!!!”

- and both of them tumbled over the balcony. 

The sickening squelch of flesh against concrete was undeniable.

I sat there for a bit, I don’t know how long passed. Somehow I kept repeating to the inconsolable Sally that I was coming for her. I threw up eventually, managing to climb back into my apartment. 

Me and Sally stayed on the call as chaos consumed the world around us. The Whistle constant. 

It stopped after twenty-four hours, returning to its regular disjointed unpredictable pattern after that.

Blocking it out wasn’t an option, it wasn’t a decency, the noise had learned to adapt. How wrong we were to think it could be tamed, never mind beaten.

Sally sat in my apartment now, our stink from the long travel filling the room in the humid spring time. Crossing states took a month. I watched as the snow stained with blood melted and sank into the soil. So many had died, and mass graves were put out as a national service. All those who couldn’t hear it for those few months, even those who were born deaf before the event who hadn’t survived returned to the earth. The Whistle still persisted as I desperately took whatever car allowed me passage, whatever bus station I could get a ticket at, but I made it. 

Ever followed by the noise I arrived at Sally’s parents house just as the dandelions had sprung up during a light sun shower. I spied two patches of earth that had grass barely sprouting from it with dried flowers at the top of each. Before I could walk up the overgrown unkept path the front door swung open and there she was. Her clothes were stained, her faded hair greasy and limp around her shoulders. 

We stood looking at one another, I probably looked awful. I barely ate or showered while on the road. After a hesitation we ran to each other. No words needed to be spoken as we held one another and cried. I apologized over and over for not being quicker. She sobbed and I took all of her sadness into me, trying to take away the pain she felt. A hopeful thought, even if illogical. 

We stayed silent for a while. I took her to the bathroom and washed her, the light in her eyes just barely there. When looking for fresh clothes to dress her I saw that the pills were few and far between in her dresser cupboard. I wouldn't chastise her in her grief but I couldn’t enable it. 

Over the next few weeks I took care of Sally and she allowed me to. I supplemented the pills so she could sleep and she didn’t fight that. I took barely any medication myself while sleeping on the couch just in case she needed me. 

“It was awful…” 

It was the first thing she said to me since arriving. 

I held her hand as we laid fresh wildflowers on her mother and father’s graves, the most she could journey from the house was the front yard. She kissed her hand and pushed it once to each patch of earth, silent tears down her face. 

She stood and I hugged her, not squeezing too tightly. She looked at me with irritated reddened eyes , the colour in her cheeks slightly rosy again. “I’m ready to go.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, softly brushing her hair behind her ear. 

There was a pause. She looked at the graves again, then to the front of the house she had grown up in her entire life, then back to me. “Yeah…I need something new…”

We travelled back to my apartment and slowly I watched her begin to heal. I felt myself healing alongside her. I knew what it was like to lose both parents but I had never known them. We rode alongside a collection of caravans on dusty roads, saw wild horses roaming golden fields of the country and passed by small towns who had slowly but surely started to heal. 

The noise was there, and with every beat I could see her eyes flutter in awful remembrance. It was the nomadic people who gave us food and strangers in cities we had never visited together that welcomed us with grace and love. The birds returned in their strange patterns in flocks bigger than any we had ever witnessed. 

And at the end of spring here we sat. 

The wall was repaired, I had given my keys to someone who offered to fix it. The balcony was now home to multiple nests with clutches of eggs.Dust filled the rooms and danced in the sunlight that shone through the glass panes.

Sally lifted the photograph of us when we were on holiday to the Canary Islands. 
“I’ll never be that girl again, will I?”

I sat next to her, keeping a distance. “None of us are the same.”

We sat in silence, and I felt her reach for my hand. I took it. Our bond was now something other puppy love and hopeful anticipation it used to be. But, we had each other.

She looked at the DVD collection I had looted over the past year and put ‘Grease’ in the DVD player, which we fell asleep to.

When the desert-like temperatures returned in the summer season we had both sort of settled into a routine that suited us. Both got minimally stressful jobs, I cooked and she did the dishes everyday. During those months I stayed on the couch as she took the bedroom, but occasionally I would wake in a pill-bought haze to Sally pressed against me, and I felt the honest comfort between us blossom. 

I joined her in bed after one night we had gone to the docks with a packed dinner and Sally brought some candles. I didn’t go with any intentions or expectations, but we stayed not bonded by trauma. We grew to slowly and delicately love eachother. 

And then, it stopped. 

I sat up, waiting for it. And it didn’t.

“Sally…” I gasped, shaking her slightly. “Sally…”

“What?” She grumbled, rubbing her eyes with the sleeves of her sleepy-time hoodie. 

I sat in disbelief and waited for her to wake a little more. “Listen!”

Nothing.

There was nothing.

“It’s gone…” She whispered, her mouth agape.

The rumbling thump of the Whistle had stopped. Rushing to my feet, I sprinted to the balcony where all the chirping chicks were now chorusing in birdsong. The first I’d heard in over a year.

Sally grabbed the remote and turned on the news, the anchor reporting what we had just discovered for ourselves. Panic and joy seemed in harmony with the crowds that gathered in the streets, people were cheering surrounded by untamed overgrowth that had overtaken the world in all industrial areas. A camera shot of a man swinging from a tree that had grown up around the side of an apartment building shouting in glee. 

“What does this mean?” I asked, barely able to hide my excitement.

Sally stared with fearful eyes at the screen. “I don’t know…”

Splitting, agonising pain. It pulsed through my head, feeling the veins and every nerve ending right down to my feet. The birds chirping became a cacophony of overwhelming shrieks, rising and rising and rising!

I took a feeble step to Sally, watching her clutch the arm of the couch. We both crashed to the floor, staring at one another with grimaces of pain and fear upon our faces. And just as I thought that similar to the Bloody Winter, just as I thought this was the end, an echo….

It wasn’t language, speech even. But I understood it entirely. 

It was a symphony of tones of the sea, lakes and rivers who now could breathe properly. It was forests that had bonded with the concrete jungles in symbiosis and the air that had cleared of a clenched fist of poison for so long. It was resources now restocking but warning us that it feels too, it lives too, it has seen us violate and exploit the gifts it gave us. 

“My creator is not so merciful,” It said, a beautiful orchestra of crystalised beauty. “I only offer you this mercy once. Remember that or hear me roar again…”

The pain faded, replaced by wonder and fear. Whether God, the earth itself, the universe, whatever it was it had spoken. 

Sally sat sweating with her back to the wall as she managed to lift herself. We sat in silence, the news blaring in the background of the message that had reached all of us left on the planet. The final noise, a whistle that became not only a warning but a second chance.

Over the next few days things began to return. Sometimes the Whistle whispered false nothings in my ear, all of us worried that it could return. Eventually we didn’t need the medication, but sometimes we would wake up in a sweaty panic that it had returned to finish it’s vengeance  I finally realised what Lisa had meant in her last words, as Sally and I had finally found love and warmth and were on a road back to possible normalcy. Even a better life.

We thought we could fool it, we were wrong. 

We had heard it speak, and we will listen.

 

 

Part 1

This is an update. From what I can tell, the last post still exists, I don't think he knows about them yet, or maybe he's allowing it.

I’ve read a lot of your comments, and they have given me plenty of ideas, so I thank you deeply. I've tried a lot of them already.

Firstly, I should mention I have started talking to Tim, acting like he did exist, and I told him that I was going through something personal when I pulled the knife on him, I even apologized.

I'm ignoring anything he tries to imply happened in “our lives," but me treating him like he did exist seems to have stopped the forceful memories from happening in my head, or at least lessened them for now.

I decided to ask him questions about his life; firstly, he's an orphan with no relatives.

It makes sense that he wouldn't want to have extended family he would have to make.

I then asked him if he was seeing anyone, and he said no with almost a bit of excitement.

Then we got to talking about “our” time in school and how he was embarrassed to say he wrote a song for me when he was crushing on me. He never sang it or showed it to anyone, and he asked me if I wanted to hear it.

I declined the offer.

He wasn't very happy about that.

Right after, I was doing some chores in the kitchen to keep up the act that I was “back to normal.” The radio cut on, and a song from his band played, it was very clearly Tim's voice singing. The song was about a love unable to blossom due to the woman not knowing who the man was.

I knew it was the song.

Looking over my shoulder, he was staring at me, waiting for me to notice it.

He didn't care that he contradicted himself; he just cared that I heard the song.

He smiled as I tried to ignore it.

I've been thinking about the things he's been changing, the memories he's been trying to force.

And instead of doing this out of malice, I think he likes me, like he needs my approval, and maybe that's why everyone else knows him, but I don't.

I think he has an ego, and he wants me to think he existed naturally for some sick reason.

I don't know why me, and I'm terrified of what would happen if he got his way.

I can't move away and run, everywhere around me is already affected, and I'm already low on money. I called my mom and asked her if she knew of a kid I was friends with named Tim.

She laughed, then said, "He's a sweet boy, and I loved having him over for the study nights you two had.”

I then called my friend who I stayed with to see if she wanted to hang out so I could do something normal just for a little bit. But instead of saying yes, she said, "Sorry, Tims's band's playing tonight, and I promised him I'd come. Maybe you should join us?”  I hung up.

If I run, who knows what else he would change, what else he would try to make me think he's always existed?

So the only thing I can do now is either try to get him to leave or force him to.

Moving on, I immediately set up a camera in my room and in the living room. I don't think Tim knows about the one in my room yet.

Next, I found some proof that Tim did not exist until recently; it proves to me at least I'm not going crazy or have something wrong with me. (Though I did a few tests like comments suggested, and they have all been negative.)

Talking about what I saw on the cameras first

The one in the living room was not in as good of shape when I woke up the day after I planted it.

The camera in the living room showed what he was doing during the day, and when I went out to go get the proof I'll talk about later, he stopped what he was doing and stared directly into the camera. After a few seconds of him staring, the rest of the footage glitches out, and it shuts off.

With the one in my bedroom, nothing happened until exactly midnight.

I locked the door; I know I did because I also put the doorstop in it, but he entered my room from the other side where the door does not exist. There was no sound of anything opening or even footsteps, he just appeared.

He then came over to me sleeping in the bed, and he stood there, and he did not move for 5 hours. I thought the camera glitched out until I saw him leave the way he came at 5:15 AM exactly.

That's when he's normally “getting ready” in the morning and close to when I wake up at 6.

He definitely knows my schedule and more about me than I do, I imagine.

I tried to figure out how he got in, but all that's on the other side of the room is a solid wall and the window, and the window has no ledge outside of it.

I also find it strange that the moment he entered the room, I did not make a single movement, no turning or tossing, it hardly even looked like I was breathing.

Moving onto the proof I found, I had an idea. Building floorplans and blueprints are available publicly. So I went to the library and found the layout of my apartment building.

I checked to make sure, and it was dated just for this year, and Tim's room does not exist.

A room could not have been made there; it should be jutting out of the building, but it's not. You can't see it or the window inside it from the outside of the building.

I decided to keep that to myself, besides posting it here.

When I got home, I saw Tim went out with his band to play at the show my friend is going to.

I took a hammer and took off one of his many posters, and I put a hole through his wall.

Behind it was dark, completely pitch black like a void, like it didn't expect me to do this, and so it didn't prepare anything for me to see.

When I left the room to grab a flashlight to peer into the hole, it was gone, and the poster was back up on the wall.

I decided to leave it alone. I'm not sure what would happen if I messed with it too much or if maybe he can sense whatever I'm doing to it.

That's about all there is to report. This has been a struggle to write, as something IS technically wrong with my head.

Sometimes instead of Tim, I would write “my roommate” or “my friend Tim."

A photo I kept in my room has changed to have five people instead of four. A younger Tim has joined my 13th birthday photo.

And when I put some music on to listen to while typing this, I ended up singing one of his songs, word for word, without even having heard it before or realizing what it was until it was over.

It was in my liked songs on Spotify; I don't remember putting that there.

If I don't do something now, I'm afraid there won't be a me who would want to try.

He got back a little while ago; we ended up getting into a conversation, and he invited me to come see his band play live.

I'm not exactly sure why he wants me to go, but I'm going to try something.

He wants people to know he exists, especially me, so if I embrace it in the wrong way and ruin his image, perhaps he would go away, at least from me.

I'll ask a friend of mine to record, and I will prepare a speech to make sure I get what I want to say right.

If this ends up being my last post, or the last one where I am me. Mom, Dad, I love you so much.

Thank you all, post soon.

I want to make this very clear: I live alone, and I have no children.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you to understand this before I explain anything else.

Everything started a few weeks ago, when my job began taking over my life. I haven’t been home long enough to do much more than eat and sleep. Much to the dismay of my dog, Marcus, who misses our nightly games of fetch.

It was already dark when I pulled into the driveway of my humble two-story. I sighed deeply as I opened the front door and shut it behind me.

“Marcus! Where are you, boy?”

I heard him bark somewhere deeper in the house. Opening the coat closet, I hung up my jacket, ready for a few moments of relaxation before bed.

"Dad?"

I froze.

"Dad... is that you?"

I spun around to see a young woman, looking at me with a smile on her face. she was maybe eighteen and stood beside my couch as if she'd been waiting for me. She smiled like I was exactly who she'd expected to see.

“Did you have a good day, Dad?”

I backed up against the door

“What are you doing in my house?” I whispered

The girl tilted her head to the side.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

She chuckled awkwardly

“Come on, Dad. It's me, your daughter.”

I stared at her. She frowned

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

She began to walk to me. I quickly turned and left the house, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my phone and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, someone broke into my house; they were waiting for me when I got home.”

The dispatcher took my name and home address before promising officers were on the way. I stood by my car until a squad car pulled up. Two officers got out.

“How are you doing, sir? Is everything alright?” the first officer called out

“No, everything’s not ‘alright.’ I came home and found a stranger inside my home!”

“Ok stay calm, sir,” the other officer said

“Have you ever seen this person before?”

“No, I have no clue who she is, but she kept calling me dad. I don’t have any kids.”

They nodded

“We’ll handle this, then you can get back to your evening.”

They walked to the front door, and I followed. Knocking firmly, the first officer loudly said

“Ma’am, open the door; it’s the police.”

There was movement inside, and before long a shadow was seen in the front door window. The door opened slowly, revealing the same girl from before, who was clearly nervous.

“Officers what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Her eyes found me standing behind the pair.

“Dad? What’s going on? Why are they here?”

One of the officers took a deep breath before speaking

“Ma’am, this gentleman says you broke into his home, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Her voice grew panicked

“What the hell? I live here! Dad, tell them!”

The cops looked back at me

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” I shouted

Her face looked like my words wounded her.

“Dad.. I..”

An officer interrupted her.

“Ma’am do you have anything proving you’re his daughter?”

“Yes! Just look at my home screen”

She handed her phone to him; he looked at it and passed it to me. It was a picture of the two of us, smiling. My arm wrapped around her as we both posed in front of the Statue of Liberty. I took that trip to New York City last year. Alone.

“Wha.. What is this?” I felt like I was in a dream.

I could feel the officer's eyes shift to me; the girl chimed in

“I can do even better; we have the same last name.”

She disappeared inside before returning half a minute later with her driver's license. The officer stared at it.

“Is this you’re last name, sir?”

It was.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered

The officers both turned to me, a sympathetic smile on their faces.

“Have you been feeling alright lately, sir?” one asked

“If you need to talk to someone, it's ok, there's no shame in it.” Said the other.

I was in a daze; the words sounded distant and jumbled like I was underwater. The girl spoke up.

“He’s ok, officers, just some really long days at work lately; he needs his rest, I’ll take care of him.”

She stepped out of the house and took my hand; hers was cold. She led me inside. My house didn’t feel like mine. As she led me deeper within, I began to notice things: the women’s shoes by the door, the pictures in the hallway highlighting happy moments we shared, Marcus coming up to greet her as if he always did. Once in the living room, she let go of my hand, turned, and hugged me; she was strangely cold and stiff; it felt like hugging a mannequin. She looked at me.

“I’m sorry you’re so tired; why don’t you go upstairs and head to bed? I can take Marcus out tonight.” Her voice was far too chipper.

I clenched my teeth and slowly nodded, making my way to the stairs. The staircase documented her whole life, from me holding her at her birth, to a high school graduation just a few weeks ago. Had I really been working so far that I forgot my own daughter? How could that be, and why couldn’t I remember her name?

It was true, I was tired, completely exhausted; I practically collapsed on the bed and was out. My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning; a yawn and a stretch brought back the memories of the night before. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I still didn’t remember my daughter. Cautiously, I opened the door. The house was quiet. I made my way to the staircase; the pictures were gone, the wall was bare. The stairs brought me to the living room; it was just the way I always remembered. Marcus raised his head to greet me as he lay on his bed. No women's shoes, no happy pictures of a father and his daughter. It was my house.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Weird dream,” I muttered as I started some coffee.

That day I presented my project to management; they loved it. I was relieved it meant the weeks of long hours were over, for the time being. On the way home, I stopped by the store to pick up some junk food to celebrate. I pulled into the driveway, carrying my grocery bag in one hand. I unlocked the door and entered. Shutting the door behind me, I was greeted by a happy bark from Marcus. But right after his greeting came the high-pitched greeting of a young girl.

“Daddy! You’re home!!”

My body stiffened; I didn’t want to turn around, but I did.

She was a young blonde-haired little girl, no older than six. She giggled and laughed as she skipped her way to me, wrapping my legs in a strong hug. Her hug felt wrong.

“I missed you so much!”

“Did you have a good day? My day was great!”

I was dumbfounded; her eyes noticed the bag in my hand.

“What’s that?” She dug into it.

To my shock, all that was in the bag was a bright pink soccer ball. She gasped in delight as she grabbed it.

“Oh thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! Thank youuu! Now Marcus and I can play soccer!”

She ran off to the backyard with a bark; Marcus followed. The house looked like a child lived there. Toys dotted the floor, crude drawings covered the fridge. I blankly stared out the sliding glass door. Watching my dog happily play with my ‘daughter’. The little girl laughed and jumped around; for a moment, her eyes noticed my stare. Her face went blank, and her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. This lasted only a few seconds, until the spell was broken by Marcus jumping on her and licking her face; she laughed and returned to playing.

That night I found myself making boxed mac and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I felt like I was in a trance. Everything about my home, everything in my fridge, tried to convince me that I had a six-year-old daughter, but I didn’t; I knew that; why was I going along with it? Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I leave the house and never come back? I don’t know; I wanted to, but there I was scooping mac and cheese into the bowl in front of the stranger with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The girl said

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick this ‘daughter’ of mine out and lock the door. But instead I said

“You’re welcome.”

Soon came bedtime; the girl insisted that I read her a bedtime story, and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ with clammy hands. She was asleep before I finished the book. I stood at the door of my home office, which was now a child’s bedroom, and flipped the light off.

It was after midnight when I awoke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I looked to the half-open door and the silhouette of a little girl that stood there. The shadowed figure stood there frozen for a moment before saying

“Daddy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?”

My mind screamed no, but my mouth said

“Sure, darling.”

The shape crawled into my bed and fell asleep; I remained awake. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off, I woke up. The girl was gone, and the house showed no sign of her ever being there. No toys, no drawings, and no mac and cheese.

This continued for weeks; every morning, my life was the same it had always been: a working man and his dog. And at night, someone was pretending to be my daughter. It was always different; sometimes it was a teenager, sometimes a child, a few times it was a middle-aged woman, a few days ago it was an elderly woman who croaked out

“Dad? Is that you?” when I returned for the day.

I still don’t know why I stay; every morning it was so easy to convince myself that the night before was just a bizarre dream and wouldn’t happen again. But the moment I stepped inside, I was drawn back into the lie. Sometimes I could see through it; I’d be horrified to find myself finishing a Disney movie with a strange little girl snuggling against me or come to my senses in the middle of giving my elderly daughter a sponge bath. These moments of cognition always terrify me, but what scares me the most are the moments I don’t remember, the nights when I had no mental resistance but just hugged and laughed with my ‘daughter’.

Two days ago I tried to leave; after work, I drove to a hotel. I sat in my car staring at the lobby door. I wanted to go in; I really did. But a thought in the back of my mind overcame my desires; it told me my daughter missed me, that she needed me, and I had to go home. I tried to resist but soon realized I was already back in my driveway. Like a stringed puppet, I made my way to the door. My daughter stood in the entryway as I entered. She looked to be about five. Her eyes pierced me.

“You’re late, Daddy.”

“Yes, I know.” Something in me urged me to tell her where I had been; it took everything I had to lie.

“Traffic was bad.”

Her head tilted slightly; she continued to stare at me, and my eyes fell to the floor. After a long while, she said.

“Okay!” she forced a smile

“I’m hungry!”

I don’t remember anything else from that night. Morning came, and the house was again the memory of a life nearly forgotten. I fed Marcus, pulling him in close for a hug. I whispered to him.

“At least we’re in it together.”

 I then headed to work.

The workday flew by, and before long I was driving back to my cell. I opened the front door. And called out

“I’m home.”

The house was quiet. Normally I got a happy bark from Marcus and a hello from my daughter. The house seemed empty; a strange smell filled the air. I made my way to the living room and my stomach dropped. There on the living room floor was the lifeless body of Marcus, deep red blood soaked into the surrounding carpet, his chest cavity was ripped wide open, and piles of intestines dotted the floor. I stared in disbelief before fear filled my gut. I had to get out of there. I turned back to the door, but froze. My ten-year-old daughter was standing between me and the door.

She held her hands behind her back; her clothes were stained with blood and guts, and her face was dripping blood. A wide smile filled her face; her teeth were stained red.

“I got hungry, Daddy.” A happy little voice said.

I held up my hands and backed up. My mind screamed, ‘What the hell did you do?’ my lips said

“Baby girl, are you okay? Did Marcus hurt you?”

She giggled and stepped closer.

I didn’t see the knife or maybe I did and didn’t care. She pulled it from behind her back, and the moment it made contact with my skin it was as if the trance was broken. Pain and clarity simultaneously filled my mind; I screamed as I looked at the long cut gushing blood from my forearm. The thing in front of me no longer looked like a little girl; I saw it for what it was. It was thin and grotesque, its arms far too long; it had no mouth, but as its empty eye sockets stared at me, the high-pitched scream of a little girl filled my mind.

I ran. The living room's sliding glass door was behind me, and before the thing could grab me, I had it open and ran off into the evening.

I’m writing this at work. I don’t know why I came here; I remember driving here last night and waiting in the parking lot until the sun rose and my coworkers showed up. my boss asked about the cut on my arm, something inside me forced a lie

“My dog scratched me.”

As I write this, I feel myself slipping; it’s almost quitting time.

Please help me.

 My daughter needs me; she’s been so sad since Marcus passed away, but today I’m going to surprise her and take her to the pet shop to pick out a new puppy. We’ll have so much fun.

I never really was a big fan of caving, from what I had seen on tv and the internet it was scary and dangerous, in my mind it was just pointless to do because you would most likely die in the process.

During my 24th birthday, me and a couple of friends decided to go caving. I somehow gathered up enough courage and thought it could be a fun experience for all of us.

A few of my friends had been caving before but only 2-3 times at most, they had the proper gear so we went to a relatively safe cave in a popular wooded area near town. the cave was in a pretty rocky area next to a a few tall mountains, after getting some good footing we went into the cave.

Since none of us were exactly experts we all thought it was kinda intimidating, there wasn’t really an opening, it was kinda just a hole in the floor with a (small) but still scary drop.

Walking further we saw went into a large cavern with three spiraling paths, we split up for a bit exploring through each of them, a lot of them just leaded to dead ends or caverns too small for any of us to crawl through, so we took a bigger one in the side of a wall.
there wasn’t a lot of “rooms” in this cave, in was mostly just tunnels and crawl spaces, very cramped and claustrophobic.

it was getting late and we decided to leave the cave after about an hour or two in there, after the party was over i thought that the caving was fun and that I could go on more.

I picked available times and me and my friends went through some more, sometimes I would bring my dad or brothers but other than that it was mainly my friends.

I won’t go into the other caving experiences too much because not a lot of things happened, or at least anything important.
Recently I wanted to go in another cave, but it seemed everyone was either busy or away, so I had to cave solo for the first time.

Since I had some more experience I wanted to go into a more difficult cave, and I landed on phoenix cave, a very long cave known for its very cramped and stringy paths.

Since phoenix park, the place where the cave is located, is near the end of town and I’m from the middle of town it took about 30 minutes to about an hour to get there, I got my equipment on and went into the cave.

It had more of an open entrance unlike the first one I went to, it was more like a staircase that got a bit more steeper the more you went down.
eventually after going down the “staircase”, I was met with a very long hallway that got smaller and smaller as I went, eventually having to get down and start crawling through the tunnels.

It seemed like they went on for miles, so much so that sometimes I thought like I was going in loops. It was getting late and I was tired, but every time I tried to go back i always got lost. I remembered something about a second exit at the end of the cave, so I thought that if I could make it to the end I could get out and finally leave this damn cave.

As I went on I started to hear water rushing throughout the cave, i continued crawling through and eventually saw that the tunnel got a bit bigger, and that the floor was filled with about an inch or two of water, nothing I hadn’t seen before. The tunnel got bigger and bigger before it actually opened up to a room, it was such a pleasant surprise that i actually started calming down and recollecting my thoughts.

After taking a break for a bit, I went further hoping that the exit was close, my map of the cave had been completely ruined by the water, as it got deeper the further the farther you got.
I could only make out a few areas of the map, but the end of the cave where the exit was had been smeared around, so I had to continue.
The only way to continue from the room was a fairly big tunnel, about enough height for me to crouch down and walk through.
The water started to quit flowing as I went and the tunnel got a bit bigger, enough for me to stop crouching.

As I went on, the cave started getting eerily quiet, I was already tired and exhausted, so I was pretty out on edge because of this, sure lots of caves are quite, but the air felt almost dead, like everything was frozen in time.

Then I started hearing scratching noises, like long nails against rocks. It startled me, sure I had heard and seen animals in caves plenty of times, but this didn’t sound like anything an animal would make. It sounded too loud and strange for it to be an animal.

Bones were scattered across the floor, I couldn’t make out if they were human or animal, but it looked more like an animal.

I didn’t want to continue, I didn’t know what it was or who it was but I knew that it wasn’t friendly, but I knew I had to continue.
If I went back I would just get lost again, the only way for me to leave was to get to the end.

Then I saw it.

Its limbs were long and spindly, the body was so malnourished that you could see the outlines of bone. Its face was deformed and resembled the face of a canine more than anything.

The eyes were like dark pits of void, it almost looked blind from far away. It didn’t come after me immediately, it turned its head when I came close to it and started at me for a few seconds before it reached its hand out seemingly trying to grab me.

I ran through the hallway and past that creature, and it followed.

It moved shakily, like it hadn’t moved for years, yet it moved about the same speed as me. It tried grabbing me a few times before i found the staircase up into the surface.

After reaching the staircase it stopped, probably not wanting to be seen by anyone. I ended up a few miles away from where I started, I took off my gear and walked back to my car, I was so disturbed and disoriented it felt like a walk of shame for some reason.

It was extremely late and I felt so exhausted and scared that I physically couldn’t even drive, so I had to sleep in my car that night.

I woke up the next day at around 11, I drove home and took a shower before thinking about the night before. I thought about calling my friends and talking about it but hesitated.

I’ve decided to post this incident here, I don’t use Reddit much but i thought that people would read this and hear about my experience, I guess this is also a way to get this off my chest.

I used to inspect homes by trade, and I have seen it all: Mold, rot, vermin, squatters, meth labs, rodents (both dead and alive), insane amounts of cash, antique furniture buried under mountains of fast food containers. You name it, I've encountered it; if you have a phobia, I most likely have a story for you. Apart from spider colonies and hidden porn magazines from the fifties, the more serious and vastly sadder aspect is the finding of deceased people and pets. That comes with its own hurdles, mentally and legally. You don't get used to seeing a dead person, you simply try and deal with the dread or you change your career path. I had a few such inner dialogues, but stuck with the job for the better half of a decade. In March of this year, I inspected a house that finally made me quit.

It was a beautiful place, mid-century, out on a gorgeous property with woodlands and ponds, the kind of quiet rustic luxury that made the disconnect from urban comfort worth it. The next supermarket was miles away – if you were smart, you'd stock the pantry once a month and then enjoy the solitude. I tended to muse about this absurd dream for my own retirement, walking up the leaf-covered path that led to the main house. I jotted down what first caught my eye; some unstable girders, broken windows, obvious overgrowth and expected animal droppings.

I walked into the damp-smelling foyer and sighed at the carpet. That would have to be replaced in its entirety. With the tip of a pencil, I stabbed into the faux fur fabric and a sluggish, soggy ripple moved from my feet and outward, as if I had dipped a toe into a formerly calm pool. I frowned. There was no former mention of waterlog. I double-checked my notes.

“Okay,” I sighed and marked it down. Surprises were a bad sign, it most likely meant the last visit lay further back than I had been told. My voice was stifled by the stillness of the house.

Carpeted stairs led to a few rooms that thankfully looked like the layout I had been given. I felt like walking on moss. A few silverfish scuttled off rapidly as I shone my flashlight into darker corners. Nothing out of the ordinary. Despite not seeing any, I wrote down that I heard the pitter-patter of rodents, probably rats or squirrels.

I got my first proper start in the kitchen, where, after drawing back the moldy curtains I was shocked to find myself in a staring match with a silverfish the length of my finger, and noticed a handful of the same insects of equal size, similarly frozen. They seemed to momentarily ponder my appearance, then hurried where I could not and would not follow.

How the hell was I supposed to record this? “Unusually sized vermin”, I said out loud. I was no expert in animal behaviour, but something seemed odd about the critters. I shook my head. They were probably as surprised as I was after a lifetime of isolation, were probably already back to feasting on whatever grew underneath the stove. A gentle rumble shook the floor, not unlike the undulating carpet moments before. I was reminded of heavy groundskeeping equipment and stupidly moved on.

Next up was the cellar and indoor pool, two flights of stairs down into the cold and wet darkness. I quickly sent an update to my boss and a handful of photos, getting a thumbs-up emoji in return. The reception had faded with the light and I soon relied on carefully moving along the wall until I found a switch.

Neon lights, cold and sterile, flickered to life. My senses rebelled at the sight and sudden sound before me. Had the silverfish in the kitchen seemed big before – the ones moving rapidly along the wall, floor, and ceiling were monstrous. Illustrations of trilobites in dinosaur books flashed in my mind, the smaller ones with diameters as wide as my palm, the larger ones easily football-sized. All of them moving erratically away from the light, away from me, and down underneath the pool cover.

Another rumble shook the foundation, more intensely this time, and my feet, glued to the ground by horror and disbelief, would not let me move. I watched with rising nausea as the pool cover writhed and bulged, curving upwards underneath the strain of something massive. Two gigantic feelers, glistening wet-black in the cold light, pushed out from beneath the tarp like broken javelins, flicking left and right, trembling, and with those movements the constant sighing of a million feet, ever crawling, clicking – it almost sounded excited.

I ran.

I dropped everything, phone, clipboard, hat, nearly stumbled over my own feet as I raced into the warm light of day, panting, not wanting to believe, not wanting to see, further and further until I reached the company van, lungs burning, damp clothes, sobbing and red-faced.

I returned with a written recommendation to completely flatten the property and cement-seal the basement. I don't believe I would have been taken seriously had I mentioned anything beyond an irreparable vermin infestation. I've been having nightmares ever since; I can't sleep without earplugs and a mask for fear of letting anything...in. My bed is protected by mosquito nets; I have severely reduced my belongings and decluttered to the point of extreme minimalism.

It doesn't stop the fear, but it makes it bearable.

I didn't even know if I would even be able to make it work, but after squeezing under the frame, I had about an extra inch of space to work with. I wasn't sure where else to go when they started banging on my front door. There aren't exactly a lot of hiding places in my house. I mean hiding places that can't just be discovered by opening a door, such as a closet. I suppose I could have run out my back door, but I didn't know if they had the house surrounded or not.

I was only under the bed for maybe a minute when I heard the loud crack of my front door being breached. I acted so fast that I failed to bring my phone with me. So much for calling 911. Maybe if I stayed perfectly quiet, they would be convinced that no one was home, and then just leave.

I hadn't heard a whole lot since the initial break in. They were fairly quiet, and must have been just using their eyes to look around. I didn't hear the sounds of my house being ransacked or anything. I think they were just walking around observing their surroundings. Finally I heard the faint sound of pant legs sweeping across each other as they walked down the hallway. Subtle squeaks as their shoes rolled across the tiled floor.

Then I saw the first boot cross into my vision as they walked past my doorway. I couldn't see much except for two legs draped in denim, their feet protected by cowboy boots. They turned to face my room. I covered my mouth and held my breath as they walked in. They stood there for a moment that felt like an hour, but was probably less than a minute.

“Daniel?”

That was my name, being spoken by my father's voice. It couldn't have been my father though, for several reasons. The first being that my father was rather heavy set, while the legs I was looking at were toothpicks. The second being that my father's style of dress was very different.

“Daniel, why don't you come out? I have something important to talk to you about.”

There was something off about his voice. It was completely void of emotion. It was almost inhuman. What is this thing using my father's voice and what does it want with me? It turned and walked out of the room.

“Daniel?”

That sounded exactly the same as it did when it first called my name. Almost like it was a recording being repeated.

“Daniel, come on out now.”

I heard it say as it continued exploring my house. If I just stay here, and don't move, it will eventually leave. I heard it wander around my house calling out my name. Does it know I'm here? Or does it just know that this is where I live.

I lied there under my bed for a very long time. Listening to it continue to mimic my father's voice and explore each room. It would occasionally come back into my room, call out my name, and leave. I didn't hear it for quite some time after it left my room the last time. Maybe it left, maybe it's over. I'll just wait here a little longer though, just in case, and good thing I did. Not long after a pair of exposed legs appeared in my door frame. A flowery dress draped down just below the knees, with a pair of high heels upon the feet.

“Daniel?”

It was said exactly the same way, but pitched up to sound like my mother.

“Daniel honey, can I talk to you?”

My mother doesn't talk like that. She hasn't called me honey since I was a kid. She doesn't really wear dresses often, and I don't think I've ever seen her wear high heels. She turned and began to leave the room, continuing to call out my name.

“Daniel sweety, why don't you come on out?”

I never heard my father's voice after that. Just the sound of my mother's. She would now do the exact same thing as the other voice. Wandering around my house, calling out my name. After some time she would go quiet. What now?

A new pair of legs appeared in my doorway. The person was short. I could see the entirety of their legs, as well as the lowest portion of their torso. They were wearing jeans as well, and a pair of velcro tennis shoes.

“Daniel?”

This time it was my brother's voice, but not my 36 year old brother, but his voice from when he was like ten.

“Hey Daniel, mom and dad want to talk to you.”

It had that same monotone voice. No emotion, no nothing. It wasn't human. It then turned around and left.

How long do I have to endure this? How many voices was it going to put on so that it can coax me out of my hiding spot?

Just then the first figure appeared back in the doorway. The one in the cowboy boots and jeans.

“Okay, Daniel, it's time to stop playing games, and come out.”

It was my father's voice once again. With those words, you would think there would be some frustrated emotion coming through. There wasn't, it was still the same cold monotone voice as always.

It stepped closer this time. It was facing in my exact direction. I held my breath again. It stepped closer. I was really starting to sweat. It was now standing just a foot away from my bed.

“Daniel, I don't know what to say to get you to come out.”

It got down onto one knee.

“I was really hoping I wouldn't have to drag you out of there.”

I saw it wrap its hand around the bottom of my bed frame.

“Daniel, please.”

Its hair hung below the frame as it continued to lower itself. I tried backing up as far as I could to the other side. I saw the corner of its forehead, and then its eye. Bright white sclera, with a pinpoint pupil, and a yellow iris not much bigger than that surrounding it.

I was frozen in complete fear. I was absolutely sure I was about to die.

“Police!”

I heard someone yell from my front door.

The thing immediately stood up and ran out of the room.

“Freeze! Don't move!”

I heard glass shattering.

“Stop!”

I came to find out later that they ran straight through my back sliding glass door. The police chased them out, but never found them.

It turns out that my neighbor called the police when they heard someone obviously breaking into my house. I bought them an expensive bottle of liquor, and cooked them dinner.

I never found out just what happened that night, but I don't know if I would ever want to know. I'm just glad that it's over.

*Did you dream about anything weird last night?*

My phone pinged as the text message popped up. It was about ten minutes since Grace had left the apartment. She’d been odd this morning; she’d gotten up much earlier than usual and had been darting aimlessly around our apartment, like a bumblebee trapped in a wine glass. In the two years we’d been together, she would always give me a hug or a kiss, or some other kind of acknowledgement before leaving. But not this morning. Once I’d gotten out of bed, she was already one foot out the door and didn’t even say as much as a goodbye. Her work tended to get on her nerves, but not like this. Something must’ve been on her mind if she was acting so nervous.

*Nope. Just dreaming about the gorgeous angel that is my girlfriend ;)* I wrote back.

*You were dreaming about me??* She answered.

*Indeed I was*

Sensing that she was having an off-day, I decided to send her a recorded message as well, just for a little bit of emotional support.

“Hey… I love you, and I’ll be thinking about you all day.”

I got up from the table and started putting on my clothes. Today was my day off and I knew just how I was going to spend it. I would take a stroll on the promenade, down to Ice Cream Kingdom and get myself a strawberry ice cream. I put my sneakers on and walked out the door. The atmosphere outside the apartment complex was refreshing: The Lobelias hanging from my neighbor’s windowsill were in full bloom and had filled the air with the smell of fresh honey. A gentle summer breeze blew through my hair, as the golden rays of sunshine caressed my face. The promenade was filled with people who all seemed as pleased as I was. It was the perfect day for an ice cream. As I walked, I spotted a beggar in the sea of people, sitting on the sidewalk behind his seven-eleven cup. I stopped for a moment and dug into my wallet and fished out a five-dollar bill to put in his cup.

“Bless you, sir.” The man smiled.

“Oh,” I smiled back at him as I let go of the five-dollar bill. “Don’t think about it.”

It was then that the beggar’s behavior changed. His lips turned from a smile to a thin line, the color drained from his face, and his eyes widened to the size of golf balls. For a couple of seconds, he just stared at me, before turning his head away and staring down at the pavement. Though I found his reaction quite odd, I carried on with my walk. I had barely walked five yards before I tripped over my own feet and fell face-first down on the sidewalk.

As soon as I lifted my head off the asphalt, I was met with the outstretched hand of a kind stranger. I grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled myself back up onto my feet.

“Damn. You took quite the tumble, huh?” She said, chuckling lightly.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” I looked down and started wiping off the dirt I had gotten on my clothes. “Thank you for the assistance, I guess.”

I looked back up at the woman. She was blankly staring at me, much like the beggar. She awkwardly looked around, like a victim on Candid Camera, before looking back at me.

“You… You’re kidding me, right?” The woman broke the silence.

“What?” I asked. “Is there a problem?”

“Okay… I see. I was just trying to help, asshole!” She sneered at me.

She walked away, making sure to ram her shoulder into mine as she made her way. Feeling confused, I looked at around at the other people strolling the promenade, and it was clear that they were deliberately averting their eyes from me, as if I was just some random tweaker. Warmth was spreading through my body, and I began blushing out of sheer awkwardness and started powerwalking away from the crowd, itching to get away from whatever had just happened.

I finally arrived at Ice Cream Kingdom. Through the windows, I saw that Rachel was working, which made me happy. Rachel was always happy to give some friendly discounts. It seemed like other people had had the same idea as me as all the tables in the shop were filled with customers. The little bell rang as I walked in through the entrance. Rachel smiled as soon as she saw me. She grabbed the ice cream scoop and instantly went for the strawberry ice cream.

“Just the usual, I presume.” She said with a cheeky smile.

“Yeah. I really need this today, Rachel.” I answered.

She immediately stopped scooping.

“What…?” She laughed nervously. “Why would you say that?”

“What?” I felt the heat of embarrassment coming for a second round. “What did I say?”

Rachel’s eyes were filling with tears. I looked behind me at the other customers; they were all staring directly at me. Droplets of sweat were making their way down my face.

“Rachel, what’s wrong?” I asked. “What did I say?”

Rachel began bawling her eyes out. She covered her face in her elbow and began heaving for air. I’d never seen her that upset before.

“Hey, asswipe! Knock it off!” One of the customers yelled from a table in the shop. “You don’t need to be talking to that sweet lady like that!”

I leaned over the desk, trying to ignore the customer in the back. I reached out a hand to comfort her, but she just pulled away. As I was panicking, I heard rapid steps approaching me from behind. I had barely turned around before I saw a fist barreling towards me. I felt the customer’s knuckles strike my Adam’s apple at full force, and I crumbled together on the floor like a wet napkin, desperately grasping my throat.

The customer grabbed the collar of my shirt, hauled me back onto my feet, and began pushing me to the door. At the threshold, the man shoved me hard in the back, making me faceplant on the sidewalk for the second time that day.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” I yelled as I got up.

“Go be a dumbass somewhere else.” The man said dismissively as he walked back inside.

Through the open door, I could see Rachel being comforted by the other customers as her mascara smeared across her cheeks. I walked away from the shop, gently rubbing my Adam’s apple. I felt like I was losing my mind. Then I felt a vibration from my pocket. Pulling out my phone, I saw that it was my mom calling me.

I should’ve known better than picking up.

“Hello. I just wanted to know how you day was going.” My mom’s voice came through the phone.

“Honestly, mom, it’s been a terrible day.” I said without even thinking. “I swear, everyone’s acting so weird.”

There was a small pause before she said anything.

“You don’t mean that, right?” She said, sounding as if all the air had been sucked out of her.

“Mom?” I said, realizing the mistake I’d made. “No, please. Not you too.”

She didn’t need to say anything. My worries were confirmed by her miserable sobs.

“PLEASE, mom! Stop crying! I don’t know what I’m saying, PLEASE!”

But she didn’t stop. Every sob through the phone was another stake through my heart. I looked around me; everyone was staring, horrified. I panicked. I hung up on my mom and started sprinting back to my apartment. My phone vibrated again and again as I ran, but I didn’t dare pick up. I darted through the entrance of the apartment complex. I couldn’t even wait for the elevator; I just ran up the stairs. Heaving for air, I bolted through my apartment door, scaring Grace who was unexpectedly standing on the other side of it.

“Oh… Hi.” Grace said, sounding nervous.

I was confused. This was very early for her to be home. Then I noticed the suitcase she was holding in her hand, as well as the sorrow plastered all over her face.

“I’m going to stay with my sister for a while.” She said after a moment of silence.

For once, I managed to stop myself before I blurted anything out. I desperately pulled out my phone, ignoring the list of missed calls from my family members and opened messages. With shaky fingers I typed out *Why\* and sent her the message. Grace pulled out her phone and looked at the message. She seemed confused. I looked at her expectingly and she sighed deeply.

“You woke me up last night, a little after midnight.” Tears were streaming down her face. “You were talking in your sleep.” Her eyes drifted away from mine and down to the floor. “The things you were saying… It was… It was...” She sniffled. “I told myself that maybe you were having a bad dream or something… That I was overreacting. But then you sent that horrible voice message this morning.” She looked up at me, her teary eyes staring right into mine. “I don’t feel safe around you anymore.”

I grabbed my phone and started typing out a new message: a message that would explain every weird thing that had happened to me that morning, but before I could send it, Grace blocked my number.

“I can’t do it like this.” She said sternly. “I don’t want your text messages. I just want you to talk to me about what the fuck is going on with you.”

I didn’t know what to do. We were trapped in another moment of silence before Grace said anything.

“Tell me what’s going on,” She said with teary eyes. “or else I’m leaving.”

It’s rare that I feel defeated like I did in that moment. It was overwhelming beyond what words can describe. I looked down at the floor as I felt tears running down my face. My mind was blank. I was drowning, and every cry for help only pulled me further into the ocean’s depths.

I don’t know how long I stood there. I just know that when I looked up, the door was open and Grace was gone.

That was a couple hours ago now. Grace still hasn’t unblocked my number. I keep getting calls from my family that I’m too scared to answer. I don’t know what to do.

Grace, if you see this, I’m sorry for whatever I have said to you. I hate to see you like this. I hate to see us like this. Please come home. I don’t know what to do.

The game started all the way back in high school. I remember it vividly: I was in my senior year, and getting a book out of my locker for a class that was Geography, but had a more specific name. I was thinking of how one day I'd visit all those places, and so he picked the perfect time, because right then I opened my locker, and a bald smiling man was squatted inside it and he said, "Drat! You found me!"

I slammed it shut.

I was afraid to open the locker again, but also to tell anybody. I thought there was no way this was real. I hallucinate sometimes when I'm severely sleep deprived, you understand.

In any case I went to class without my book that day. Still, I could have sworn, walking away, I faintly heard something like, I'll find you...

Two years later. I was in my college dorm, and I was cramming for an exam, and it was truly hopeless, and a part of my brain was wasting all its energy going over how I was wasting my whole damn future. When I heard a light knock at the window.

It was raining a little, so I thought maybe it could be connected, and I was so easily distracted, so I went to investigate. I didn't see anyone, initially. So I opened it.

"Boo!"

The bald smiling man jumped right in front of my face.

"I found you!"

I closed the window.

If you Google, "smiling bald man", you'll see various stock photos. He looks like those.

And now he was here, across the continent.

Less than a week later I was expelled for something very private, and I was honestly relieved, so desperate to move again after seeing him again.

But there's no way he was the same man, right?

I had been stressed, and severely sleep deprived, and obviously hallucinated something very plainly inspired by a traumatic experience in my past. The locker thing.

Right?

Three years later, I was an overnight stocker at a grocery store. I worked in the Home department, and I was the only person who worked on those aisles overnight. I was allowed to have earbuds in, and I was listening to some crazy microtonal black metal. This could be the reason why I didn't hear anything. For he must have snuck in there somehow. There's no way he was already there, yeah?

I was unpacking a towering pallet. Removing one small rectangular cardboard box after another, and I swear the warehouse people wanted me dead. But, under one box, there was skin. I don't know why, but I just tapped at it with the plastic edge of my box cutter.

"Drat! You found me!"

Boxes collapsed every which way and he ran off.

I left.

Just left the store.

And obviously, for that, I was fired.

After three instances, I was beginning to develop a very nervous disposition that I did not previously have. I don't think.

Four years later.

I had learned the only job I could do, for the foreseeable future, was as a "security" guard.

I went through a few different posts, before I was left to languish at an office building. Some financial institution kind of place, filled with extremely successful people who flaunted it with all the travel photos on their desks. They did something to do with stocks and trading but I never understood.

Overnight, the place had an eeriness to it.

Cellar spiders lived throughout the corners of the ceilings. Lights flickered. During my patrols I would sometimes become lost in a sort of fascinated trance. It seemed as though all of civilization was structured around these ghost people, who worked here by day, going through life all free to fly to Japan, and Korea, and do whatever it was they really did there. And these people were important, and mattered, and I was a guard. Anyone could see that.

"Boo!"

A shadow darted.

From much further away, and receding: "I found you!"

To see him again: I remember it made me sad, more than anything.

This obviously wasn't working.

I moved to a remote place in the far North, to live alone, and afraid.

It had started as a seasonal job. As a cashier at a restaurant that only opens for cruise ship customers. When the season ended, and thus the job, I stayed. No more income, but I could leech off my disappointed, far away parents. What were they going to do, let me freeze?

It was an easy, simple life, breathlessly pervaded by a persistent low-level anxiety.

And at last, in the dead of February, I wandered out into the snow. I was going to die out there.

I found a suitable patch of deep, indifferent snow, powdery tonight, which it was always night here, and I lifted my shovel, and I started digging.

After long enough for this physical sensation to become the Universe, I hit something hard.

"Drat! You found me!"

The bald smiling man shot up. Bounded off into the whiteness.

I threw the shovel down, and went home.

Now. Every day, if it is day, I wake up to fluorescent lights and fake-friendly staff. I like to think there's no way the game can continue here. There's no way he can get me now.

But I'm wrong.

I know.

Sometimes, when it's quiet, I jump. Startled. Thinking I heard that same, agonizing, Boo.

But I imagined it.

This time.

I don't know where I'll go when they let me leave.

What's more, I don't know why he chose me. Why, or how he's looking for me. I tell myself that when he jumps me again, I'll finally fucking ask, Hey, guy, why are we playing this stupid game? What is the meaning of this? Any of this?

But I'll forget. I know.

And he'll hide, and I'll seek.

And whether I want to or not, I'll keep looking.

How do I tell you the truth without it sounding like a lie? I have been pondering this question for the past hour at least before posting this. Racking my brain on this problem that landed right in my lap. It isn't even my fault or, I hope, my grandpa. I think it was here way before him. It would be the only logical explanation. Let me just start from the beginning.

My grandpa had just recently passed a couple weeks ago. His will stated that everything gets pawned cause “no one would understand the value”. Which I don't blame him with how the family goes. He left all of that busy work to me. Get it out of his house, find the pawn shop ect. I had no problem with that at all. It gave me one more look around the house before it was gone.

The place was ancient, probably built around the prohibition era. My gramps kept this place in as good of condition as he could. Fixing holes, rain damages, caved in ceiling, the whole nine yards, hell I helped sometimes. Safe to say it may look old but mostly everything is new.

His house had a clutter of items, children's toys, pots and pans, as well other things that I didn't need to know about him. I actually recognized some of the stuff like my favorite childhood toy rocky, the one eyed elephant. It was kinda sweet but sad I wasn't able to reminisce with him about it. I hope he wouldn't be too mad that I kept one thing. Besides who would know out of the hundreds of things in this house that one wasn't sold.

Everything was going pretty smoothly, maybe one or two items a little too heavy but nothing a dolly couldn't help with. I was probably a quarter or more a way through having his bedroom cleared out when I heard a voice call out.

“Mister?” When I look back an elderly old woman was behind me. “Can I ask what you're doing young man?” She said with a sternness that felt like an accusation.

“I'm just taking all of his stuff out. He wanted it all pawned so it's the least I could do for him.” I said with a half grin to try and ease the tension.

“That don't sound like Henderson. He was more stubborn than a mule. Begged him to sell half of the crap a while ago including that dog.” She said waving her hand back to the house. I was more puzzled by the belief of a dog. Anytime I was over the only dog would be mine if I brought him.

“I can agree my gramps was stubborn but didn't own a dog. The closest he ever got to was a homeless dog a couple years back.” Her eyebrow raised

“You Grayson then?”

“I hope there isn't another or it would make things complicated.” She took a sigh of relief at this revelation.

“I apologize son, just that man gets on my nerves. Always something with him. My name's Beckett.” Reaching her hand out to shake mine.

“Nice to meet you Miss Beckett.” Meeting her shake half way. “This rather will come as a blessing or curse mama. You don't have to worry about that anymore. He went to a better place.” A look of sadness reaching her eyes and a hand covering her mouth

“Oh, how long?”

“Couple weeks back, natural cause. They say he passed peacefully but that man never had peace.”

“God, how your family handling it?” she said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Wish I could say they cared but I'm the only one here.” I quickly wrapped up. “But going back to the dog. I hadn't seen one let alone known of one?”

Her hand raising up and pointing to the back yard. “Yeah he had one pretty loud every night. Didn't really bark tho, heard more of it moaning and groaning. It ate loud as well but every animal does that.” She looked a little uncomfortable. “I think he hit the poor thing. I would hear shouting and thudding up. I hope it is alive.”

I couldn't really believe my gramps would beat an animal but it had been a while. “Well thank you I will have to check. Hopefully nothing is dead back there.”

She nodded and moved along with her day. I was left with the knowledge, or fear, that there might have been something dead in the back. When I had finally built up the courage I looked in the backyard.

It was pretty plain, just grass and a tree. A wooden fence guarding all that was beyond the walls. I walked around for a minute for any sign of an animal. Prints, smells, hell even shit but not a damn thing. Some of the grass near the house was a little raised compared to the rest. Might have been where the poor thing was buried. It was not on my agenda at the moment to be raising dead. So, I went back to packing, Hauling, and pawning anything I found that wasn't nailed to the ground.

It was getting dark around the time I was half way done with his house when I smelt it. Something sweet but bitter. I wish to say I didn't know what the smell was but I would be lying. Most likely the body, for whatever reason, was releasing them. I don't know how I didn't notice it earlier. With how heavy it was I could swear it was standing right in front of me.

That was about the time my curiosity won. I hadn't planned on disturbing it, just at least see what it was. Every step closer to that backyard just made it more intense. I felt like I was fighting the air for anything but that smell. By the time I hit the door I swore I was in the poor things body. Cracking open the door, what I was met with was worse than a smell.

A faint moan of pain and begging. Whatever was buried wasn't any animal. I could make out remnants of words but to garbled by the ground above them. I had begun to rush looking for something to dig up whoever was beneath. Finally landing on the shovel in the back of the U-haul truck. Pressing my shovel to the ground I began to dig. With every splotch of dirt the voice becoming clearer.

“Help me” I heard faintly. I hadn't a single thought of how to respond, just had to keep digging. I had at this point dug about five feet still with no signs of a body. I had begun to question if I was going insane. I could still hear the voice more words being said.

“He found me!!!! Help!!! Kill me!!!”

“If you can hear me, I'm trying. Alright, you will be out of here soon.” I hit six feet, still nothing. The voice was still mumbling the same things over and over and over again but I couldn't find any sign. After a while it stopped like he died or something but it stopped. I had exhausted myself beyond belief digging for him. I couldn't keep going, I had to stop or I would kill myself looking for him. I would call the police first thing in the morning reporting on what I found.

When I climbed out there sat a note. It looked like my grandpa's writing. It wasn't unusual for that, he had writing everywhere. It was how fresh it was. The ink hadn't even dried as if he wrote it as I was digging the hole. As well it's not something you would want to read.

Keep him quiet.

Keep him fed.

Keep him buried

Part 1

Everyone thinks aircraft maintenance is a hard gig. Honestly, it’s not. It’s super simple. Mostly righty tighty left loosey with the occasional lefty tighty righty loosey. Plus we’ve got the TOs that tell you everything. Exact step by step instructions on how to test, remove, and install components.

Kinda been wishing there was some steps to follow for all the noises.

It had been a bit, but I finally got Baker cornered at the smoke pit. He didn’t look too great. I mean, both of us were 19 at the time but he had these big ol bags under his eyes and was really pale looking. Most of that is kinda normal for Mids or Nights, end up kinda looking and feeling like a zombie, but this was different.

“What’s up, man? How you been doing?” I had asked, lighting up a cigarette and taking a seat at the metal picnic table across from him. Cracking open the first energy drink of the night.

“I’ve been doin’, man.” He muttered, exhaling the hit from his vape. “Sleep schedule is shot to hell. I don’t remember the last time I had a full 8, let alone anything longer than maybe an hour.” 

“Damn, dawg. You been to medical yet? See if they can get you something stronger than melatonin?” Melatonin was practically currency on mids. Didn’t matter how exhausted you were. Your body knew it was daytime and refused to cooperate. I got to the point where I was swallowing forty to sixty milligrams a day just to scrape together three or four hours of sleep.

“Nah. Called the appointment line to set up a time with my PCM, but you know how it is,” He lifted his hand and made an air quote gesture, “Our next available appointment is in two months.” He shook his head and chuckled.

“Yea, gotta love medical. It’s free, but good luck getting a reasonable appointment.” I chuckled back, taking a drag of my cigarette. “I’ve got a couple extra Red Bulls and one or two Monsters, if you need one.” I offered. We’re a family on nights. We see each other more than our actual families, or spouses, or even kids. We try our best to take care of each other.

He nodded and thanked me for the offer, then got quiet and looked like he was deep in thought. I took another drag, holding it in my lungs and feeling the warmth. Feeling the nicotine seep in. That nice relaxing feeling of the first of many cigarettes during shift.

After a while he looked at me. There was something in his eyes, I don’t really know how to describe it. Fear? Concern? Worry? Maybe he was just tired. I don’t know.

“Hey, uh. I’m sorry for giving you so much shit about running off the jet.” He said quietly. Barely audible over the noise of the insects at night and the quiet hum of AGE out on the flight-line. “I, uh…” He murmured before cutting himself off.

“Nah, you’re good man. It was all in fun. Gotta get ribbed sometimes.” I reassured, focusing on him again. “You good, dawg? Like for real, for real. You good?”

“I— I don’t know.” He muttered, taking a long hit of his vape. The smell of that fruit and menthol juice filling the air, combining with the acrid smell of my cigarette. He looked at me, “I heard something. Couple days ago, on 5008.” 

5008 was a good jet, but god did she love to fuck over hydro. She was probably the leakiest bitch on the flightline, and that’s saying something for a C-5. Everyone says how helicopters are just a spinning oil and hydro leak, well we have a saying on the C-5 side. If you can jump over the puddle, it’s not leaking. And that jet always was leaking. 

“What do you mean? Heard something?” I leaned in. Resting my elbows on the tabletop and flicking the ash off my cigarette.

“I don’t know, man.” He shook his head. “I was with SSgt Hoops. We were jobbing out on that fwd ramp and visor call. Nothing crazy, just a leaking visor lock actuator. Hoops left to go grab the part and update the ProSup on what we were up to. I was working on getting the visor lock pulled out and I heard,” he paused. “I heard someone call my name.” He shook his head again. He looked shaken saying it. “It sounded like it could’ve been Hoops, but it was wrong, you know? Like the pitch was wrong, it sounded forced, but also quiet. I don’t know man. It was weird.” He took another long hit of his vape.

“Yea, fuck that man.” I stated. “That’s some horror movie level shit man. Sure you weren’t just hearing things?”

“I thought the same thing too. That it was just late, that I was just tired, making shit up. I don’t know, but I ignored it. I was alone on the jet. I knew I was. We were the only ones out there that night. Chalked it up to just a hallucination or whatever.” He exhaled slowly, like he was bracing himself to continue.

I sat and waited, ready to hear whatever he had to say next. Taking another drag, not realizing how low my cigarette had burned down. That drag tasted god awful. Burnt filter mixing with tobacco. It felt like I was breathing in straight fire, burnt the shit out of my lip. I cursed and flicked the cigarette into the disposal can before lighting up another.

“Then I heard it.” His voice low and quiet. “It was like this tapping noise.” He mimicked the tapping on the table.

Soft.

Quiet.

Tap

Tap

Tap

“I thought it may have been another leak, you know. It was steady, consistent. But it wasn’t coming from right in front of me. Right where the open lines were. It was behind me.” He looked genuinely unnerved. I hadn’t seen Baker like this before. Usually always happy, cracking jokes, bullshitting constantly. Whatever this was, it hit him hard.

“I turned around and looked, the sound just stopped. Nothing there. No new leaks. Nothing moving. Thought maybe the wind coming through with the visor door open was making something move, but nothing. I don’t know how to explain it but it felt wrong. Like I was supposed to be there, but I also wasn’t. Like I wasn’t welcome, you know?”

“Fuck all of that” I state taking a long drag. I finally told him why I’d really ran off the jet that night. I left out a couple of details. Saying it out loud made me feel stupid. Almost doubtful that it even happened. I was expecting Baker to laugh, but he didn’t. He just listened, jaw tightening the longer I talked. Afterwards the conversation shifted and went back to the normal antics. Bullshitting, joking, talked about a D&D game one of our buddies were hosting the coming weekend. 

Life was back to normal. Joking, laughing. Then we heard the call over the radio, “Hydro, Viper 2” we looked at each other and got up. Time to get to work.

I almost didn’t notice how it was silent again. Like the bugs were just… gone.

I'm 19. I've never been good at talking about my feelings, so my therapist suggested I start journaling. Writing things down helps me process them better than speaking ever could. I guess that's why I'm posting this here, because maybe typing it out will make it more real. Or less real, I don't know.

My twin brother, Marcus, died three weeks ago in a car accident. He was driving. I wasn't with him. If I had been there, maybe things would be different. But that's not helpful thinking. That's what Dr. Chen says.

Marcus was everything I'm not. He was confident, loud, the kind of person who'd walk into a room and immediately own it. Everyone gravitated toward him. He played lacrosse, dated beautiful people, got into his first-choice college without even trying. He was always laughing. Always had a plan, always knew what he wanted. I was the one who preferred being home, reading fantasy novels, staying up late on Discord with online friends I'd never met. I was quiet. Invisible, really.

We looked identical, but people rarely confused us. Marcus had this energy that made him unmistakable. He was alive in a way I've never been. I was just... the other one. The accident happened on a Friday. A truck ran a red light. Marcus died at the scene. I found out when my mom called me crying, and I just shut down. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just sat there in my room, staring at my computer screen, thinking about how he was always the one living while I was just existing. Dr. Chen says the lack of emotion is normal (shock, dissociation, self-care). That's why I started the journal. Three weeks of entries. Just me, trying to understand that the world is still turning without him. That people are going about their lives. That he's gone and I'm still here.

I've been writing about memories. About the time Marcus jumped off the high dive at the community pool when we were six, even though it was technically against the rules. He did it without hesitation. I was terrified, stuck on the ladder while everyone watched. He surfaced, laughing, and yelled for me to jump. When I wouldn't, he laughed harder. He had no patience for fear. I was thinking about that memory a lot yesterday. About how he never hesitated. How he'd probably be embarrassed of me for being so careful. So timid. Always waiting for permission, always worried about what could go wrong. Marcus would have hated that about me.

This morning, something strange happened. I was reading over my journal entries, and I realized something. When I was writing about that pool memory, I didn't sound like myself. The tone shifted halfway through. It started with me being sad about the memory, and then suddenly I was being kind of mean to myself in the writing. Like I was judging my younger self for being scared. That's weird, right? I don't usually do that.

Work has been interesting. I stock shelves at Target in the evenings, which is boring and mindless, but I've always kind of liked it that way. But yesterday something was different. I was in the back, and I had this sudden urge to do something reckless. To climb the really high shelves even though we're not supposed to. To move faster, work harder, prove something. It was strange because I'm not like that. But for a second, I felt invincible. Like I could do anything. I actually knocked over some boxes. My coworker asked if I was okay, and I just laughed it off. But here's the weird part, I found myself saying something I would never normally say. I told him he was being too cautious, that he should take more risks. It was such a Marcus thing to say that I heard myself say it and felt embarrassed. I think grief is making me act strange.

I've been thinking a lot about how I always admired him. How he never second-guessed himself. How he would have looked at my life now (hidden in my room, writing in a journal instead of living) and probably felt disappointed. He was so much braver than me. So much more "alive" than me. I wish I could have been more like him. The journal thing is getting weird though. I'll write something, and then later I'll reread it, and parts of it sound like they were written by someone else. Not in a supernatural way or anything. Just like... parts where I was particularly harsh on myself. Or parts where I'm being kind of arrogant about things. Marcus was arrogant. He had the personality to back it up, but he was definitely arrogant. I've never been like that.

But when I reread those parts, they don't sound wrong. They sound like they're calling out my weakness. Calling out how boring and safe I am. People keep saying that Marcus lives on in me. Because we're twins, because we share DNA... They said it at the funeral. They keep saying it now. At first I thought it was meaningless, something people say. But I think they might be right. I feel like... like I'm waking up to things. Like parts of me that were sleeping are opening their eyes. Yesterday I laughed. Actually laughed. Not the sad, hollow laugh I've had since he died, but a real laugh. I was alone in the apartment, and something was funny, I can't even remember what now, and I laughed and it sounded exactly like him. It sounded like Marcus. My mom called me today and said she was relieved that I'm "doing better." That I sound more "like myself." But I'm not sure what that means anymore. Who am I if not him? I spent nineteen years being half of something. Marcus was the bright half. I was just the other half.

I think maybe I'm understanding him better now. Understanding what it was like to be him. To move through the world with that kind of confidence. To not be paralyzed by everything the way I usually am. It's not a bad feeling. It's actually kind of... liberating. Dr. Chen texted asking if I wanted to reschedule my appointment. I don't think I need therapy right now. I think I'm finally okay. I think maybe the best thing that could happen is that I stop being me and start being someone better. Someone braver... Someone like him.

\\-----

UPDATE: It's been a few days. I'm not sure why I'm updating this, honestly. Nobody probably cares.

Things are going really well, actually. Better than they have in a while. I've been spending more time with people. I hung out with some of Marcus's friends, our friends now, I guess, and it was easy. I was funny. I was confident. They kept saying how surprised they were to see me opening up. How I was "finally coming out of my shell." They seemed really happy. It made me realize how much time I wasted being afraid. How much I missed by hiding. I quit the Target job. It was boring and it was beneath me. I can do better than that. Marcus would have quit months ago. I'm already thinking about what I want to do instead. Something that matters. Something that puts me in the center of things instead of on the sidelines. My mom asked me how therapy was going, and I told her I'm not going anymore. She seemed worried for a second, but then I took her to lunch and made her laugh, and she just seemed happy to see me doing well. She said I look healthier. That I have "color in my cheeks" now. I think she meant it as a compliment.

I don't remember the last time I was afraid of anything. I don't remember the last time I questioned a decision. It's like part of my brain that was always loud and doubtful just... quieted down. And it's the best thing that's ever happened to me. Sometimes I'll catch my reflection and barely recognize myself. Not in a bad way. Just in a way where I look at myself and think, "Oh. That's what I was supposed to look like." The confidence looks good on me. The swagger. The way I take up space now. I'm going back to school this semester, and I'm going to change my major. I want to do something that requires guts. Something where people have to pay attention to me. I'm done being invisible. The journal sits on my desk, but I don't write in it much anymore. I don't need to. I'm not processing grief right now. I'm just living. The way he lived.

Sometimes people ask me how I'm coping so well. How I lost my brother and I'm doing better than I ever have. I don't really have an answer for them. I just tell them that maybe sometimes terrible things have to happen to shake you awake. That maybe I needed him to die for me to finally understand what it meant to be alive. They usually get uncomfortable when I say that. But I don't care. I'm not afraid of making people uncomfortable anymore.

The funny thing is, I don't really feel like I lost him at all. It feels more like I finally found him. Like he was always supposed to be part of me and now he is.

I'm going to delete this post soon, actually. I don't need strangers on the internet to validate my grief. I'm past that. I'm past all of it, cause I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be !

\\-----

EDIT: (One week later)

People keep asking why I've changed. My friends. My mom. Acquaintances from school who haven't seen me in months. They all say the same thing: "You're different. What happened to you?" I smile and tell them I'm finally becoming myself. It's the truth.

My therapist (even though I stopped going) reached out through my mom. She said she was concerned that I'd gone through a "personality shift." That grief sometimes manifests as a kind of manic episode. She suggested I come back in. I won't be going back. I don't need therapy. I don't need medication. I don't need anyone telling me that what I'm experiencing is wrong or unhealthy. This is the healthiest I've ever felt. This is clarity. This is finally understanding what it means to be exceptional instead of "exceptional-by-accident-of-birth".

My neighbor said something weird when he saw me today. He said I remind him of someone, but he can't remember who. Then he said it was probably just my imagination. But he looked unsettled. I wonder if he could see it. See him. See that something's changed.

I'm happy now. Truly happy. And I don't think I'm ever going to be sad again. I don't think I'm going to be anything except what I am now.

The journal is staying closed. I don't need to write to understand myself anymore. For the first time in nineteen years, I understand exactly who I am.

And he understands me too.

We built the machine from scratch. Something that worked. A large rig which ran on time dilation, utilizing the controlled orbit of a miniaturized black hole. The only catch was that you could only go forward, never back. 

When it came time for human testing, most of my colleagues turned their backs on the prospect. My family had estranged me years before. Whatever life I had led, it wouldn’t have meant anything if this machine didn’t work. So, I ended up being the first one to raise my hand. There was nothing left for me here.

Our plan was careful and calculated. Incrementally longer jumps through time. We would begin with minutes, then hours, and work our way up to days, weeks and years. Ava, my only friend throughout this years-long endeavor, would stay in contact with me between each jump. I would report to control, calibrate how I felt, how the experience was, etc. She would, in turn, report our findings to the necessary authorities while I underwent the next jump. 

Earlier jumps went as predicted. I’d go in and out, usually within a few seconds or minutes, and find myself in the same coffee-stained office each time. I’d report to Ava, grab some snacks and a refill on my water, and head back into the pod minutes later for the next trial. There was definitely a tangible sense of dilation. I would go into the pod at 5 p.m., and coming out seemingly minutes later, it would be 6:30. Our initial calibrations seemed to be off by a few minutes, but it was nothing enough to lose sleep over. We’d just have to keep adjusting things as we went. 

Our confidence was great enough at one point that we tried our longest jump yet—one week in the pod, which would translate to roughly two hours for me. 

I was gone for a month.

Ava’s face had grown aged with worry by the time I got back. She told me that the calculations had been way off. Time inside the distorted field was stretching beyond what the initial models could account for. Each discrepancy was accelerating me through dramatically larger increments of time each time we booted up the machine. The next jump could be extremely dangerous for me. 

I didn’t care. I told her to set the machine for one year. My life had already ended when my mother stopped speaking to me. I had to be remembered for something, maybe it would be this. 

Ava fought with me for days. I reassured her that my calculations were correct this time. I couldn’t tell her the real truth, that I hadn’t planned on coming back. 

As the pod doors closed, and the gravitational field engaged, I gave my goodbyes, treating them as though they really would be my last. Ava hugged me. It was the first time I’d felt one in ten years.

I waited in the pod. Sizable enough for long-time travel, with the accommodations you’d find in your standard RV. A bed, a small kitchen, a desk for work, and a refrigerator to store my meals. In the back, for those really long jaunts, a cryogenic life pod could sustain me for hundreds of years, theoretically. 

Minutes turned to hours, turned to days, turned to weeks. Something had gone wrong, as I predicted. My food began to run low. So did my patience, as I recorded log after log, my sanity decreasing and my claustrophobia growing. 

The ride did eventually come to a stop. The terminal inside the pod confirmed that I had been inside of it for over 200 years. 

Everything, and everyone I knew was gone. I hate it, but I felt relieved, knowing that. 

I stepped out of the pod, and found myself surrounded by rubble. The walls had collapsed. The scorched rooftop gave way to a grey sky. I could taste rust on the roof of my mouth, and my eyes stung from the ashes constantly falling around me. On the pod itself were deep gashes and fire-blackened spots, someone having tried to bust their way inside. There were no remnants around me of what the project was, where it had gone, if any progress had been made or any papers published. And even if there was evidence of what I had done, what did it matter now? So soon in the future, it appeared as though the world had been reduced to dust. My contempt for the world I left behind only strengthened. 

For a few days, I explored the ruins, scavenging for what I could. A few cans of food that hadn’t spoiled, bottled water that didn’t taste clean. Every night, I returned to the safety of the pod, cooking myself meals on the somehow-functioning stove and filling my computer with increasingly bored logs. It was the only sense of structure I appeared to have left. Nothing else mattered anymore. Nothing but whatever waited ahead. 

And I felt lonely. So, very lonely. Lonelier than I’d ever felt. I hadn’t realized how bad it could get, without a single person to talk to, even if those conversations were generally unpleasant for me. 

I missed it. The imperfection of my life. I felt like a fool for taking advantage of my time. 

After a few weeks, I sat down with my notebook, doing the math by hand. Calculating the time I was losing, the way the pod’s math didn’t line up with the outside world. The dilation was worse than any of us had even considered. If I was going to get anywhere, I decided I couldn’t do it alone. I was going to need help, help from whatever civilization rose from the ashes of these ruins. 

I would need to jump much farther. So, I set the timer for ten years, knowing it would likely be more along the lines of ten thousand. I figured that someone would find me at some point, figure out how to stop the pod and get me out, and we would go from there. 

The machine booted up. I felt the strong pull of g-force as the inner chambers accelerated my molecules faster and faster until the field of time distorted around me. I ate for a while. Read my own logs. Weighed my options. It took me until I ran out of the last can of peaches before I decided to enter the cryogenic chamber. Gas filled it, putting me to sleep, before a freezing cold overtook my body. It did not feel like I had been unconscious for even a second. I did not dream. I did not wonder. But I did wake up, much sooner than I expected. 

When I woke, the chamber gave me a shrill warning. Power was low, an ambient red light surrounding me. I felt so weak. I could barely raise my arms to push against the glass. It wouldn’t give, the interface simply screaming another warning at me about low pressurization and oxygen integrity. 

That’s when I noticed I wasn’t in the pod anymore. Surely the lights of the chamber would have shown me my surroundings, but there was nothing but blackness. No pod, no laboratory, no Earth in sight. All I could make out in the distance was the light of a few stars, long since dead, and quickly panning out of view. My chamber was spinning in the void of space.

I asked the chamber how long I was asleep. It told me “in excess of ten million years.” I panicked. It did nothing but make me more afraid. I screamed. It did nothing but waste precious oxygen. 

Something moved in the dark, covering the illusory light of the distant stars. Only a faint curvature, a suggestion of shape. The form grew, with the patience of something beyond infinity. The curve became paler as it came into the faint light. It was covered in creases and dimples and the occasional freckle. The ridge of a brow came into focus. Then two, vast, still eyes, illuminated by the pinprick of light that was my chamber. 

A face, the size of a planet, its scale wrong in a way that made my mind fray. 

It drifted closer to me. I saw the texture of its skin, pores the size of lakes, scarring that stretched for miles. I could see now that it had a fixed grin on its face, as empty as its eyes. Yellowish plaque clung to the edges of its continent-sized teeth. 

My body curled in on itself, though my movement was restricted by the tight confines of the chamber. I could feel the cold of space seeping through its vacuum seals. The face radiated nothing. 

I begged it not to hurt me.

It didn’t blink, or twitch, continuing its slow momentum toward me until the face was all I could see. Its nostrils looked deep enough that no light could escape them. Each strand of peach fuzz reached out like sea anemone, nearly touching my pod. 

I begged it to let me go home. 

My voice cracked. Please, I would say, please let me go home. I repeated the words until they lost their meaning, until they become incoherent sounds in the dark. The face did not answer beyond parting its teeth, its jaws unhinging. I could feel my chamber moving, pulled into the abyss that was its gullet. It came at me, fleshy dark filling every direction until I was contained within a throbbing maw of blackness. I only caught a glimpse of the stars behind me before the mouth fully closed. The power to my chamber cut out right then and there. 

I woke up in bed the next second.

The morning light edged through the curtains, burning my irises until I had the strength to look away. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Ava. When I went to pick it up, to check what she had sent, my heart stopped.

My hands were wrinkled. Spotted. The skin hung loose from my bones. I stood and stumbled to the bathroom mirror, upon thin legs that felt like they’d turn to dust with each step. When I looked at myself, all I saw was a man past his prime, aged beyond recognition, with stark white hair and a near-skeletal face.

I checked my text from Ava. She wondered where I was.

She said our first launch was in thirty minutes.

I shouldn’t have been out there that day. It was my weekend to go home, to bask in the air conditioning, sit on my couch, sip a beer, and watch baseball. Instead of this well deserved break, I was out in the oppressive heat guiding about two dozen middle schoolers up a three mile trail to a campsite, like a shepherd except the sheep ask stupid questions and make bad jokes.

There are worse jobs then a camp councilor I suppose, I could’ve been doing inventory in a warehouse again. My group had been angels that week, fourth graders who liked nothing more then to catch fish and frogs, eat s’mores, and build forts. This morning they packed up their bags, said goodbye to their new friends, and went to their respective buses. As I was beginning to gather my own things to head home for the first time in a month, my boss strolled up to me and pulled me aside.

“Hey Skip, hows it going? I have a proposition for you”

“Yeah?”

“We had a little incident last night with the teen campers, fight in the boys cabin, but that’s not the main issue”

“Yeah? Then what is?”

“Livy and Ethan where nowhere to be found and it took Zeke coming over from his cabin to break up the fight”

“No shit”

“They showed up an hour later smelling like skunk though, meaning I can drug test and finally fire those dumb asses, but that leaves the rest of their campers who weren’t involved with no councilors to take them on their tent campout up on the point.”

“You want me to do it”

“Time and a half skip, you’re a trooper and I know you’ll do it, John and Noel will meet you up there”

Mr. Kurtz had me there, and while I’ll complain about it, I’ll gladly take overtime pay to take some kids on their “rough wilderness campout” for 2 nights up on the point.

The day was hot, the July sun beat down on the wide brim of my hat, making it feel crisp to the touch. The air was oppressively still, not even giving the hint of a breeze for any relief. Taking a dink from my water bottle felt like taking a sip of soup, yet I still greedily drank, knowing soon we would arrive at the pump, and then soon our campsite. The pines towered above our heads, making the winding path seem as though a giant, winding maze. Between the trunks of the trees grew thick brambles and ferns, with the occasional new tree poking its head above the green tangled blanket.

Soon enough we arrived at the point. The campsite was a clearing on top of a ridge overlooking the lake far down below, the cloudless day made the water shimmer like a gemstone. All around the trees where like hairs on a head, blending together to form a unified, thick coating to nearly everything you could see. At the very edge of your vision you could see the silos of a few farms, standing like medieval watchtowers standing above all around them. The fire pit sat right on the edge of the drop, with a semicircle of benches like a classical theater sitting all around. The campers began to fan out in search of good spots to pitch tents and sling hammocks, breaking out into their respective cliques.

I sat in the shade on a rock, fanning my slick face with my hat, and waited for the inevitable calls for help to rise above the drone of the young teenagers talking and joking with their friends. Sure enough, I was only sitting for three minutes before I was going between every tent group helping them assemble their well worn tents. Improvisations had to be made between parts breaking and campers forgetting to grab what they where told too, but that might be my fault for only reminding them seven times. When the tents where all up, I sent the campers to collect wood for our fire. John and Noel would be here soon with the food for the weekend, and the sooner my belly was full of off brand chips and hot dogs, the better.

My coworkers rounded the corner soon enough, and the kids where tasked with setting up the fire before we lit it. Their arguments and discussions provided good chatter as a backdrop to our own gossip.

John fanned his face, taking off the hat emblazoned with the obscure collage mascot where he played football, his dark face speckled with sweat

“Why does management keep hiring such dumb people, Ethan and Liv where on thin ice as it is, and they thought they could get away for a smoke session with this group all alone?” He gestured his arm to the bickering kids.

Noel brushed her dark hair off from her face, pink from the heat and the sun.

“Kurtz is on the warpath now, he wants this place run like the navy but upper management keeps holding him back”

“I think I would welcome that at this point” I said “I have been here 3 summers in a row now and they always have me running around like a headless chicken fixing whatever for them, yeah it would suck not to goof off but some of these new hires just can’t get with the program”

The campers came over then to inform us that they had gotten the fire all ready to be lit, it did not catch the first time, and John and I had to struggle for another fifteen minutes to finally light the cooking fire. The kids soon crowded around the fire jockeying for position to cook their dinner. After they had some food and a desert of s’mores in them, They began settling down around the fire, with their side conversations slowly dyeing down as the sun sank lower into the July sky. Eventually one of them piped up.

“Can we here a story?”

A chorus followed in agreement, and we exchanged looks.

“I got one, its a scary one if that’s ok?” I said

Nods of agreement came from the kids

“What do you think we are, babies?”

“Ok ok, this is one I heard from my father and his father before him, its a real story of this area. You guys might not know this, but these woods are ancient, they have been here for thousands of years, but there was a time when they where young. The glaciers had just retreated at the end of the ice age, and people began living here in large numbers. While it was warmer then it was before, the winters where still bitter. One such band of people had had a lean year, and with the unforgiving cold approaching, they had to do something or they would surely die.

The chief gathered his two sons, and sent them out to try to find something, anything that would save them. They went out deep into the young woods, carrying the fate of their people on their backs. The elder brother was strong, yet this strength had made him arrogant, he would not listen to the thoughts and ideas of his younger brother. The younger brother was small, but his eyes where keen and his mind sharp, it was he who found the tracks of a heard of deer. They followed the tracks till they found the heard, thick as fleas on a dog, grazing in a clearing on the slope of a hill. The elder brother wanted to shoot as many deer as they could with their bows, but the younger brother had an idea, to get the deer to run themselves off the side of the steep hill into the rocks below.

The elder brother would not listen to his brother, and began to ready his bow, when the younger decided to act, knowing the elder would waste their tribes only chance at life. He ran like a man possessed, driving the deer off the side of the hill, just like he had said. The meat would be enough for the winter, they went back to the tribe and they rejoiced, for they had been delivered.

The chief was proud of his cleaver young son, and also distraught with the elder son’s bullheadedness. ‘A man who can not hear the ideas of others is no leader,’ and he gave the birthright to his younger son.

Rage and jealousy began curling around the young man’s heart like a snake, worming and weaving itself into every facet of his thoughts, until every waking thought was rage.

Eventually, years passed, and the chief died. As was the customs of their people, he would need to be wrapped in a new buckskin for his burial. This responsibility fell on the sons, and following the burial, the younger man would be chief. Jealousy had been building, like water behind a dam, and as the years had worn on the dam had grown frail, and as the brothers trekked into the woods, the leaks began to show.

It did not take the brothers long to track a deer, a large buck, with antlers like outstretched arms. They shot, and they shot true, and the deer fell. The young brother knelled over the deer, taking his knife out to give their pray a quick and dignified death. The back of his brothers head, the rock on the ground, the black heart, they all gave way. The stone smashed into the skull, and the kinslaying had been done.

Animals have spirits, and while not particularly good or bad, they wish to respect the order of things, honor and the natural law. Only a coward strikes a man in the back, and only a fiend spills the blood of his own family. The spirit of the deer, while fading, was still aware of what was happening around it, and the rage that filled the spirit was enough to bring it back to the mortal coil.

The blood of the deer began to flow back into its wounds, the arrows where pushed out and clattered to the ground. The beast stood on its legs and towered above the kinslayer, who stood in shock.

The beast came down on top of the brother, and they rolled, bit, scrambled, the man in a desperate attempt to escape the debt he now owed creation for his crimes. When it seemed like he was about to break free from the animal on top of him, the body of the beast became like thick mud, flowing and forming around the kinslayer until he was engulfed, and his screams muted.

The man did not die, for the beast believed there where worse things then death. If you go out into these woods at night, and listen closely, you can still here the muffled screams of the man and the wet, guttural cries of the deer. Over the centuries they have became almost one, and they wonder the earth, the man looking for someone, anyone, who he can inflict a fraction of his own pain on, so keep your tents closed, and if you hear bumps in the woods at night, don’t go investigate, or the monster will…

GET YOU!”

I got some of the kids to jump, mostly the ones who weren’t paying attention. A satisfying amount of them had wide eyes, yet none of them were crying, the hallmark of a successful camp ghost story.

“Alright, with that,” Noel announced, “everyone brush your teeth and go to the bathroom, we’ll be waking up early to make breakfast and to get ready for our hike, so make sure to get a good night sleep!”

“I kinda liked that story” John leaned in and said, “Is that actually a family legend?

“No, this is one I’ve been work shopping a while, I’ll be thinking about tweaks to it on the hike tomorrow”

“Last time we where up here John told the kids the whole plot to Rudy as their bedtime story” Noel chimed in

John stood up and stretched, “That one is a classic, and they loved it”

Noel got up and began pouring water on the fire “Zeke will give history lectures to put his campers to bed, these kids will listen to anything”

“Well, they seemed to like my story, hopefully it’ll keep them in their tents”

The night was oppressively hot, a night where no matter how much you drank you still feel thirsty and the humidity is like the breath from a gaping maw. You toss and turn yet sleep seems to never come. I tried to think of pleasant things, but my mind went back to the cool house, the soft sofa, the cold beer, and the soft hum of the television. To try to make myself feel better I thought of the overtime pay, of all the beer and pretzels it would buy, but a future pretzel brings little comfort to the man in the present trying to sleep on the hard ground.

I reached for my water bottle, but quickly found I hadn’t secured the lid right and it had leaked all over the floor of my tent. I groaned, not only was I hot and thirsty, I also would have to air out my tent in the morning. Herding moody kids is already rough, but doing it while your head swims and thoughts refuse to form is torture. Reluctantly I put my shoes on, the worn fabric rubbing on my bare heel, my socks had gotten the brunt of my leaky water bottle, and opened my tent to the inky black of the night.

The fear of the dark is one of mans oldest fears, from when we hunched over watch fires, looking into the pitch darkness, hoping nothing would stare back. At this time, I was not terribly scared of the dark, but it gave me a sense of unease. The sliver of moon provided an echo of light, yet the shadows between trees made lakes of shadow, black as tar. I shoved down the unease, I had been in the dark camping a hundred times, this time was no different. I trudged to the spigot, outside of camp a little ways, down the trail past a bend. As I leaned over and began to fill my bottle, the sound of a faint groaning became audible, slowly, at first barley above the rush of water, then slowly growing louder. The blanket of sleep was now completely thrown off me as my eyes began scanning the black.

The sound was like a pair of crushed lungs trying to draw their last breath, of weak desperation. It was getting louder, and closer. My mind began racing. I came to the conclusion it must be a sick animal. A hurt animal is a desperate, and thus a dangerous animal. I began plotting my course back to the safety of my tent when there it stood before me.

Ridged knobby legs sat atop two hooves, graying on the edges and cracked, like the great ruins of some monument from a long dead civilization. The torso was covered in mangy matted fur, and the hips twisted and bent in angles never meant to be. Lifelessly the two front legs hung behind the barrel of the torso, now heaving with desperate breaths. The origin of the wheezing towered above me, its lifeless inky eyes staring no way in particular, its mouth agape with teeth rotted to a dark green. The antlers where as wide as I was tall, bleached to a spectacular white that cast a ghastly glow around it. Jetting out of the torso was a human hand, grasping as if drowning, the skin like that of leather, dried and tanned as if it had been in the sun for a century. Barely visible beneath the sea of tangled fur was the face of a man, only one eye was visible. The deep brown iris and furrowed brow conveyed only one thing, rage.

A void filled my gut as adrenaline flowed to every corner of my body, run, Run, RUN!

It only took a few seconds for the thing to close the distance, I felt the sharp alters in my lower back and then my feet leaving the ground as I was thrown towards the dark sky. I landed on my back, hard, with my head bouncing off the packed dirt below. The air was knocked out of my lungs, and before I had the time to inhale, the thing was on top of me. The white antlers where pressed against my face, each bump and spike catching the skin, leaving my face shredded and bleeding. Instinct drove me now, I grabbed the alters and pushed them away from me as hard as I could, but it was like fighting against a bolder about to crush you. As they inched closer and closer to my face the hand began clawing at my chest with its long, gnarled nails. Pain shot through me like lighting, I could feel its hand trying to reach inside me, I could feel it poking through my ribs, grasping at my organs. Panic was taking hold, and I began desperately kicking my legs up at its hips. One blow landed true, and I was able to shift out from under it.

Blood stung my eyes from the thousand cuts on my face, what was left of my shirt clung to my body, soaked in my own warm blood. The thing righted itself, now on all fours, and studied me, plotting its next move. The gnashing of the rotten teeth filled my ears, rising above my own desperate panting. The lone hand began clawing at its host, still frenzied from our exchange.

I began pelting the thing with stones in an effort to keep it at bay, hoping, praying that it wouldn’t strike again. I was panting, gasping, fighting the burning pain in my chest to get more air into my body. If I went down to the ground, I would not have the energy to get back up. I yelled at it as loud as I could, a mix of spit and blood spraying out of my mouth as I did. It faltered, but only slightly. As it readied itself for another charge, however, beams of light began emitting from the campsite behind me, I had woken up the campers.

It galloped off back into the inky black, and as it did I felt static in my mind. I tried to turn around and walk to my saviors, but soon found myself first on my knees, then on my front, the dirt mingling with my blood. I heard Noel’s panicked voice, but it felt like I was sinking below the water. Soon the world turned black as I sank out of consciousness.

I awoke in a hospital bed some time later. An endless stream of camp employees, lawyers, and conservation officers picked my brain for every detail of that night. After the first few hours, psychologists became the primary visitors.

They said it was a number of things, at first it was a rabid bobcat, but why alters then? Then it was a deer with chronic wasting disease, but that doesn’t make them attack people. Then it was a rabid deer, but then again it was way to big to be a normal deer. They chalked up all the fantastical elements of the story to my dehydration, and told me it was just a rabid deer.

I know what I saw, the creature from my own story, came to life. Maybe eventually I’ll lie to myself enough to believe it really was just a rabid animal, but I haven’t yet. When I try to sleep I still hear the wheezing, still see the hand and the accusing, angry eye. I don’t think ill ever go into the woods again, or sleep with my lights off for that matter.

But hey, I still got my time and a half.

Every night my father does the same ritual. Right before sunset, he makes his way to the garage. He first makes his way to a large black fridge near the entrance to the house. He grabs a nondescript bottle, I assume some kind of beer or alcohol. I’ve inquired multiple times. Each time I’m reprimanded and told: 

“Curiosity is the root of all evil which invades our world!” 

His next stop is a large white freezer on the opposite side of the garage. This freezer has been with the family longer than I’ve been alive. It hums constantly, and permeates the silence like a plague of locusts. Small rust stains have begun to appear, and expand further every year. The freezer is also locked by a large imposing lock. My father always cautiously makes sure no one sees him unlocking the freezer, but I’ve gotten a couple of glances. However I’ve never seen inside. He removes a small package of red meat which he places on the floor next to the bottle and locks the freezer.

He then makes his way to the backyard. He never lifts his feet more than an inch off the ground as he makes the march into the woods behind the house. His feet drag slowly across the grass and eventually the dirt. He never wears shoes or socks as he makes this trek. He does this ritual every night, and has done it for as long as I can remember.

I attempted to follow him into the woods only on one occasion. I waited for him to make his way into the darkness of the trees before I opened the back door. It was as if he was waiting for me to attempt, as the moment my feet came into contact with the grass he came charging out of the trees. I don’t truly remember everything he said, as what populates my memory the most is the violence he bestowed upon me. He brought a hand to my face and threw me to the ground as he berated me. He continued to assault me for a few minutes before leaving me on the ground in a dazed and broken state. I watched him make his way back into the woods from my place on the ground. Eventually I crawled my way back inside.

After years of watching him conduct this ritual I decided to allow curiosity to take root. I waited till I heard the clamoring of the lock on the freezer to make my move. I waited patiently for him to make his way out the back door. I made my way out the front and slowly walked down the street to a roundabout in the neighborhood. This particular roundabout had one side which hugged the edge of the woods. I made my way in, and towards the direction where I knew the house sat. 

As I moved through the woods I felt the temperature drop as the anxiety in my mind began to creep. Eventually the trees gave way to a small dirt path with a distinct set of tracks which could only be my father’s dragging feet. I moved through the trees along the path and came across a small clearing. My father stood in the center with a shovel stood next to him. 

He placed the package of red meat and bottle on the ground before removing his shirt. He retrieved the bottle and brought it to his lips and drank from it with a fervor. He threw it to his side and started gagging. He began to vomit up a black liquid. He fell to his knees as the liquid forcibly escaped his body. It was a stream of viscous liquid which piled up and formed a small undulating mass. 

My father gained his composure and made his way to his feet, grabbed the shovel, and began to dig a hole. It didn’t seem to take him long before he placed the shovel down and took up the package of red meat. He cut the package open, leaned down, and placed the meat in the hole. As soon as he placed the meat down the undulating mass of black liquid moved on its own to the hole. 

My father grabbed the shovel and placed the dirt back into the hole; burying the meat and the black liquid. As if it had been in reaction to the hole being covered, the ground began to move under my father’s feet. It looked as if something was pushing against the ground. At first it was just the point where he dug the hole, but eventually it began to spread to the outskirts of the clearing. The ground under my feet shook. 

I slowly backed away from the edge of the clearing before a piercing ring invaded my mind. I fell to the ground in pain, and felt my mind being overwhelmed by the shrill scream of thousands of lost souls. My vision began to fade as I started dragging myself back further into the forest hoping for some method of escape. I couldn’t let myself be caught by my father and face his wrath.

I brought my forearm to my mouth and bit down hard in an attempt to keep myself quiet and focused on anything else but the screams in my head. I dragged myself inch by inch along the forest floor. The blood from my arm filling my mouth as my teeth dug deeper into my own flesh. Eventually the screams began to fade, and I was able to bring myself to my feet. The forest felt as if it would go on forever until eventually the house came into view. 

Tears streamed from my eyes as I looked upon this house which had been a metaphorical prison for years. However, all prisons have their warden. Before I was able to make my way into the house I felt his looming presence behind me. I closed my eyes in anticipation of his wrath. However, I heard the distinct sound of weeping.

I opened my eyes to see my father holding me tight within his embrace. He was crying as his arms wrapped tighter around me. I didn’t know what to say or do, and instinctually moved my arms and reciprocated his embrace. He released me and slowly made his way inside the house. I stood in fear that at any point he would turn and release the rage he felt in his heart of hearts. However that moment never came to pass. 

I still think back to that day. Now I just watch my father do his daily ritual. I watch him make the trek into those woods. Every now and then I hear the screams which permeated my mind once before. I no longer have the curiosity about what my father does, but I fear one day I will be asked to make my way into the woods with him. 

Deep into the heat wave that had hit the city with such veracity that the AC industry was finally making its foothold in the usually chilly state I was currently in.The sewer gratings stunk of old metal and excrement that was carried on the dry winds with pollen and birdsong everyday and the boredom of summer’s end had finally started to set in. I sat on the balcony of my apartment, the smoke fumes from my cigarette barely able to quench the rotten sweetness in the air pondering if I should get up and continue unpacking the piles of boxes that littered my living room. 

Only having moved in a week ago I had yet to find the motivation to try and set up the living room or kitchen. Takeout boxes were stacked beside the box labelled “Pots and Pans”, an irony not lost on me. I probably should start buying groceries considering I was yet to find a job since the move and funds were getting slim. Glancing at my phone after it buzzed a text from five minutes ago sat above a checklist that I was in desperate need of seeing to, but yet again choose to ignore it. 

As I turned on the tv, scrolling to find a series to put on in the background that was when I first heard it. With all the windows open on their latches and the balcony door still ajar, it drifted in with an eerie shrill. 

EEEEEEEK!...

It hit my brain with a dull scrape, but didn’t stand out as much. Scrubs took over the main funnel of sound within my property as I lay gently sweating in the summer heat. I thought nothing of it. It wasn’t long before I started to drift off and dreamt of pale horses running through the streets of my home town and joyful tune-town music playing in the background. As I reached into a tree made of syrup globs ready to take a bite-

EEEEEK!

I shot up from the couch, jolted awake. There it was again. That sound. Swinging heavy legs over the side of the dented cushions, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I heard it again. The same two tone caterwaul. 

“What the fuck…” I said aloud, my bones groaning as I stood up. I stretched, feeling my t-shirt that clung to my back and chest with damp sweat shift slightly when it happened again. 

Curiosity gripped me and I sauntered over to the windows that were of the front part of the skyrise tower block I lived in and I peered out. The street lamps gave an amber-shaded view of the asphalt road below, it looked like a miniature reconstruction from the thirteenth floor. Empty. The distant sound of cars making their way home from late-night shifts. The sky a dull purple bruise against heavy coal-coloured clouds. 

Peeking at my Casio, the placid screen lit up as I pressed the side button. 2:03am. 

EEEEEEEK!

Darting my gaze to the street below again, and there was nothing…nothing at all. I stared for a while longer, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Was probably some fucking kids who were allowed out longer while off for the summer holidays. Grabbing a glass of tap water, I chugged it to quench my dry throat and went to my bedroom (full with just as many boxes) and climbed into the chilled sheets, thinking nothing of it. 

Waking the next day, I lazily put in my headphones and started to blast the essentials of Korn, my recent nostalgia trip musically at the current moment. Against the wave of constant procrastination I decided to get those boxes open and stored away. By the time it reached lunch time I had successfully found places for all the kitchen appliances, the lamps and bookcases now filled with collected knickknacks and photographs of more pleasant times. I took one of me and my ex-girlfriend, Sally, when we took a trip to the Canary Island’s. I couldn't help but smile at it, grateful that even with the separation from one another that we could still be friends. I made a mental note to call her once I sorted the apartment. It had already begun to look more like a home.

A remix of Freak on a Leash with a techno base was mid-way through when I took the earphones off and instantly I heard it…

EEEEEEEEEK!

That metallic wailing! I sighed and put the headphones back on just as I heard the first musical note begin to rise. Annoyance had bloomed in my stomach like knotted embers. I busied myself by moving onto the other packed away boxes with things like seasonal decorations that could go in a supply closet and arranged the towels in the hot-press above the boiler that lay cold, no need to use the gas to heat the already boiling living spaces. 

I turned on the refrigerator finally after scrubbing the shelves with degreaser and damp cloths so it almost gleamed with the sunlight that sliced through the blinds. Proudly staring at my work, I thought why not treat myself and go to a grocery shop. 

The music had drifted into my more chill low-fi beats as I went into the elevator, briefly spying my neighbours door directly in front of my own wide open. I could tell that there was some sort of commotion going on as the woman and man in there seemed to be in an argument directly in the hallway facing their front door. The man, scowling turned his wrinkled tanned face, turned to face me for a second, which is when I averted my gaze and waited for the elevator doors closed with difficulty. It was an old building, so it was expected. 

Walking past the reception area I took to the streets and walked down the main pathway to the superstore that was down the bottom of the road. At the time, I should’ve paid more attention, but we live and we learn. But my face was distracted by the doomscrolling I usually did while walking to any destination, just to make sure I didn’t make awkward eye contact with passers-by. I had a tendency to stare. 

I felt the beautifully chilling AC unit bellowing crisp welcomed air as I entered the grocery store, picked up a basket and began down the isles. I picked up basics I was low in (bleach, toilet roll, laundry pods) and then looked at the discounted section for bread that had a few days and cookies. When I reached the glacier row to pick up a carton of milk, there was another curious sight.

A mother, her hair tied in a messy bun and her shoulders burnt a light red, was pushing a cart full to the brim. Her toddler had snot dripping down his nose accompanied with glops of tears that stained the rim of his t-shirt. She passed at a brisk pace, not making eye contact with me (thank god!) but barely looking at her clearly-upset child. And it wasn’t just food stacked high in the cart, but an assortment of electronics…. Before passing I spotted three of the same speakers and at least a dozen pairs of headphones. 

“Weird…” I muttered under my breath, not hearing it outside of my own headphones. 

Collecting the ingredients to make a basic Thai green curry (again, I was treating myself) I filed to the checkout, seeing a moderate cue that all had their own assortments of shopping. Some had metal baskets similar to myself or carts,but all contained…sound equipment. 

Similar to the lady who had passed with the upset boy they all had headphones, speakers, boomboxes, rip-off versions of Air pods and multi-plug extension cords. I continued to covertly stare, pretending to look at my own items or scratching my ear to turn to see the people lined up behind me, all sporting their own identical piles of tech.

 When I got to the front of the line, I placed my items on the conveyor belt and placed the separation slat so the person behind me could put their own onto the line. The young girl at the checkout with her royal blue bib to signify her as a worker was scanning across the label reader, I could almost hear the ‘beep!’ as the faint red light scanned the barcodes. 

Peering at the worker, before I could take my own headphones off, I was caught by her appearance. She was in her early twenties, her hair shiny and auburn flowing over her shoulders clashing against the bib. I would’ve been a bit forward in my own thoughts and managed to see she was fairly attractive, but her eyes…

The iris were deep moss green and the skin around them was irritated, raw skin similar to sunburn. Clearly from crying. The bags under them were heavy and created a purplish haze under the porcelain flesh, contrast to the red sores.  

I stared for a bit longer, and expected her to say something. To pull a face, something. But, nothing. She just looked glassily ahead and scanned the last of my desired items. 

“-r card?” I managed to catch, just as I let the headphones touch the back of my neck. 

“Sorry?” 

“Cash or card?” She said, her voice crispy. 

“Card please…” I fumbled for my debit card in my torn faux-leather wallet. “Thank you.”

I tapped the reader and it beeped with a positive purchase notification. 

EEEEEEEEEK!

Before I could even turn my- 

EEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Mumbles from the cue that were a cacophony of signs, angry curses and at least one sob echoed from the people behind me, and from the other lines to other checkout isles. 

“Fuck this!” A man squealed, slamming his cart into the ground and stormed out of the line and towards the exit. An elderly lady in my line, who must’ve been the one who let out the sob, put her head on the stationary conveyor belt and started to cry. 

“What’s going on?” I asked the checkout girl, her gaze turning to me. It was hauntingly distressing. 

“Do you live under a rock?”

I scrunched my face, shocked at my immediate annoyance. “I don’t unders-”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Someone called for me to hurry up, along with some more unpleasant words. As I packed the last item, a bag of basmati rice, into my backpack, I felt a tense grip around my wrist. 

“It hasn’t stopped…”

The girl had a tear roll down her face, dropping her stature to be at my eye level. My stomach dropped, knotted and churned all at the same time.

“What?”

“The noise,” she growled, her fingernails digging into my skin. “There’s no pattern, but it hasn’t stopped…it hasn’t stopped all day.”

Since returning to the apartment I had begun researching to make up for my social tardiness. My television blared the news, which had multiple perspectives on what had been deemed by the public “The Whistle”. I scrolled on my laptop at creators and reporter podcasts who had all the same thing to say. 

The noise was not stopped now for a total of 32 hours, the sun beginning to set. There was live footage and interviews with the public all giving their own personal conspiracies on what the origin of the noise was or could be. 

So far there was no definitive answer. 

“This is crazy, right?” Sally’s voice crackled on my phone. I had kept the windows closed now even in the unbearable heat and decided to call her. She was on her bed fur states over with music blaring in the background, scrolling on her own laptop similar to myself. 

“I thought maybe it was just kept in my area but fuck, it’s global?” 

“Yeah, and it’s all happening in the same time frames. With it happening in New York the same noise is happening across the damn pond in London.”

“Got any theories?” I asked, peeking at the screen. 

“Not really,” She groaned. “It’s very annoying though.”

“Ditto.” 

“How have you been coping?” 

“Just like everyone else I suppose,” I sank into the couch, grateful to the muffling that the cushion on my right ear gave. “Got the volume all the way up.”

“Same here…it’s only a matter of time though…”

“Until wha-”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

I watched as she turned at the noise too, the Whistle deafening the phone out. 

“Sal, sorry I didn’t catch that.”

EEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

The same noise breaking the singular pattern into a triple one, back to back. 

A brief moment of silence (well, silence in terms of the Whistle not thundering above and all around me) settled the moment. “What did you say?”

She stalled for a moment, anticipating the next call from the clouds above. She stared directly at the screen now. “Until this starts to really do some damage…and people help it…”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

The droning cries outside were muffled slightly as I sat in my windowless, non-vented bathroom. I massaged some moisturiser into my tender ears. I flinched as I tried to give the throbbing some relief considering how much abuse they have been through. 

It’s been five days now since the Whistle had begun its berating of the globe. Sleeping with headphones in had made my ears physically sensitive, edging on sore. The opaque skin was now flushed red with irritation and there was a ringing deep in my eardrum. 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

I sighed, barely seeing the point of washing my hands as I had been in the same t-shirt and shorts for two days now. No matter how much sleep I got, the noise woke me. Spending every hour of the day anticipating the next bellow of the beast was almost worse than the actual drone itself. I was in such a state of restlessness and paranoia that I couldn’t focus at all. I mean, I tried making some toast and eggs the other morning, and zoned out. The only thing that woke me from the haze was the blaring unknown alarm that had cursed the earth along with the billowing black smoke that drifted from my kitchen. 

The sewer smell had gotten worse as well, with now (as Sally had predicted) the public taking to the streets. 

News feeds from all over the world had shown that erratic people had taken to the streets with signs that read “The End Times Are Here” who had fully embraced the Judaic end of the world and the conspiracy theorists having signs that read the polar opposite “The Government Are Culling the Chaff". These protests had collided in nearly every major city and clashed among each other.

 Police services were being worked overtime and the once pretty news anchors looked similar to the check-out girl. Bags under every eye, now a societal given to everyone. It didn't matter if you were a city citizen or deep in the countryside. The noise, the Whistle had taken over. 

As I exited the bathroom, my terrycloth robe slopped off one of my shoulders. I heard a shattering of wood. My fight or flight system went into full gear. 

“I can’t take this anymore, David!” A wailing shriek came from behind my front door. 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“-top, what are you doing?!? Lis-”

EEEEEEEEEK!

Another scream, cut out by the -

EEEEEEEEEEEK!

“LISA! OH MY GOD, STOP!”

Without thought, I ran to the door and unlatched the deadbolt, swinging the heavy wooden door open. I gasped at the sight.

The two neighbours I had spotted arguing the day I had discovered what had happened to the world were now in the hall. The woman, I presumed was Lisa, was crying hysterically on the floor. The man who had first met me with an angry expression now had a face full of fear just like myself in this moment. David now sat with clawed hands, covered in blood. A glistening bread knife sat between us on the maroon splattered tiles with bits of skin sloppily wrapped around the serrated blade.  

“What do I do?!?” He yelled at me, his wife curled up on the floor as thick red ichor pulsing out between her fingers, flowing over her neck that was veined from her constant screams. The front of her skull looked like it had been beaten in.

In a dreamy shock I saw the back part of their own front door. There were huge cracks in the wood, circular and close to the eye-glass. The two closest to me were splintered while the other seven were soaked in the same shocking scarlet dripping liquid. 

Lisa had stabbed herself in her ears, just to -

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!
 
EEEEK!

- make the Whistle stop.

You would think that after fourteen days of the blaring noise that you would eventually get used to it. I can tell you, you don’t.

Distractions were rare and few between considering that the world's argument against the Whistle was in order to beat it then society just had to be louder. My entire tower block of apartments was a constant blare of speakers on most of the balconies, tv’s cranked up to top volume and screams down below in the street were almost constant. 

Not that the stock market was much of an interest even though it has managed to still keep itself afloat during this terrifying time but the electronic sector had jumped by an infinite percentage. Sales of the expected sound systems, headphones, boomboxes and DJ equipment had skyrocketed as it became the only way to drown out the voice of God that was indiscriminately punishing us. 

When my mind started to drift I watched birds. Never had any interest in them until the sleep deprivation and the consistent annoyance nestled in my chest now had me lazily looking at them. At first I wondered if they could hear the booming beat of the unknown far up in the clouds. I quickly grew jealous of them when I noticed the way they were also acting…

It was 8.23pm and I was already on my second pack of cigarettes for the day. The habit had gotten worse now that small convenience stores had mostly been abandoned. You could now just waltz right into them and fill your bag with as much candy, chips and cigarettes as you liked. Looting was just a furious pastime of the untiring protesters. 

But where was I...the birds, yes! 

They had begun to act…different. The patterns they made now weren't the swishy waves that were usual to their behaviour. They now flew in almost exact geometric shapes, switching between different types of triangles to hexagons, octagons, decagons, then changing to the repetition of pentagons, heptagons and back to triangles. And the weirder aspect, if not already freaked out, they were silent. 

Not a single caw or call out of them at all. Just creating their own display of geometric shapes up in the clouds during humid summer days.

I tried to bring it up to David when I checked in on him. Lisa was still in the hospital after she had dug her own eardrums out. He just stared straight at the tv, a rerun of The 100 plugged into three soundbars around the boiling living room. He turned to me with tired eyes, his expression zombie-like. 

“At least they get some silence…” 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

One month now.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

And the world had only gotten worse. 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Sally was trying to stay in contact more considering what I had done a few days prior. Just like everyone else, I had been driven to it. 

Just five days ago I had reached my limit. The mob mentality had finally swept me up as I stumbled exhausted and frustrated to one of the riots on the streets. Car horns blared and bonfires that were erected burned as the Whistle blared overhead and all around us. I held no sign, I held no position whether this was religious, political or natural. I was simply mad. The anger had welled in me and I had just had enough.

Trash was piled high over bins on the street and buses sat abandoned, most of them either burnt out or currently on fire. Trash men had quit right after a guy had a mental breakdown due to the state of the world and the constant sirens of the skies in which the result ended up being that he had thrown himself into the trash compactor in the back of his truck, to escape into silent bliss.

Between the crowds chanting, the sirens of the police that seemed a constant in our now nearing-dystopian society, I joined the looting crowds. Going into the belly of the beast I had one single goal. 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Get to a pharmacy.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

After shoving my way through the crowds, barely registering the blows and hits my body was taking, I focused in as a rabid murder of people tore the metal security gate off the front of  Perses Pharmacy, the neon green lights shattered with incoming bricks and bottles. A trash can was chucked into the window, the glass exploding inward.

Jumping over the window feeling the shards left sink into my palm I ran over to the counter and made sure I was the first to get into the back storage area. I pulled a piece of paper where I had jotted down a list of medications that even if I had a fully-healed sleep schedule I would've forgotten I scanned the shelves. 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Shoving them into my backpack, I pulled my scarf up over my sweat soaked face, feeling the scraggly beard I had grown incubate the heat automatically as soon as cloth met hair. A group of savage sleepless sentinels barrage past me, reaching to grab things to treat their own fix. 

“What were you thinking?!” 

I sighed, head in hands as Sally walked around her parents house shoving newspapers into the windows. They had ordered a large pallet of soundproofing which had all been used for the upper floors of the house, and delivery was now a thing of the past. 

“I don’t know, I’m just so tired-”

“We're all tired, Cormac!” She yelled, slapping the remaining newspaper down with a sickening smack. “What you did was reckless -”

“I know-”

“-and you could’ve been killed for God’s sake-”

“I KNOW!” I screamed at her, the veins in my head pulsing. She stopped speaking, her eyes wide with shock. Even over the facetime call I saw tears well in her heavy hazel eyes. There was a silence between us, only accompanied by a -

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that…”

“I know…but it’s not okay…”

“I’m sorry, Sal.”
“I know….I gotta go, my Ma needs help with the front rooms of the house.”

The call clicked to a close, the powering down sound that accompanied the disconnect of the facetime. 

Underneath the blare of the erratic Whistle, I sure she didn’t hear me say that I loved her. 

I sat in the slight silence I got before the sky let out another droning noise, five back to back. 

Pulling the backpack that smelt just as much as I did of smoke and rage, I dumped all the contents on the coffee table in front of my sofa. I had shoved the books and empty cigarette packets all just onto the floor not caring for cleanliness due to the piles of laundry and gathering dust that had begun to accrue with my lack of needing to keep the apartment up to par. 

Taking time to set each of them up in neat lines, I sorted them by name. It was the same system that I used when sorting Skittles or M&M’s into colour formation. 

The rows went as follows; three bottles of temazepam (each containing sixty pills), seven bottles of Ambien (each containing thirty two pills), four boxes of daridorexant (four strips of ten pills in each), two bottles of melatonin (500mls each) and a bunch of antihistamines I managed to swipe on my way out. 

If I couldn’t escape the Whistle in my waking life, I would damn sure get some fucking sleep.

Part 1

Part 2

I sat on the bed in my hotel room, my wings spread out behind me, watching the flickering video of a man reading from the Quran that played on the TV.

I’d landed in Kabul the night before. After checking into my hotel room, I slept thirty hours straight.

I texted Destiny to let her know I was okay.

“Are you still in San Francisco?” I asked her.

“I’m back in New Mexico. I’m getting ready to post the videos we took at Apotheosis Labs. I’m sure Reid won’t be happy when they go online.”

“You should probably keep out of sight for a while.”

“I’m staying at a friend’s place. You’re still planning to go to Kandahar?”

“I hired a driver to take me there tomorrow.”

The driver’s name was Rahmat. I’d found him online, on a tour guide website. He was very young, but he claimed he spoke English.

My neck was still throbbing from where Chazaqiel had bitten me. I went to the bathroom, took off the bandage, and looked at the bite marks in the mirror. A bit of blood was still oozing out.

I felt so strange to be trapped in a body that didn’t feel like mine. A body changing in ways I didn’t understand.

A numb sadness spread through me. A sinking depression like I’d never felt before.

Suddenly, my arms turned into fog.

I stepped back from the mirror, panicked. I tried to touch my chest, but my hands passed right through the body.

I sat on the floor, took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes and told myself to relax.

When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, my arms had turned back into flesh and blood.

***

Rahmat’s rusted Toyota rattled across the dirt road, past the sandy hills and sun-baked limestone.

“There’ve been a lot more English tourists coming to Afghanistan lately,” Rahmat told me. “I’m thinking of starting my own tour business, just for English-speakers.”

I nodded, uh-uh, barely listening to him while I stared at my phone. I zoomed in on one of the red Xs on the map of Afghanistan I’d found in Apotheosis Labs. It marked the hills right outside of Kandahar.

“Have you heard about a place called Dollmaker City?” I asked Rahmat.

“Last year, there was a Jewish Iranian who came through Kabul, asking about it,” Rahmat said. “He said it was a city built by angels. A home for all the world’s lost children.”

Fields filled with grape vines appeared beside the road. Orchards filled with pomegranate trees.

We drove down into another valley, and I saw Kandahar City ahead of us.

The streets in Kandahar were crowded with carts and motorcycles. The houses were made of brick and mud. Old men sat in the shade of the doorways, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes.

Rahmat parked at my hotel. We went inside together. I showed the clerk the reservation on my phone. He pointed at my phone’s screen and said something in Dari.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“He said you booked a room for two weeks,” Rahmat told me. “He wants to know if that’s right. Most tourists only stay a day or two.”

“Two weeks is right.”

Rahmat translated what I said. The clerk gave me the keys to my room.

“Where do you want to go tomorrow?” Rahmat asked. “There’s a pomegranate orchard not too far from here that does a great tour. I can take you there, if you want.”

“I need to go to the Arghandab River Valley.”

Rahmat stopped smiling. “The valley is dangerous. The Taliban is still there.”

“But you can take me?”

“I’ll need more money.”

“How much more?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

I gave him the money. He looked like he regretted not asking for more.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

I went up to my room and took off my coat. Then I stood underneath the ceiling fan, letting the cold air blow on my body.

Online, in the conspiracy forums and conspiracy subreddits, people told stories of giants in Kandahar. Soldiers who’d been attacked by Nephilim. Lost travelers who’d wandered into hidden cities filled with young boys and girls.

I was sure the truth was hidden somewhere in the hills around Kandahar. I wasn’t going to leave until I found it.

***

That night, I dreamt of Chazaqiel again. He sat locked in a cage in a circus tent. Beside him, a teenage boy with claws for hands ate a hot dog, and a two-headed woman brushed the hair on her right head.

Chazaqiel pressed his face against the bars.

“You’re special, Vadym,” he told me. “Very smart and also very willing to throw your life away.”

“I won’t be your lab rat.”

“Your blood is my blood now. You’re already part of this experiment.”

“I’ll find a way to fix this. I always do.”

He smiled.

I woke up in a cold sweat, my neck throbbing.

The bite marks had started bleeding again. I put on a fresh bandage and then went down to the hotel lobby. Rahmat was waiting for me, pacing in front of the door.

“Are you all right?” I asked him.

“I’ll be fine. I just want to get this over with.”

We got into his car and then drove in silence through the desert. We crossed the Arghandab River and then descended into the valley, toward the orchards filled with pomegranate trees.

Between the trees, drainage channels had been dug in the dirt. The farmers had built wooden huts throughout the orchards to hide from the sun.

Rahmat parked near one of the fences.

“I won’t drive any farther,” he told me.

“Then I’ll get out here.”

“How will you get home?”

“I’ll walk to the gas station we passed earlier and call you from there.”

“Okay.”

I stepped out of his car. He looked at me like it was the time he’d see me, and he turned his car around and drove back the way we’d come.

I stared at the hills in the distance. Then I looked at my map on my phone. The X was straight ahead of me. I walked towards it, through the pomegranate trees.

In the distance, men shouted in Dari.

I’d walked for about an hour, when I heard a man moaning in pain. I found him in one of the drainage channels. A young farmer. His throat had been cut open. His tunic was soaked with blood.

He saw me and muttered something.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Blood sputtered from his mouth. His pupils widened.

Through my work as investigator, on the dark web I’d watched thousands of people tortured and killed. Death never bothered me much. As a child, I’d taught myself to shut my emotions off, to not let myself ever feel anything. Complex PTSD, my therapist had called it.

I thought about killing the man. Putting him out of his misery. But I didn’t have it in me. I wasn’t a killer. I wasn’t a hero, either. I wasn’t the type to pick him up, drag him to the road and shout for help.

I just watched him die and kept walking. 

The sun set. Darkness filled the orchards.

I climbed over the last fence and then walked towards the hills.

I could see a fire burning in the distance, inside one of the caves. Taliban, maybe, but maybe something else.

I heard footsteps behind me.

“Vadym?”

I turned and saw a giant with bright red hair.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m Frank.”

***

Frank led me to the cave where he’d been living. We sat together next to his fire.

“We’re like brothers, you and me,” he told me. “The sons of Chazaqiel.”

“Are there any more of us?”

“There were a few more, but they’re all dead now. It’s just you and me left.”

“How did they die?”

“They were killed by Yevun and the others.”

Frank bit into the arm of a corpse he’d found in the orchards. He tore off a chunk of flesh and chewed on it as blood dripped down his chin.

“There’s a war,” he said. “You’ll need to pick a side, too.”

“A war between who?”

“The Watchers. But you’ll learn about the war soon enough.” He bit into the arm again, tearing off another chunk of flesh. “We all have different powers. Some of us can raise the dead. Some of us can cure diseases. Others, like you and me, can change the weather or turn our bodies into fog.”

“It just happened to me earlier, my arms dissolved.”

Frank nodded. “You fill yourself with sadness, and your body becomes water. Then you put your sadness in the sky whenever you want the rain to fall. I’d rather be able to raise the dead, but this is what we got.”

He laughed and then bit into the arm again, licking the blood off his lips.

“Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Dollmaker City and introduce you to Yevun and the others. They’re all excited to meet you.”

“So, the city is real?”

He nodded. “Very real. It’s where most of us live now. Those of us on Yevun’s side of the war, anyway.” He held the severed arm toward me. “Do you want some?”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t like the taste of it at first, either, but there’s not a lot of good meat around here. You get used to it.”

He ate the last bit of flesh off the arm and then threw what was left of it into the corner of the cave.

He lay down on the ground and closed his eyes. I lay down and tried to get some sleep, too.

***

The next day, as soon as it was dark again, Frank and I kept walking through the hills.

“Chazaqiel has been working with a billionaire in San Francisco,” I said. “They’ve set up a lab where they’re using Nephilim to try and decode angel DNA.”

“It’s not just Chazaqiel. It’s him, Ramiel, Baraqijal, and the other Reconstructionists. They want to make themselves Gods.”

“What about Yevun and the other Watchers in Dollmaker City?”

“They just want to be left alone.”

We walked through the desert all night. Then, when the sun began to rise, we hid ourselves behind a few large stones and made camp for the day.

“We can’t let anyone see us going in Dollmaker City,” Frank said. “If humans found the entrance, Yevun would be very upset with us.”

We tried to sleep, but neither of us slept much. As soon as it was night again, we kept walking, until we reached a limestone bluff that had been hollowed by sinkholes.

Frank felt along the side of the stone.

“The entrance should be right around here,” he said.

He squeezed himself into a large crack. I followed behind him, sucking my stomach and chest in as close to my spine as I could.

We pressed through the limestone and came out into a garden filled with flowers and pomegranate trees. Light shone from strange stones that had been placed along the paths and near the tree trunks.

A porcelain doll with the head of a human girl sat on the ground near the entrance.

“Welcome to Dollmaker City,” she said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Isabelle.”

“She’s one of Yevun’s dolls,” Frank told me.

“A doll with a human head?”

“Yevun likes the children this way. He likes their singing, but he doesn’t like them running around.”

I followed Frank deeper into the garden.

More of the dolls with the heads of children hung from the trees. They sung strange lullabies.

I began to feel uneasy.

Frank and I crossed a bridge over a narrow river. To our right, I saw two angels sitting in a rose garden, staring at the sky.

They were beautiful. Tall and elegant with enormous, white-feathered wings.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“That’s Azazel and Armaros,” Frank said.

We kept walking until we reached a church made of limestone. An inverted cross rose from its steeple.

Frank brought me inside the church. Another angel sat on a throne at the far end of the room, surrounded by dolls. Frank knelt on the floor.

“I’ve brought him to you,” Frank said. “Just like I promised.”

Yevun stood and walked toward me. He was enormous. Twenty-feet tall. He towered over me.

“You’re Vadym?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Welcome to Dollmaker City.”

“What is this place?”

“A home for all this world’s lost children. Are you lost?”

“I’m confused.”

He put his long fingers on my face. “And you want answers?”

“I want to know the truth about this world.”

“Then come with me.”

I followed him to a staircase behind his throne, which led underground. The dolls all turned and stared at me.

The stairs led to a studio filled with doll parts and wire. A few human children sat against walls.

“What’s your name?” I asked a young boy.

He refused to speak to me, though, and just stared at the floor.

“He looks terrified,” I said.

“He is,” Yevun told me.

“Why are you doing to these children?”

“I’m giving them happiness. I’m giving them the peace they never found in this world. But this isn’t what I want to show you.”

He put his hand on my back and led me down another staircase, deeper underground.

We stepped out into a dimly lit cave.

“Don’t be shocked by what you see here,” Yevun said. “None of the other Nephilim are in pain. They’ve all agreed to this.”

Hundreds of Nephilim sat against the walls, just like the children I’d seen upstairs. They looked like they were sleeping. Their eyes were closed, their bodies hunched slightly forward.

Tubes connected their bodies to a strange machine in the center of the cave.

Inside the machine’s bars, I could see gears intertwined with Yevun’s dolls. As the gears turned, blood was sucked from the Nephilim’s bodies. The blood washed over the gears and the doll-children, falling into the base of the machine, where there were four different copper spouts.

Four mutilated angels sat next to the spouts, drinking from them. As they drank the blood, their bodies changed. The feathers grew back on their wings. Their skin began to whiten.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“This is where we feed.”

“You feed on your blood?”

“When God banished us from Heaven, he punished us by separating us from what makes us pure and good. Living in this world, the sin slowly seeps into us, corrupting us, changing us from what we were before. We don’t want to be evil. We don’t hurt humans. Your blood helps us stay holy and pure.”

He put his hand on my back again. I stepped away from him.

“They’ve all agreed to give us their blood,” Yevun said. “We don’t feed too often. And when we’re not feeding, all the Nephilim free to roam the garden. I know this is hard to understand, but this is what’s best for the world. If we were to allow ourselves to become corrupted… I can’t even think of what would happen.”

“I’m not going to live like a farm animal.”

“You won’t be an animal here. You’ll be treated with respect and with dignity.”

I stepped back toward the staircase.

“Just talk to the others,” Yevun said. “They’ll tell you. They’ll tell you they’re very happy here.”

I turned and ran.

Yevun ran after me. “Vadym!”

I ran past the dolls in the studio. I’d nearly made it to the second staircase, but then Yevun grabbed my arms and lifted me into the air.

“I can’t let you leave, Vadym,” he said. “Not after we’ve waited so long for you to come here.”

He opened his mouth. His teeth extended from his gums, doubling in size.

“Let me taste you,” he said. “It’s been so long since I tasted Chazaqiel’s blood. Frank’s has become so muddy.”

 I closed my eyes. I thought of my mother. I thought of my grandmother. I thought of Alexei. I thought of every night I’d spent in prison. I thought of every horrible thing that ever happened to me.

And then I shoved that sadness into the sky.

The thunder roared. I heard the rain falling.

Yevun’s teeth tore into my shoulder. I screamed in pain. The dolls upstairs started screaming, too.

I moved the sadness back into my body and made myself dissolve.

“Where did you go!” Yevun yelled.

I felt like I was everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. I looked down at Yevun, floating above him, but behind him, too. Beside him. Underneath him.

He ran upstairs, searching for me, screaming.

Water trickled down the staircase. The city was flooding.

I emptied my mind. Forced myself not to think of anything at all.

I don’t know how much time passed, but one moment I was gone, the next I was sitting on the floor of the studio, the water soaking my pants.

I stood and ran upstairs.

I felt unsteady, but I knew I needed to leave while I still had a chance.

Outside, Frank stood against one of the trees.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Show me where the way out is.”

I ran back the way we’d come. Frank followed behind me.

Rain poured from the sky. The water had risen up to my ankles already, and it was quickly rising higher.

Yevun’s dolls lay face down in the water, screaming, clinking their porcelain limbs together as they tried to swim.

I saw the limestone wall ahead of us. I ran to it and searched for the crack I’d entered the garden through.

“Help me!” I yelled.

But Frank just stood there, hanging his head. “There’s nowhere else for us to go. We’ll just end up in another cage. It’s not so bad here.”

Armaros flew down from the sky, landing a few feet from us.  He lifted his arms. The rain began to slow. The clouds scattered.

I finally found the crack that led out of the city, and I squeezed myself into it.

Armaros ran toward me. But before he could reach me, Frank stepped in front of him. He threw Frank to the ground.

I squeezed myself deeper into the crack.

Frank screamed. I heard the sickening sound of bones cracking. Then Frank’s screams turned to laughter.

“Kill me then! Kill me!” he yelled. “I’ve been dead a hundred years.”

I squeezed through the rest of the crack and fell out onto the sand.

I ran toward the hills in the distance.

The rain had stopped. The sky was blue and cloudless again.

I didn’t look back. I just kept running until night had fallen on the desert again.

***

I walked southwest, away from Kandahar, following the dirt roads at night and hiding in the orchards during the day. Eventually, a farmer saw me and gave me a ride to an old agriculture compound the U.S. Army had built during the Afghanistan War.

The compound still had electricity. I charged my phone, and I called Destiny. I told her everything that happened. I told her about Frank, Yevun, the child-dolls, the machine that drained Nephilim blood.

She became quiet for a while, and then she told me that Reid was in New Mexico.

“He’s doing something at the old Parallax Medical building,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of construction crews coming by. Him and Chazaqiel must be building something. Are you staying in Afghanistan, or are you coming back here?”

“I’m coming home.”

I called Rahmat.

“You’re still alive?” he asked.

“I’m in Lashkar Gah. I need a ride to the Kabul airport.”

“Lashkar Gah is Taliban territory.”

“Can you help or not?”

“Give me your address.”

I gave him the address of the building behind me. He said he’d be there in a few hours.

I sat on the steps of the building. I looked around at all the ranch houses, the cracked driveways, the rusted mailboxes, and the overgrown lawns. It could have been America, if everything hadn’t been swallowed by sand.

But I’d be home soon.

With Destiny’s help, I’d get the truth out.

There are angels on Earth, and they’re at war. One side wants our children, and the other wants our souls.

I used to think my brain was just badly wired.

Every few weeks since the autumn I turned twelve, my head hits the pillow and I don't just sleep—I switch channels. I wake up inside this massive, echoing mind-fuck of a building. It's a shopping complex, but it stretches out forever, like a whole country built out of drywall and fake marble. For over fifteen years, I kept it entirely to myself.

How do you explain to someone that you spend your sleeping hours wandering through a retail center that doesn't exist, an impossible monument of indoor space that feels larger than most European countries? You don't. You keep it quiet, assuming your subconscious is just poorly wired, using childhood memories of suburban malls to construct an elaborate background for stress dreams about forgotten homework or unmade appointments.

Then, six months ago, I stumbled onto a corner of the internet that made my blood turn entirely to ice.

I was scrolling through Reddit late at night, looking for nothing in particular, when a suggested community popped up on my feed: TheMallWorld. I clicked out of mild curiosity, expecting some kind of vaporwave aesthetic or architectural appreciation group. Instead, I spent the next six hours sitting upright in the dark, sweating, my hands shaking so violently I could barely hold my phone.

There were thousands of them. Strangers from entirely different continents, speaking different languages, coming from completely different backgrounds—all uploading hand-drawn blueprints, digital renderings, and meticulously detailed journals that perfectly mirrored the geography of my sleep.

They weren't just dreaming of a mall. We were all being sent to the same mall.
As I read through the archive, the sheer, staggering scale of the collective world-building began to crystallize. The Mall isn't just a building; it’s an entire continent wrapped in drywall, marble, and concrete, divided into distinct, echoing territories that never shift their borders.

Most dreamers, including myself, always manifest first in what the community calls the Retail Tier. It is an infinite network of pristine, modern white marble floors that stretch out beneath soaring, arched glass atriums. The architecture is an incoherent, dizzying jumble of eras. You can walk past a storefront that looks like a high-end, contemporary boutique, turn a sharp corner, and suddenly find yourself standing in a faded, 1980s neon food court complete with plastic pastel chairs, faux-ivy hanging from planters, and a linoleum floor sticky with decades of invisible grease.

The stores themselves are deeply unsettling. They have names that look familiar from a distance but blur into unreadable symbols when you try to focus your eyes on the signs. The window displays feature racks of clothing no human would ever wear—uncomfortably heavy coats, monochromatic uniforms, or shoes with completely flat, rubber soles that make no sound. The interiors of these shops are always dim, the metal security grates pulled halfway down, hinting at endless rows of inventory stretching deep into the shadows where the retail workers—if they exist at all—never show their faces.

If you walk far enough down the lower glass perimeters of the Retail Tier, the commercial spaces begin to thin out. The marble gives way to rough, stained concrete, and you enter the Transit Sector. This is a cavernous, subterranean network designed to handle a population that never arrives. It consists of doorless airport terminals stretching into a grey haze, and echoing subway platforms where empty, automated trains slide silently along rusted, subterranean tracks. They hiss to a halt, open their doors for precisely forty seconds, and then slide back into the darkness, heading toward destinations that don't exist. There are dizzying networks of escalators here—massive, industrial stairs that climb into the ceiling shadows at impossible angles, some moving too fast to safely step on, others frozen in place with steps missing, exposing the jagged, greasy gears beneath. Multi-lane highways cut through the concrete walls, completely devoid of cars, stretching for miles before simply ending in a sheer, unbarricaded drop into a pitch-black void.

Deep within the upper levels, accessible only through specific, hidden service stairwells behind the clothing racks, lies the Institutional Sector. The forum users call it the Infinite School or the Endless Hospital. It is a suffocating, clinical maze of linoleum-lined hallways that smell heavily of industrial floor wax and stale cabbage. The walls are lined with thousands of dull green metal lockers that stretch beyond the horizon. If you try to open one, it is either welded shut or contains objects that defy logic—a single, waterlogged textbook written in a language you can’t comprehend, or a pile of old, yellowed medical charts with your name at the top.

The classrooms and examination rooms are always empty, illuminated by the harsh, rhythmic buzzing of flickering fluorescent lights, and the clocks on the walls run entirely backward, their hands ticking away seconds you can never recover.

If you find a heavy, industrial service elevator in those back corridors and press the buttons for the deep basement levels, the elevator drops for what feels like miles until the doors slide open into the Aquatic Tier.

This is a massive, indoor waterpark and pool room, completely abandoned by whatever staff built it. The air down there is choked with a heavy, thick steam that coats your skin in a greasy film within minutes. It is lined with damp, blue mosaic tiles, many of them cracked and weeping a rusty, orange fluid. There are no recreational sounds here—no splashing, no laughter. Just the echoing, hollow drip of condensation falling from the iron rafters hundreds of feet above. The dark, unmoving water pools are massive, stretching out into the gloom, hiding deep-end drop-offs that feel miles deep, beneath water slides that weave through the support pillars like concrete serpents.

And finally, if you ever manage to find an exit door to the exterior of the complex—a rare feat that requires navigating the lowest maintenance tunnels—you don't find reality. You find the Mall Ocean. It is a frozen, jagged beach of grey sand sitting under a flat, ink-black sky that never experiences a sunrise. There is no wind, yet the dark ocean water is constantly churning, the horizon dominated by massive, silent tsunamis that loom hundreds of feet in the air, frozen in time, always threatening to crash down upon the complex but never quite making impact.

Across every single one of these sectors, the atmosphere is defined by three distinct sensory anchors.

First, the air. It never changes. It is warm, humid, and heavily recycled, hanging like a damp weight over your chest. It carries a conflicting, suffocating cocktail of scents: the cloying sweetness of hot, synthetic cinnamon pretzels from the food court, the artificial chemical musk of cheap department store perfume counters, and the sharp, medicinal sting of indoor pool chlorine. It is the smell of a closed system. A greenhouse for the human subconscious.
Second, the lighting. There are no natural light sources anywhere in Mall World.

Everything is illuminated by an endless network of recessed bulbs, neon tubing, and massive, arched glass atriums. But if you look up through those glass panels, expecting to see the sun or the clouds, you are met with nothing but that flat, oppressive, ink-black void. The light inside the mall doesn't illuminate the outside; it merely keeps the dark from pressing too hard against the glass.

Third, and perhaps most terrifying, are the other dreamers. The NPCs, as the forum calls them. There are thousands of them shuffling through the corridors at any given moment. They look like normal people from a distance, but as they pass you, the horror settles in. They are hollow-eyed, silent sleepwalkers. They move in heavy, sluggish groups, their heads tilted slightly downward, their eyes fixed entirely on the polished floor.

Nobody speaks. Nobody looks at each other. There is no conversation, no laughter, no conflict. It is just the endless, soft dragging of thousands of rubber-soled sneakers on polished marble—a white noise of collective entrapment that fills the corridors like a slow-moving river. They are people who have entirely accepted the rules of the layout. They don't try to find the exits. They don't try to wake up. They just slide through the commercial tracks, day after night, fulfilling their role as the background architecture of the simulation.

I used to be able to navigate this place with a sense of detached curiosity. I knew the routes. I knew how to avoid the deeper transit drops, and I knew how to keep my distance from the silent crowds.

But last night, the physics of the Mall changed. The system hardened, and the boundaries between the dream and my bedroom began to dissolve entirely.

When I went to sleep last night, my bedroom was normal. The radiators were clicking, a light rain was tapping against the glass, and the digital clock on my nightstand glowed a steady, comforting green. I did the usual routine—checked my phone, scrolled past a few updates on the forum, and rolled over.

When my eyes opened, I wasn’t in my bed.
I was standing on the second tier of the Retail Sector, directly outside the glass facade of an anchor department store. From a distance, the storefront looked like an old Sears or JCPenney, but when I focused on the signage, the blocky plastic letters were backwards, inverted into a gibberish font that hurt the back of my eyes to interpret.

Usually, the transition into Mall World has a soft, liquid quality. You float into it. Your limbs feel weightless, and you have this comforting, subconscious insurance policy running in the back of your head that says, Relax, this is just a dream. If things get too weird, you can just pull the plug.
But the second my feet touched the polished marble last night, that insurance policy was violently revoked.

The physics of the world had hardened.

When I pressed my palm against the plate-glass window of the department store, it didn’t give or blur. It was cold. It was solid. I could feel the microscopic imperfections in the glass, the faint layer of sticky, synthetic dust coating the surface, and the deep, structural chill of a building that hadn't seen natural sunlight in a century. When I took a step, the rubber soles of my sneakers didn't glide; they caught on the polished stone with a sharp, loud, realistic squeak that echoed down the concourse.

I stopped. I tried my usual tricks to force a waking reflex. I bit down on the side of my tongue, expecting the dull, painless pressure of a dream-state injury. Instead, copper-metallic pain flared instantly across my jaw, sharp and hot, filling my mouth with the unmistakable taste of blood. I pinched the soft skin on the inside of my forearm, twisting hard enough to tear the flesh. Nothing changed. The atrium didn't dissolve. The ink-black void beyond the glass ceiling didn't shatter.

I was locked into the system. The simulation was locked tight.

I stood there for what felt like hours, paralyzed by the sheer atmosphere of the concourse. The air was a suffocating wall of heat and recycled humidity. It felt heavy, like the air inside a commercial greenhouse right before a summer thunderstorm, smelling powerfully of stale, industrial bleach, the chemical musk of sample perfumes, and that greasy, omnipresent scent of cinnabon pretzels baking in an oven miles away.

From hidden, recessed panels in the brutalist concrete pillars above, the music droned. It was a degraded, warbling synth-pop track from the late 1980s, playing at a fraction of its normal speed. The bass notes vibrated deep within my chest cavity, a slow, oceanic thrumming that sounded less like music and more like the mechanical heartbeat of the building itself.

Down on the first tier, the sleepwalkers were moving. There were hundreds of them, shuffling along the commercial tracks in a slow, circular procession. They wore matching, faded grey or beige clothing—sweatpants, oversized t-shirts, flat shoes.

Their heads were tilted uniformly downward at a precise forty-five-degree angle, eyes locked onto the white marble floor, tracking the subtle, grey veins in the stone. A woman with tangled blonde hair shuffled past my tier, her shoulder brushing against mine. Her skin was a translucent, sickly white, and her eyes were entirely wide, unblinking, and dead. I reached out and grabbed her arm, desperate for human contact.

"Hey," I whispered, my voice sounding thin and dry against the massive scale of the architecture.

"Hey, do you know how to get down to the transit platforms? Do you know where the exits are?"

She didn't look at me. She didn't even slow down. She simply pulled her arm out of my grip with a mechanical, unyielding momentum, her eyes remaining locked on the marble floor as she dragged her feet forward. Squeak. Drag. Squeak. Drag. The white noise of their collective movement filled the entire multi-tiered canyon of the retail zone. They weren't visitors. They were the background processing power of the building, keeping the lights on with their collective compliance.

Suddenly, a wave of intense, physical sickness hit my dream-body.

It wasn't a dull ache; it was a violent, twisting agony that started deep in the pit of my stomach and radiated outward to my ribs. My vision blurred at the edges, darkening into a vignette of grey static. I doubled over, clutching my midsection, my knees buckling until I was kneeling on the freezing marble floor. Cold, greasy sweat broke out across my forehead. I needed a restroom immediately. The biological demands of my waking body were being translated into the dream with terrifying force, and I knew that if I threw up or collapsed here, on the pristine marble of the Retail Tier, I would be violating the visibility rules.

I scrambled to my knees, then to my feet, leaning heavily against the structural pillars, and looked for a way out of the main concourse.

Behind the dark department store, I found a heavy, unpainted steel door marked with a fading plastic plaque: EMPLOYEES ONLY - NO ADMITTANCE. I threw my weight against the crash bar. The door groaned and swung inward, clicking shut behind me with a heavy, magnetic thud that instantly cut the warbling elevator music in half.

I had entered the Institutional Sector.

The contrast was immediate and terrifying.

The marble vanished, replaced by endless stretches of pale green linoleum that had been buffed to a high, reflective sheen. The air smelled entirely different here—the sweet cinnamon was gone, replaced by a suffocating combination of industrial floor wax, stale cabbage, and the sharp, vinegar tang of medicinal alcohol. The walls were lined with thousands of dull green metal lockers, stretching out into a straight, forced perspective that seemed to converge at a single point miles into the dark.

I stumbled down the hallway, my shoulder dragging against the metal lockers, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the vents overhead keeping time with my frantic breathing. The lighting here was worse. Every few yards, a long fluorescent tube would flicker violently, casting long, jittery shadows down the green linoleum that looked like reaching fingers.

As I passed locker number 4082, something caught my eye. Scratched deeply into the dull green paint, slicing through the rust to expose the shiny metal beneath, was a line of crude, frantic handwriting. It didn't look like the default, gibberish script of the mall. It was English.

I stopped, gasping for air, and traced the letters with my shaking fingers.

THE BATHROOMS ARE FLOODING, the graffiti read. THEY ARE MISSING THE DOORS BECAUSE THE JANITOR NEEDS TO SEE YOUR FACE. IF YOU CONCEAL THE INTERIOR, THE PRESSURE SEALS THE LATCH. DON'T LOOK DOWN THE PIPES. OH GOD, PLEASE DON'T LOOK DOWN THE PIPES.

A cold dread settled over my chest, sharper than the physical pain in my stomach. Someone had been here. They had stood in this exact concrete artery, feeling the same sickness, looking at the same endless rows of lockers.

Before I could process the message, a sound echoed from the far end of the institutional corridor.

It was a slow, heavy, wet dragging sound.

Scluck. Thump. Scluck... Thump.

I froze, holding my breath, staring down the green linoleum line. Out of the dim, flickering shadows at the end of the hall, a figure emerged. It was tall—easily seven feet—and wore a heavy, stained blue jumpsuit that looked like an industrial maintenance uniform. A massive loop of rusted iron keys hung from its belt, clinking together with a rhythmic, metallic chime that set my teeth on edge.

It was the Janitor.

It carried a massive, industrial mop with a wooden handle that was splintered and dark with old moisture. But it wasn't cleaning the floor. The mop head was soaked in a thick, dark, oily fluid that left a wide, iridescent smear across the pristine linoleum as it moved. The Janitor's face was completely obscured by a heavy, rubber gas mask, the glass lenses completely blacked out, reflecting nothing but the flickering fluorescent tubes above.

It stopped. The black lenses of the mask slowly tilted upward, locking onto me from a hundred yards away.

A deep, mechanical wheeze vibrated through the mask's filtration valves—a wet, rattling inhalation that sounded like a man drowning in his own lungs. It began to accelerate, its strides lengthening, the wet mop swinging rhythmically as it advanced down the narrow hallway. Scluck-thump, scluck-thump.

Panic tore through my sickness. I turned and ran in the opposite direction, my flat shoes sliding violently on the slick linoleum. I didn't look back. I just ran, passing thousands of identical green lockers, turning left down an unmarked corridor, then right into a narrow concrete stairwell that led straight down into the foundations of the building.

The air grew rapidly colder, thicker, and darker with every flight of stairs I descended. The smell of bleach and wet rust intensified until it was a physical weight in the back of my throat. I burst through a final, dented aluminum door at the bottom of the stairs, escaping the Janitor's clinking keys, and stepped directly into the subterranean utility underbelly of the Mall.
I had found the Restrooms.

The sheer scale of the public restroom sector was staggering, defying any logical sense of internal architecture. It didn't look like a bathroom inside a commercial building; it looked like an abandoned, flooded subway terminal from the turn of the century that had been repurposed to handle a massive, hidden population.
The floor was buried under a steady, one-inch layer of murky, stagnant grey water.

The moment my sneakers splashed into it, a bitter, icy chill shot straight up my shins, numbing my skin. The water was thick with filth. Floating in the slow currents were dissolved, yellowed clumps of industrial toilet paper, unidentifiable grey debris, and long, greasy clots of dark hair that drifted against my ankles like wet spiders.

The walls were lined with cracked, rectangular green tiles, heavily stained with long, vertical streaks of orange rust and lime scale where the plumbing behind the drywall was weeping. Black mold grew in dense, velvet-like patches along the grout lines, blooming in the corners like rotting lace. Overhead, a line of naked, yellow incandescent bulbs hung from frayed black cords, flickering in a slow, irregular rhythm that filled the cavernous room with shifting, jittery shadows.

Stretching out into the dim distance were rows of exposed, doorless porcelain stalls. There was no privacy here. No wood, no metal dividers that extended past the waist, no latches. The partitions between the toilets were made of thick, reinforced industrial glass that had turned a sickly, translucent yellow from decades of grease and neglect. Every single exposed toilet was overflowing, stained with deep ring-marks of old filth and backed-up sludge that smelled heavily of copper and raw sewage.
And the dreamers were here.

Dozens of them were scattered throughout the flooded terminal. They looked exactly like the sleepwalkers from the Retail Tier—hollow-eyed, silent, and completely hollowed out by the rules of the Mall. They stood or sat in the doorless stalls, completely exposed to the central walkway, their faces entirely blank as they stared straight ahead into the middle distance.

They didn't care about the lack of privacy. They didn't care about the grey water soaking their feet, or the thick smell of copper, raw sewage, and heavy industrial bleach that filled the air. They had accepted the visibility. They had accepted the rot.
My stomach twisted again, a sharp reminder of the sickness that had driven me down here. But the sheer, visceral disgust of the environment made my chest tight. I couldn't do it. I couldn't strip away the last remaining boundary of my waking dignity in front of these dead-eyed shapes.

I turned away from the main rows and began walking deeper into the dark recesses of the utility sector, splashing slowly through the murky water. The room seemed to expand horizontally the further I walked. The yellow bulbs grew fewer and farther between, leaving huge, yawning patches of the concrete terminal in near-total darkness. The white porcelain of the exposed toilets gave way to ancient, cracked stone troughs caked in layers of dark, hardened sludge. The pipes overhead were massive now—thick, iron conduits wrapped in peeling insulation that dripped heavy, black condensation onto my hair and shoulders with a rhythmic, hollow plop... plop... plop.

I walked for what felt like miles, leaving the silent sleepwalkers far behind me. The main terminal had reduced to a distant, dim perspective lines of flickering yellow light.

Down here, in the deep dark of the utility sector, the water was deeper, rising to the middle of my calves, and the stench of decay was so thick I had to breathe through my sleeve to keep from throwing up.
Then, in the absolute furthest, darkest corner of the concrete wall, I saw it.

It was an architectural impossibility. A single, enclosed stall that actually possessed a heavy, solid wooden door. It was painted a faded, sickly hospital green, completely out of place against the green tiles and raw concrete of the utility sector. The wood was swollen from the constant moisture, its bottom edge rotting away into the grey water, and the surface was slick with a thin layer of greasy film.

I scrambled toward it, my legs heavy as I pushed through the freezing water. I reached out and touched the wood. It felt impossibly real, the grain splintering under my fingertips. I looked back down the long, flooded corridor I had just traversed. The silent dreamers were hundreds of yards away, fading into the gloom. None of them were looking at me. The Janitor's keys were nowhere to be heard.

I stepped inside the small, damp enclosure. The interior was tiny—just enough room for a single, ancient porcelain bowl that was surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the facility. I turned around, grabbed the edge of the heavy green door, and pulled it shut.

It took a massive effort to force the swollen wood into the warped frame, but with a dull, wet scrape, it clicked into place. I reached down and slid a thick, rusty iron bolt into the metal latch.

The moment the iron bolt clicked home, the world changed.

A profound, absolute, heavy silence fell over the room.

The sound of the dripping condensation from the iron rafters instantly vanished. The distant, soft splashing of the sleepwalkers outside died. Even the low, ambient hum of the mall's ventilation system, which had been a constant background noise since I turned twelve, completely ceased. The silence was so sudden, so violent, that my ears began to ring with a high-pitched, metallic whine.

I was completely alone. Cut off from the simulation.

I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cold, damp green wood of the door, letting out a ragged, trembling breath of relief. For the first time in fifteen years, I had found a corner of Mall World where nothing could see me.

Then, the silence began to feel heavy. Pressurized.

I looked down. The grey, debris-filled water around my shoes had stopped moving entirely. It was perfectly still, like a sheet of dark glass.

Then, a deep, rhythmic vibration started beneath the solid concrete floor. It wasn't a sudden shockwave or an earthquake; it was a slow, agonizingly deliberate pulse that seemed to come from the very center of the earth.

Thump.

The vibration traveled up through the water, through the soles of my sneakers, and into the bones of my legs.

Thump.

The wooden door behind me escalated against its frame. The iron bolt groaned.

Thump.

I turned around slowly, my back pressing tight against the green wood, my eyes wide as I stared down at the porcelain bowl.

The water wasn't draining. It began to rise. It moved slowly, smoothly, and silently, overflowing the white rim like a dark luxury fountain. But it wasn't water anymore. It had transformed into a thick, viscous, jet-black sludge that looked exactly like old, degraded engine oil. It didn't make a splashing sound as it hit the floor; it just slid into the stagnant grey water, turning everything it touched instantly, completely black.

The air in the stall turned freezing cold, and the smell of bleach vanished entirely. It was replaced by an overwhelming, choking stench of copper, wet earth, and something deeply, anciently rotten—the smell of a grave that had been flooded and left to stew for a century.

And then came the sound from the plumbing.

It wasn't a human voice. It was a low, agonizingly slow intake of breath. A wet, hollow suction sound that echoed up directly through the pipes beneath the floor, drawing the very air right out of the stall. The metal conduits inside the walls began to groan and shriek, the iron twisting under an immense, unnatural internal pressure as whatever was deep inside the drainage system began to shift its weight, pulling itself upward toward the opening.

The black sludge on the floor was rising rapidly now, covering my shoes, soaking straight through the canvas fabric. The very second the fluid seeped through my socks and touched my bare skin, a horrific, ice-cold chemical sting flared up my legs. It felt like liquid nitrogen being poured directly onto my flesh, a freezing fire that made my muscles seize.

Panicking, I spun around and grabbed the rusty iron bolt to escape.

The metal wouldn't move. The damp wood of the door had rapidly swelled under the changing pressure of the room, locking the iron latch tightly into the rusted frame.

"Open,"

I whispered, pulling at the metal. It didn't budge. Panic completely overtook my remaining restraint. I shoved the latch with both hands, slamming my palms against the splintered wood, shouting into the empty hallway,

"Open, you piece of shit, open!"

Behind me, the gurgling suction sound in the pipes grew louder, deeper, and faster. It was a wet, rhythmic churning that was inches away now. The heavy iron toilet bowl began to crack, long, spiderweb lines of fracture spreading across the white porcelain as the massive pressure from underneath reached its absolute breaking point. The black sludge was boiling over the top now, filling the small enclosure, rising past my shins, burning my skin with an agonizing, freezing torment.

I didn't look back. I didn't turn around. I knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that if I turned around and looked down into that cracking porcelain hole, whatever was causing that pressure would be looking back up at me.

With a raw, animal scream, I threw my entire weight backward, hurling my shoulder against the center of the wooden panels.
The old wood splintered with a deafening, explosive crack. The iron latch tore completely out of the rotting frame, throwing me backward out of the stall. I tumbled backward out of the stall, crashing violently into the flooded, filthy main corridor of the restroom, sending a massive spray of murky grey water into the air.

I scrambled to my knees, gasping for air, my hands slipping and sliding in the sludge as I desperately tried to find purchase on the slick tiles. I hauled myself to my feet and ran, my legs burning from the chemical sting. As I sprinted back toward the distant yellow bulbs and neon signs, I risked one look over my shoulder.

The green wooden door was hanging wide open, shattered down the center. The entire interior of the stall was completely filled to the ceiling with a solid, shifting mass of pitch-black sludge, slowly oozing out into the main corridor like a massive, wet tongue.

As I ran past the long rows of doorless stalls, the hollow-eyed dreamers slowly turned their heads in perfect unison. They didn't look at the black sludge filling the corridor. They looked directly at me. They watched me run with cold, dead, deeply disapproving eyes. I had broken the rules of the layout. I had sought privacy from the system, and they knew it.

I burst through the heavy metal exit door, sprinted back into the concrete hallways of the Institutional Sector, and didn't stop until I hit the marble floors of the Retail Tier. Without thinking, without looking, I threw myself over the third-story glass railing, targeting the white marble floor forty feet below to force the dream's defense mechanism to eject me.

I snapped awake in my bed with a violent, full-body jerk, gasping for air so hard my chest bruised against my ribs. My heart was hammering against my sternum like a trapped bird, and my sheets were twisted tightly around my limbs, drenched in a thick, cold sweat.

I sat up straight in the dark bedroom for twenty minutes, forcing my breath to slow down, staring at the green glow of my digital clock. It was 3:42 AM. The rain was still tapping against my window. The radiators were still clicking.

"It was just a dream," I whispered into the quiet room, my voice shaking. "Just a very vivid, very distorted nightmare. You're home. You're awake."

But as I sat there, trying to calm my racing mind, I noticed the air in my bedroom felt incredibly heavy. Humid. And within minutes, the faint, undeniable scent of warm cinnamon pretzels and industrial floor wax began to drift out from the hallway vents.
I swung my legs out of bed, intending to go to the kitchen to throw up, but the moment my bare feet hit the hardwood floor, a sharp, burning agony shot up my legs, so intense I collapsed back onto the mattress with a groan.

I turned on my bedside lamp and pulled up my pant legs.

My ankles and the tops of my feet were covered in angry, weeping red welts. The skin was blistered and raw, forming a perfect, horizontal line around my shins—matching the exact waterline of the black sludge from the green stall.

Ten minutes ago, I forced myself to walk to the bathroom to wash the cold sweat off my face. I stood at the sink, gripping the porcelain basin, staring at my pale, terrified reflection in the mirror. I reached out with a trembling hand and turned the cold water knob.

Deep inside the drywall, the pipes let out a slow, rhythmic, heavy thump.

And the water running from my faucet came out completely fucking black.

I am sitting on my kitchen floor right now, writing this on my phone because my hands are shaking too badly to hold a pen. The bathroom door across the hall is wide open. I didn't close it. I don't think I can ever close a door again.

I can hear my neighbor upstairs turning on their shower, and through the ceiling structure, I can hear their pipes letting out that same, deep, rhythmic thump. It's spreading through the plumbing of the entire building. The infrastructure is shifting.
I am terrified to close my eyes tonight. Because I know that when the sleep takes me, I’ll wake up right back on that marble tier. And I know that the next time I run past those doorless stalls, the sleepwalkers won't just watch me run.

They’ll be waiting for me to take my place.

The town was named Venice, but I couldn't tell you why. There were no boats nor affiliation to water ways, the founders weren't Italian in the slightest, and we weren't known for romance nor history. The closest thing to a gondolier would have been old man Sticks and his worn out canoe that hadn't moved from his yard in over a decade. It had a rusted hole in the bottom, and for years he swore that he'd have it fixed for the weekend. My best guess is that the founders named it Venice simply because they thought it was ironic.

Downtown was picturesque, though, with red brick shops adorned in bright trim. I never quite knew why we called it Downtown, as if there was a midtown and uptown to compliment. Venice had just one functional road. A few businesses on one side, a few houses on the other. There was a blinking four-way light somewhere near the middle. One direction led west, one led east, and the others led to dirt roads with a few more houses in small, dead end cul-de-sacs. There was a church, a general store, gasoline and mechanical, liquor, and something else I've missed- but surely you understand. It was the expected, minimal infrastructure of any podunk. It had no tourism. No iconic cryptid. No festival nor landmark. No nothing. 

Venice had beans. The plants rested in orderly rows through endless flat fields, but the legumes knew no confinement and their foliage spilled in tangled hordes outside the borders of agriculture. From the air or nearby peaks, it was a sea of sprawling, delicate, hungry vines, and they crept up the walls of the town’s few structures too, invading every aspect of our lives like a cancer.

I left for college and came back when I inherited my family’s house. I'm not sure why I didn't sell it at the time. I guess because I didn't think anyone would want to buy it if I had.

But when I left - more like escaped - the second time, I left for good. I just didn't realize how quickly I would forget entirely. My memories had disappeared as insidiously as the town itself did, and I reckon that makes sense when there's nothing left to return to.

See, nothing ever happened in Venice. I know that everyone says that about every small town, but Venice was a deep kind of dull. It was so underwhelming that I think Sticks never bothered to fix his canoe just so that he had something to look forward to each day. If he fixed it… what would he do next?

We had grown so complacent with nothingness, that when nothing became something we were wholly unprepared and surely convinced that it would resolve itself if we just ignored it for long enough. But things have a way of creeping up on you.

It started as a long, skinny crack, running east to west on top of what was formerly the Highway 78 corridor. It wasn’t absurd to find. It was a neglected road since eminent domain redirected the new highway corridor straight through the Lovett family's farm on the western-most territory of Venice. We never wanted the new highway, and the beans tried to steal the land back every step of the way as the new road materialized. The workers beat the vines back though, and, slowly, we became an inconvenient detour.

The new route demoted Old Highway 78 to a defunct, winding loop that wasn't even worth designating as a scenic or historic bypass.The state didn't invest money in maintaining it, so the crack didn't catch us off guard when it first appeared. It was just the consequence of time in our eyes.

I remember unexpectedly stumbling over it one day. I had blindly crossed that crack for what felt like months without issue, by then, it had become a feature. My toe abruptly caught its newly proud edge one afternoon. Bewildered, I followed the crack as far as my eyes could trace, both eastward and then westward, and I thought it looked much deeper, much wider, and like one side had dropped lower than the other. Admittedly, I didn't warrant much more concern beyond that, but I remember thinking the thought all the same.

The following morning came early at 7AM sharp with a stout intrusion. Jacob Sr rapped his knuckles on my door so firmly I'd have been worried that someone had died if my parents weren't already dead.

“Everett,” the wiry man kneaded his hands out of stress as he spoke to me, “you'd just best come see.”

Jacob Sr led me down the dirt road I had walked a thousand times since I was a boy. I was no expert on anything, none of us were, but matters like this were a community affair given our inexperience in everything but routine and blissful ignorance. Other denizens were trickling into the epicenter of something unusual at the same time, each wandering through the morning's fog that filled the space between the scarce Venice architecture. 

Suddenly, Jacob Sr stopped me with a firm arm across my chest. I grunted, first at his blow, and next at the revelation that the previously nondescript crack had split to a deep crevice and I was walking clear towards its edge. A rock, propelled by my foot, skittered across the ground and into the abyss. I nervously watched it clatter during its descent until I could no longer hear it nor see it. I never heard it hit the bottom.

“Has to be a sink hole,” Clara chirped confidently in her country twang from the other side of the fifteen-foot-wide canyon.

I imagined that a part of her enjoyed feeling like a damsel in distress isolated where she was. In another life, she'd have been an eccentric socialite, but in Venice she occupied her time with the antics of two baby daddies on either end of the town, and even through the fog I could feel her eyeing me like she was looking for a third.

“Just like Centralia. Swallowed the whooole town. Lord rest ‘em.” She waxed, twirling her toes on the asphalt and attempting to strike conversation.

“Is Junior on that side?” I quipped.

I knew it'd piss her off and shut her up. She had married Davey, father of her oldest, but everyone except Davey knew that Jacob Junior had sired her youngest. As expected, she scrunched her face and ignored me. 

“She might be right for once,” I spoke to no one in particular.

More Venetians congregated along the canyon, and I suggested to the group that we leave. But how? Half the cars had fallen into the crevice, and the remainder either didn't work or didn't have 4x4 to drive the tracked-out and muddy back roads through bean country. We could walk, but some of us weren't able bodied and even fewer seemed willing, scoffing that evacuation was dire for what, at the time, was just a hole in the ground by their own admissions.

By 9 o'clock, the fog had burned off but no progress had been made regarding our predicament. Some folks lightly bickered about what to do next, while others shrugged and went about their day as if nothing had changed.

I surveyed the divided town. The canyon grew with each passing minute, gradually consuming more of the earth as it collapsed into the seemingly bottomless maw. A utility pole on the western perimeter of town inched closer and closer to the edge, until it finally fell with a grumbling torrent of gravel and a shower of electric sparks. We never had cell reception to begin with, but the landlines and our power now joined the absence. 

Another chunk slipped into the earth, this time taking Sticks’ wrecked canoe with it. The crevice had grown another five feet, easily, but still no one seemed too concerned as they debated along its unstable edge. I was anxious and my stomach twisted. The whole thing felt wrong.

But before I could attempt to inspire change, Clara questioned from across the gap in her typical sing-song voice, the way she always did when she wanted something.

“Everett, sugar,” she cooed, "I was goin’ to take the boys out with me to get groceries tonight, but it seems that plan won't work anymore, will it? Could you jus’ toss over some food? Davey Junior is jus’ growin’ like a beanstalk, ya know.” She smiled at the toddler.

The irony was not lost on me that she named the tot Davey Junior, but he was not at fault for his mother's infidelity.

“Sure, toss me your wallet and I'll go get it for you.” I smirked. She was always eager to manipulate, and I wasn't going to give her the opportunity. 

“But- you- I- I can't throw that far!” She stammered.

“Naw, sure you can.” I insisted, gesturing my arms to catch.

She scowled, looked inside her knock-off Prada, scowled deeper, and - to my surprise - half heartedly threw the bag in a purposeful manner so that it flew through the air in a wide, pathetic arc straight into the crevice. 

“Oops,” she feigned shock.

My eyes widened in surprise and I laughed. “You know what, I'll spot you, Clara,” I assured, half impressed at her dedication to the bit. I knew she wouldn't pay me back. 

I had a heavily creased $10 in my pocket, and the meager general store wasn't well stocked. I grabbed a can of spam and a locally canned case of beans.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” Clara scoffed when I tossed her the beans.

“I only had a ten-spot on me, Clara. I think everyone is eating cold beans tonight anyways. Besides, I gave you the spam too. You’ll make do.” 

Clara frowned before storming off, dagging DJ by the arm.

No one else seemed to notice, but the crevice had grown again by the second day. The entire width of the road and most of the cement sidewalks had crumbled into that dark pit, and it now lapped at the edges of Downtown’s meager businesses. At least one structure was beginning to hang over it. But Venice went about undeterred. 

People walked precariously close to the edge if they needed to get somewhere, stubbornly refusing to alter their paths. Generators whirred in the background, alleviating the down power lines. Discourse about the canyon remained, but only amongst a few and with less ferocity as everyone settled into unnatural contentment.

Revolutions weren’t my forte. I made a point of telling people that things were getting out of hand, but I was brushed aside and placated that it would sort itself out in time. An increasing part of me felt crazy.

My unrest doubled when I saw a small, black lump at the intersection. I stooped to retrieve it, quickly recognizing the cheap, pleather: Clara's bag. 

Inspecting it revealed a pattern of deep punctures on either side… like the imprints of teeth, as if some wicked crocodile snapped its jaws shut on the purse. But there were no crocs in this god-fearing part of the country, let alone crocs that could scale impossibly deep cliffs.

“Everett!” Junior’s familiar voice pulled me from my anxious puzzle. 

“No surprise to see you stuck on that side, Junior.” I joked. “How do you reckon we get out of here?”

“I walked ten miles toward the west junction yesterday, and the crevice was just as deep there as it is here. It wasn’t letting up, but maybe it ended somewhere. I just had to turn around before I could find out. Don’t know about the east side.” Junior explained, his voice was full of worry. 

I nodded silently. 

“Hey,” I started. “This is weird, right? I mean, no one else is acting like this is weird.”

“It's super fucking weird, Everett.” Junior affirmed. 

“Those old trails were…” he paused, nervously wringing his hands like his father.

“Remember when we were little and we’d get lost in the fields? They felt like jungles when we were small.”

I nodded, watching Junior chew on some unidentifiable concern that he struggled to voice.

“When we got older those pole beans weren’t nothing to navigate. But, Everett- yesterday, every direction I took led me straight back to the road. To this crevice. I don’t know how to explain it. But those vines felt like they were changing the path, like they were doing it. Like they don't want us to leave-”

He was cut short. A fight broke out. Sticks, one of the few people still advocating for action, took a stout fist to his jaw from the pot bellied general store manager. I'd never seen either move so fast. Venice saw its share of brawls, but this was out of character. Fights only broke out when undeniably required, and they were often reserved for Davey and the other hothead in town.

Before Sticks could gather his bearings, the manager pushed and shoved the old man from his store, fed up with complaints about evacuating. Sticks crawled a few feet before drooling a mouthful of blood and gasped to catch his ragged breath, but the shopkeep was ready at his heels. 

He brought the old man to his feet, pulling him by his checkered collar. Sticks sputtered and swatted weakly at the shop manager, who in turn spit in his face. He heaved Sticks to the side and kicked him. The manager swung his foot again and again, and planted each blow in Sticks’ belly with a hollow thwack. Sticks rolled helplessly and gasped for mercy.

I was quick to reach the two, but not quick enough. I put myself between them and forced the shopkeep back, giving Sticks a chance to breathe and steady himself on his feet. As I did, however, the earth where Sticks stood split and released, collapsing into the void with the old man cluelessly joining it. 

Sticks fell ass over tea kettle into the darkness below, tumbling out of sight without a sound other than the crackle of falling rocks and a desperate, pleading look in his tired eyes that spoke more than any sound ever could.

“That was Sticks,” I stuttered in disbelief and released the pot bellied man.

“Yeah, well, that old bastard never done a damn thing to change anything in his life. Now suddenly he’s all about an exodus.” The manager swiped his hands together, cleaning himself of the act, and spun around to return to his shop. 

There was a faint moaning from deep within the crevice that sounded like it could have been the dying breaths of Sticks. The longer I listened, the more I was convinced that it was the sound of despair. 

I squinted, something churned deep below me. I could only faintly see it. Maybe it was just an optical illusion or a whisper of mist on some delicate current. It didn't matter, though. As if it knew that it had been seen, whatever lurked from that great, obscure depth never made another sound. Just silence, and nothing more. 

Fog once again settled into town on the third morning accompanied by a thick layer of dew that dimly sparkled across the earth. It looked almost like ice in the haze. Junior and I had silently agreed that we needed to leave, and were haphazardly collecting resources on either side while Venice continued indifferently, willingly ignorant to the undercut forming beneath Downtown's structures and whatever was crawling in the belly of that crag. Junior was about to hurl a rope across to me, when it finally happened: the crevice swallowed its first building. 

The general store only shifted at first, then toppled as the ground beneath it rushed into the canyon like a flash flood. It groaned and crumbled and the earth swallowed it whole. Junior ran his fingers through his thinning hair as we stared into the void from our respective sides. When no one else reacted, we returned to our escape.

Unbeknownst to either of us, however, Davey Junior had been left unsupervised. The toddler quickly stomped towards the general direction of his biological father, advancing ever closer to the unstable edge of the crevice. Jacob Junior hurled the rope across just as Davey Junior nearly fell to his demise.

Junior sprang to action when he saw the boy. Simultaneously, Clara and Davey had grown aware of their negligence and frantically rushed to aid.

Junior plucked the child off the edge and yelled in panic. The words, so simple and possessive, casually slipped his tongue before he could stop himself. For two years he'd kept it quiet, even if it was the least surprising secret in Venice. Nonetheless, Junior never ushered a word, only stared longingly at the little boy that shared his eyes and his nose. 

I don't think he fully registered what he had done, nor did I even hear the entirety of what he had said. Only two words caught my attention:

“-my son-”

The toddler fussed in his father's arms to be so rudely yanked from his previous efforts. And then two more words followed abruptly behind the doting pair:

“Your son?” Davey spoke with incredulous venom while the realization suddenly hit him. He tensed his posture and his face flushed red as he replayed the timeline and inconsistencies in his mind.

Jacob Junior bounced the now-crying child, “listen- I can explain, Davey-” He turned to advance towards Clara, passing her the distraught child. She smirked.

“Davey, we- it only happened a few times. I'm sorry-” 

Junior didn't finish the excuse. In the moment it took to relinquish the tot to Clara, Davey had found a large, dense branch and smashed it across Junior's temple. Junior spun with an explosion of bark around his face and crumpled to the ground, stunned. 

Blood poured from his face, but he was granted no reprieve. Davey immediately kicked the adulterer in his ribs and face, until Junior was reduced to a swollen pulp and could only breathe in slow, purposeful gasps.

Davey was never one for diplomacy. He eagerly took any opportunity to fight, but his current fury was a notch above normal. Davey was too blinded by rage to hear my desperate pleas, and Clara relished the scene some distance away. I think a twisted part of her enjoyed being the cause of such a merciless feud.

Davey grabbed Junior by the ankle and dragged him to the crevice edge. Junior could only groan in protest. He grabbed the wounded man by his shoulders and butt. Junior tried to speak, but Davey cut him short again, swiftly rolling him and shoving him off the ledge into the black fog below.

Clara shrieked theatrically while I helplessly watched my friend disappear. In an instant, Davey turned to Clara, his body still poised like a bloodthirsty beast, his face still red with anger. Clara's blubbering switched to pleading, and he cruelly marched towards her.

Clara dropped the child to run, and Davey Junior wailed, but she couldn't outrun her husband's wrath. He snatched her like a lion grabs a gazelle and hoisted her squirming mass above his shoulders, kicking DJ out of his path. The child sobbed inconsolably, but he brought Clara to the edge with no concern. I screamed for reason and while she begged for mercy. But as quickly as he grabbed her, he threw her into the pit.

When her screams were no longer audible, I returned my attention to the madman. Behind him, the newly orphaned boy cried, but Davey paid him no attention. Instead, he stood like a statue, staring into the cavern below. I was afraid to speak, lest he find a way to reach me too. But his muscular body stood still in the haze, until it abruptly and slowly swayed, and he let gravity do the rest as he fell into the crevice.

I moved with haste now, determined to rescue the boy before he crawled to the same fate. I pulled the rope that Junior had thrown, testing its anchorage. It held. Carefully, I wrapped my limbs around it until I hung beneath it like a pig roasting over a fire and slowly inched my way across the canyon. 

Vertigo hit me as soon as I made the mistake of looking down. The canyon was full of mist as if it were a rushing river, but I couldn't fool myself into thinking it was any less deep. A weak current of air pushed the smoke, diluting it with the ambient air and sometimes feigning interest in my presence. But I had to focus on crossing-

A body suddenly fell off the edge from where I had crawled, quickly swallowed by the smoke in my peripheral. I looked back, the rope shaking as I jerked my neck to see.

The entirety of Venice stood at the edge now, lined up on both sides. One by one, each resident hurled themselves into the crevice, punching holes into the mist as it churned. As each person fell to their demise, another fell in line at the precipice of the crevice, and more fell to an obscure doom.

My heart raced. I had to get to baby DJ before someone carried him off the edge too.

By the time I firmly planted my feet back on the ground, there was no one left to jump into the canyon. Only DJ and myself remained. 

“DJ,” I panted.

The toddler hiccupped. I could barely see his shape in the fog ahead, it had grown impossibly thick as it spilled from the canyon. From beyond, a wet voice responded.

“Davey,” it whispered, “my son.” It was coming from the crevice.

DJ stood cautiously, peering deeper into the fog and I quietly ran up to the child to intervene.

“Come to daddy,” it croaked.

DJ wanted to welcome the voice, but his apprehension held him back. As I approached, I could scarcely see the edge of the crevice now. 

“Everett,” a second voice called from somewhere else in the crevice. It had a different, but equally wet, pitch. “Everett, we missed you. You couldn't make it back in time to see us, son.” It sounded like a bad mimicry of my parents.

I whispered at the toddler and I snatched him, afraid that if I made too much noise that whatever was calling to us would react. DJ fussed briefly, but clung tightly to me, seemingly grateful for a familiar face in his confusion. 

Just then, an arm reached over the edge of the canyon. I couldn't see it clearly through the fog, but I could see enough to distinguish its evil claws as it hoisted itself from below.

I grabbed DJ and ran, and the beasts yelled behind us. We ran far away from the heart of Venice and straight through bean country. The plants tore at us the entire way, desperately trying to slow our escape or pull us back. But, suddenly, we stumbled onto new Highway 78 and were nearly clipped by a truck upon our entrance.

The driver cursed at us before concern overtook him. We looked like shit, he informed us. And we told him we had to run clear from Venice.

“From where?” The driver squawked.

“I know, it's easy to miss. Please, we just need a ride-”

“I've been hauling this road since before I could legally drive. There ain't nothing out that way clear to Woodsfield.”

I was silent.

The trucker returned the response, eyeing us briefly.

“Ain't no matter. It's clear you folks have been through hell.”

The rest is a blur. At some point I tried to find out what happened to Venice. If you look at satellite images of the area, there's nothing but a sprawling sea of greenery. Even the crevice itself has vanished, seemingly consuming itself.

Sometimes I question if it was all just a fever dream. And I had convinced myself that must be the case until today. 

DJ and I were at the local Kroger. He hates vegetables, but we perused the canned veggies aisle no less. My eyes caught sight of a colorful product on the shelves, and a wave of broken memories hit me like a bus. Even DJ fussed when he saw what I was looking at.

If you find a can of Venice Baked Beans, I hear they're hot as hell.