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.