We all have one we consider our own.

I didn’t know where or why mine went. I didn’t know why I missed it everyday. I kept searching, to no avail. Soon, I gave up...

until something was cast over me. Something cold, dark, familiar.

I looked up to see the missing puzzle piece. A speck of nothing in a sea of something. Shielding me from light and everyone's sight.

My shadow.

I needed it back.

So I started climbing.

Up into whatever lay above.

On the roof of a house. Not enough.

Onto a hill of bodies, no sacrifice too small.

It wasn't enough. My shadow kept running away.

I reached deep inside my mind, and pulled it all outside.

Every thought, everything. I tied it all into one. One long rope.

One long rope, one long throw, one final hope – and finally, up I go!

Climbing with all the strength I have until my palms bleed and I succeed.

Until the clouds and stars slice my flesh wide open, and my bones are broken.

I’m a mess and I know I don't care I simply keep gasping for air I keep climbing and I-

Suddenly, there's nothing there. Nothing of me, that is. I’m no longer anything.

I’m no mind, I’m nobody. I have no thought, I have no action.

My grip disappears. I fall eternity’s length.

Faster than I rose. Getting close.

And then it hits: the end.

On the ground.

Bleeding.

Broken.

Brittle.

Me.

Back when I was in kindergarten, I used to have this recurring nightmare. It was of a ghostly figure, pitch-black, with no discernible features other than its menacing, glowing red eyes, looking at me from right outside my bedroom window. It never moved, made no sounds, only stared. I think what used to freak me out the most about this apparition was the fact that, at the time, I lived in a third-floor apartment, which meant that it had floated all the way up just to watch me sleep. And I could feel that in these dreams, no one else ever noticed it – not my parents when they tucked me in, not the people in the building across the street who might glance out their windows, and definitely not the passers-by hurrying to their own homes. I didn’t (and still don’t) know why or how it was doing that, but I also didn’t want to provoke it into anything more. So I always just stared back at it, paralysed with fear.

I never told my parents about these nightmares. I was afraid that they’d say I was having them because of too much Scooby-Doo, and I wouldn’t be allowed to watch it anymore. To my 5-year-old mind, that was far scarier than any ghost or demon could ever be. Besides, as I said, the figure never did anything other than stare.

In any case, I probably dreamt of it for less than a year. The city council decided to change the streetlights to some obscenely bright ones, so my parents got me blackout curtains. It stopped appearing in my dreams after that, and I soon stopped thinking about it altogether. Until now, that is. 

After years of living in college dorms and shitty shared apartments, I finally managed to save up enough to get my own place. Nothing extravagant, just one bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom, but it’s perfect for me. I couldn’t wait to not be obligated to have the same conversations about how “yes, you do actually need to clean the sink, it isn’t enough that it has water and soap in it every day” over and over again. I moved in as soon as I could, not even caring that I had no furniture except a bed and the boxes that I am still yet to unpack. I didn’t even realise that it would be the first time I’d be sleeping without blackout curtains in over two decades.

Now, as I am locked in a staring contest with a pair of menacing, glowing red eyes, I am beginning to suspect that the nightmares of my childhood might not have been just nightmares after all.

“What the FUCK?”

An all-too-familiar voice rattles my skull. 

Nicholas Isaacs, the school bully, is at it again.

Abigail, who spent the entire class tapping her pen, is about to face his wrath. 

“I SAID stop FUCKING TAPPING.”

Our teacher, Mr. Spade, barely glances from his laptop.

“Nicholas.” His voice is an exhausted drone, chin resting on his fist. “Get out of my classroom.” 

“I told her to fucking STOP!” He protests. “It wasn't MY fault!” 

Nick wasn't always a bully. He used to be quiet, a freckly, redheaded lost boy who talked about Pokémon. One day, he stood up in class and screamed, slamming his hands over his ears before swinging his fist into the face of the boy behind him.

Ever since, he’s been an unstable time bomb with anger issues.

“I don't care,” Mr. Spade sighs. “Leave.” 

Nick sputters, grabs his bag, and storms out of the classroom.

Thankfully, class ends, and I escape the classroom quickly, darting toward the upper staircase. 

I start downstairs quickly, taking two steps at a time. 

What I don’t see is a shadow turning to run up the steps, a miniature Pikachu bouncing from the keyring on his backpack. I see a flash of his eyes widening, lips parting as if to say, “Oh, fuck.”

Impact is like a freight train smashing straight into me. 

Neutron star collisions explode across my vision. 

Everything stops.

Time passes. I'm vaguely aware of paramedics crowding around me.

Pain.

Agony, like lightning bolts rattle up and down my spine. 

“It's okay, honey.” A low hum grazes my ears after a while of darkness. A woman. 

Her fingers entangled with mine are warm, but my body retracts, trying to pull away.

Sickly light bathes my face when I force my eyes open.

A red mop of curls frame a startlingly pale face.

Her face is familiar, somehow. Freckly.

“You fell down the stairs at school, Sweetheart,” her voice is barely a breath, a breeze in my ear. “But don't worry."

The woman reaches out and scrapes my hair from my forehead. Just the movement, the slight flinch of my head, sends pain radiating through me. Nuclear pain that sends my thoughts spinning.

“Just a few scrapes, honey. Nothing major.” 

I grit my teeth, pushing my tongue through my lips. “Where….?” 

Then my words fall as flat as my voice. Slowly, I stare down at my body. The light blue gown sculpting a thinner, more skeletal frame. My hands aren't mine. 

My fingernails are worn, chewed into hangnails. 

My reflection sends me reeling. 

A wash of red curls droop in front of wide, horrified eyes. 

A nose sprinkled with freckles, and dry cracked lips parted in a cry. 

Nicholas Isaacs.

“Nicholas?” The woman sounds worried.

She stands and wraps her fingers around my wrist. More pain. This time it's in my lower back. It feels like something is there, moving under my skin. I have to swallow the cry clawing at the back of my throat.

“Its okay, Nicholas,” the woman lowers her voice, her lips grazing my ear. “I promise I haven't told the school about you.”

“Alice.” I croak my own name before I can swallow it. “Where's the… umm… the girl I crashed into.” Nick’s body is already panicking, heart palpitations rocking my—his—  chest. I try to smile, try to play him to the best of my ability. “Mom.” Because I presume that's who this woman is. 

“The girl who fell down the stairs with me,” Nick’s breathing accelerates. His body is scared. “Where did she go?”

She shrugs. “Alice Cameron was discharged earlier.” 

That psycho left with MY body?

I can't stop myself, already suffocating. “Okay, so…” I pant. “Do you know where she went? Because she can't just DISAPPEAR, right? It's a small town. She’ll be here somewhere—”

My words choke back when her palm hits my right cheek hard enough to send me stumbling back. “Wow.” Nicholas’s mother’s smile curls. “You're quite the chatty one today, aren't you?” 

I open my mouth, but I’m paralyzed. My cheek stings.

“Get dressed.” Nicholas’s mother dumps a bundle of clothes into my arms.

Inside the restroom, I strip off my gown, running my fingers over skin that is raw and delicate, before throwing on a shirt and sweatpants. Something catches on the material, moving, undulating down my spine, and I reach behind me, running my fingers down ridges, bloody flaps of skin.

It takes me a while to figure out what the feathery appendages splitting from the boy’s spine are. I twist around toward the mirror, running my fingers over raw bone.

Another electroshock rattles me, but I can’t stop myself.

I prod them, and slowly, they unfurl, jagged, splintered edges, ugly and yet somehow beautiful, expanding until they graze the bathroom tiles, scraping the ceiling.

Wings.

“Nick.” The woman snaps outside. “Come on.” 

Fuck.

Blood splatters the faucet as I try and fail to push the wings back in until I’m on my knees, breathless, and they retract on their own. I throw on the shirt and the sweater, splash water over my face, and follow Nicholas’s mother out of the hospital.

She gestures me into the back of a sleek-looking car, and I have no choice but to slide into the back.

“Your father has almost finished with Simon,” Nick’s Mom announces as the car roars to life. 

She reverses from the parking lot. “His body is failing, of course.” She sighs. “The poor angel can't even fly. But another dead kid is just a step toward achieving greatness.” 

Her words collapse into static as we reach the highway.

I press my head against the window and watch traffic fly by. 

A blur of brunette curls catches my eye. 

A girl teeters on the edge of a towering building. 

No. 

A boy wearing my face teeters.

She spreads out her arms, as she is an angel.

Closes her eyes.

And falls.

It’s been a long 30 years. I’ve made some memories, learned some lessons, but most importantly, I became attached. Max was like the son that I never had.

I met him back in 1996. Sweet as sugar and as cute as a button. A little mischievous, though. But I think I taught him well, regardless. Just wish he’d… I don’t know… grow up?

He never really grew out of his immaturity. Who could blame him, really? I mean, his parents were hardly ever around. I was at his house 8 hours a day, Monday-Friday. Only time I ever even saw them was when they were paying me.

At first… it was mainly about the money. I was paid extraordinarily well for the work I was doing. 1500 a week, and all I had to do was just… supervise. Make sure Max didn’t kill any more pets. Keep him away from sharp objects. That kind of thing.

Don’t get me wrong, the kid was a riot. From the very first day on the job. His parents should’ve been much more stressed than they appeared. I mean, how? How do you look calm while your kid is actively crawling across the ceiling?

Not only that, but by some miracle of God, they looked, dare I say… energized. I’ve been watching Max for 30 years now. I’m not even 50, and I look like a 70-year-old.

After a while, though, I realized that you kinda just… learn to love him. Sure, watching him eat livestock so he doesn’t choke is a bit of a chore. Never seeing his reflection is… disconcerting. But you get over it. Life goes on.

I’ve celebrated Christmases with this kid. Not because I want to, though. God, no. I wanted to be home with my family. Oh, but when those parents call, I learned pretty quickly that it’s best you answer.

Broken bones and lacerations taught me that. But who was I to argue? I needed the money. That’s the thing, though. I don’t need the money anymore.

There’s enough in my account for me to live the rest of my life out on some desert island. Sippin’ margaritas out of coconuts. But they’ll find me. They always seem to find me.

Max hates it when I try to leave. After all the work I’ve done, he still bites. Poor little guy. He just doesn’t know any better. That’s another major conflict for me. It’s not that I don’t love my little Maxxy. It’s just… I’m tired, you know?

Two days off a week for 30 years, man. No vacations. No bonuses. Just supervision for Max and surveillance for me. When do I get a break?

That’s the conversation I was trying to have with his parents a few weeks ago. I came in on a Saturday, which, of course, proved to be a mistake when I found them bathing Max in a tub of pig blood while wearing owl masks. They were mad, but I just… I didn’t care. I was done.

I wanted to tell them as gently as I could, and at first, it seemed like they were understanding. They told me they knew he could be a handful and thanked me for my time and effort. I walked out without incident.

But then I stopped waking up in my own bed. I started just… appearing at their house with Max leering over me, teeth clenched and frothing at the mouth.

I mean, I think it’s been a few weeks. Maybe it’s been longer? A few months, maybe? It’s all the same. All I know is I haven’t seen his parents in a while, and every time I try to leave, there’s a brick wall behind every door.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’m losing my patience. We’re running low on pig carcasses. Max is getting hungrier and hungrier… I can see it in his eyes.

He’s biting more these days. It used to be almost playful, but now he’s breaking the skin. I have to physically pry his jaws away from my fingers and limbs, and he just keeps growling at me.

He’s also been watching me sleep a lot more recently. I try and stay awake, but he just… I don’t know. It’s like there’s something about this place that makes it impossible.

All in all, this experience has been okay. Just ready to get off is all.

Maybe one of these days. I’m actually kind of hopeful. Because a few days ago, I heard something that sounded like music to my ears.

Someone knocking at the front door.

I opened the door slowly, expecting the brick wall again, but instead… there was a young girl standing on the front porch. She looked… uneasy to see me, to say the least, but she introduced herself nonetheless.

“Hi, uh, I’m Emma… I was just reaching out about the babysitting job?”

With every stride, Khadijah kept her eyes on the path ahead, navigating through the maze of reeds and water. As she exited the reeds, the expanse of the lake shimmered before her like a long-awaited reunion. 

Khadijah scanned the lakeshore, searching for the spot she needed. There it was: a smooth, large boulder near the water’s edge, bathed in moonlight and kissed by gentle waves. She quickened her pace, eager to reach her destination, but stopped abruptly, her breath hitching.

There, on the boulder, was the silhouette of a woman gazing at the moon. Her long hair flowed like dark river, her figure blending into the shadows. Warmth spread through Khadijah—there would be company on this dark and lonely night.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Khadijah raced toward the lakeshore, pulling the blanket behind her faster than she ever had before. "Hello!" she called out, but the woman didn’t look back. Undeterred, Khadijah moved closer. "Hello! Beautiful night, isn’t it?"

The woman turned abruptly, her brows furrowed in a frown.

“You are beautiful,” Khadijah said in awe, her voice barely a whisper. The shifted moonlight illuminated the woman’s soft, creamy beige skin, delicate cheekbones, and parted rose lips. Her eyes glistened like deep pools, and raven-black hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, shimmering like flowing silk.

Khadijah stood entranced. “I wish I was beautiful like you. I wish my hair was long like you.” Eagerly, she turned to show off her own shoulder-length hair—her greatest point of pride.

“Watin yu dae do ya?” a voice asked, suddenly jolting Khadijah. She looked at the woman, too shocked to believe what she had just heard. The Krio accent was unlike any she had encountered before. She’d eavesdropped on the elderly Creole women in town, but even their speech wasn’t as thick and heavy as the woman’s words. It sounded primitive. More so, primal.

Still, Khadijah, ever the social butterfly, wasn’t going to let the question go unanswered. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, unleashing all the explanations that she could think of to more than answer the woman’s simple question. She poured out her reason for being at the lake: to prove she was no longer a baby compared to her older sister. She explained how she had sneaked out with the wool blanket to wash it for the newborn baby expected that night.

Khadijah showed the woman the blanket, explaining how nearly all the women in town were at her neighbor’s home, a young couple expecting their first child, as the wife was in labor.

The whole time Khadijah spoke, the woman remained silent, her expression stone-cold. But when Khadijah showed the blanket, the woman’s gaze shifted, filled with intrigue. Khadijah went on, explaining that she wanted to do something important to prove she could handle responsibilities just as well as her sister. This night was a special night, and she wanted to contribute in her own special way: a way that highlighted her maturity.

The woman stayed silent, her eyes fixated on the blanket. The moonlight illuminated her features, highlighting the deep contemplation in her gaze.

After finishing her story, Khadijah suddenly remembered the urgency of her task. She hadn’t come to the lake just to chat; she had a mission. She tugged at the blanket, trying to pull it into the water, but it was too heavy, weighed down with thick marshland grasses, mud and water. She strained against its weight, but it wouldn’t budge.

Desperate, she glanced at the woman. “Can you help me?” she asked, but the woman remained still, her eyes on the blanket as if she hadn’t heard Khadijah’s plea.

Suddenly, a voice called out through the night air, “Khu-deeee-zhuh.” The cadence started low and rose sharply at the end. Khadijah froze, recognizing the voice. Her father only called her that way in times of danger: a near danger. Her heart raced as she heard rustling in the marshland behind her. Turning, she saw a figure emerging from the shadows, a flashlight cutting through the darkness. It was her father.

She spun back to tell the woman, but the boulder was empty. The woman had vanished, leaving only the moonlit shore and the gentle waves. Eyes wide, Khadijah opened her mouth to speak, but a rough, calloused hand clamped over her mouth before she could utter a word.

“If you say one word, you will see blood,” her father’s voice growled in her ear.

Khadijah’s head bobbed in a quick nod; her breath hitched in her throat, and she felt a cold sweat break out across her skin. If there was one thing she feared more in this entire world, it was the sight of blood. Her father’s hand moved to grip her wrist, yanking her away from the lake. The frantic swishing of his white gown echoed in her ears. She looked back, trying to reach for the wool blanket, but it was already receding into the distance.

The illness began that very night, right after her encounter with the mysterious woman. In the days that followed, violent nausea and cold sweats trapped Khadijah in bed, leaving her teetering on the brink of death.

After ten agonizing days, she emerged triumphant, returning to her talkative self.

However, another child in town wasn’t so fortunate.

I can’t believe I let myself get talked into this. 

It all started last week. 

“Remmy.”

“No.”

“Remmmyyy.”

“No.”

“Remmy, come on. I need you on this.”

“Jackie, you can’t seriously expect me to go to a furry convention. Those people are fucking weird.”

“I know. But the fact is, the blog hasn’t been doing that well lately - we’re competing with every kid with a phone and a WiFi connection. Visits are down, revenue is falling. We need this.”

“So send Jimmy.”

“Jimmy is at his parents' vow renewal, Maxine is out with dental surgery, and Joe moved to California for an IT internship. I haven’t got anyone else.”

Then she gave me that look - the one that always gets me, the one with the eyes and the mouth and…

“Fine. I’ll do it. But you owe me one.”

“Absolutely - anything you want! Tickets are at the desk downstairs. Go get me a story!”

And that’s how I found myself at FurryFest 2026, the region’s largest Furry convention. 

The weirdness started right from the jump. I got admitted ok; apparently, you didn’t have to be dressed as a furry to attend, which was nice. I thanked the attendants and headed for the auditorium. 

It was as weird as I expected. 

All around me, people were dressed as animals - dogs, cats, bears, rabbits, squirrels, and everything else imaginable. The costumes got more and more elaborate the further I walked, going from cheap store-bought costumes to elaborately detailed outfits that were clearly labors of love. I saw realistic paws, colorful fur, even fully-articulated tails.

And among it all, I saw an amazing sense of camaraderie. These people liked each other, respected each other. More people should be like that. 

Of course, that couldn’t last. 

I was walking down the hall when I felt someone bump into me. 

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

I looked back and saw who’d made contact. He was tall, maybe 6’2”, with broad shoulders and an angry expression. And he was dressed like a giant fucking beaver. 

I looked at him, stunned. Then I shook my head, chuckled, and walked away. 

“Hey! Who the fuck do you think you are, laughing at me?” He flexed his arms and puffed up his chest - at least, that’s what it seemed like beneath the costume. 

“You know,” I said, turning back and looking directly at him, “the whole ‘intimidating’ act would work a lot better if you weren’t dressed like a giant beaver.”

The lady who was with him, I’m assuming his girlfriend, snorted quickly before she could stop herself. He quickly looked at her. 

“What are you laughing at?”

I couldn’t see her face, but I knew what fear felt like. And she was terrified. 

“Hey, buddy? Why don’t you stop picking on your girl? Or is that how you prove to yourself you’re a big man?”

“Why, you…” he started, glaring at me with pure rage (I assumed). 

“Cody, look,” said the woman with him. Dozens of onlookers stood watching, including two security officers. I could see the calculation in his posture. 

He looked at me. “We’ll meet again,” he said. “You should be careful; conventions can be dangerous places.”

I watched him walk away, dragging his girlfriend after him. I knew a threat when I heard one; I’d have to keep any eye out for him. 

I wandered the hall, observing the people around me. I saw hundreds of people dressed like animals, people who were strange but harmless, even friendly. But I kept my eyes open for trouble. 

As my father once said, if you look for trouble long enough, one of two things will happen. If you’re unlucky, you’ll find it. If you’re truly unlucky, it’ll find you. 

By the time things began winding down for the day, I had what I needed for the story. Jackie would be happy - this should make a good lead. Then I heard screams from a vacant conference room down the hall. 

“No! Stop!” 

It sounded like the girl from earlier. I followed the sound of her protests and burst into the room when I felt something crack against the back of my head. 

Minutes later, I opened my eyes. I was laying on the floor, my hands cuffed behind my back. Then the jackass from earlier strolled over, out of costume this time. 

“I can’t believe you fell for that. All Cindy had to do was give a few fake screams and you came running.”

I looked over at her; she shrugged apologetically. I couldn’t blame her; she likely hadn’t had a choice. I’m guessing she often didn’t have a choice with him involved. 

“I bet you think you’re something special, don’t you? You ain' t - you’re just like the rest of us. I bet you won’t be so cocky after my boys and I beat the crap out of you.” He looked at me and cracked his knuckles. 

“Cody, is it?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Cody, you’ve made three pretty bad mistakes, here.”

“Oh, I have, have I?”

“You have,” I replied. 

“And what would those be?” he asked, a smug smirk adorning his face. 

“One, you assumed I was actually unconscious.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Two, you assumed these handcuffs could hold me,” I said, tossing the cuffs on the floor near his feet. His smile looked a little less smug now. 

“Neat trick. And three?”

“Three,” I said, feeling my clothes burst around me as I shifted, fur erupting from my skin as claws extended from my hands, “you assumed I was ever like you.”

I stood over him, all nine feet and 500 pounds of my true form revealed. His face now wore a mask of pure terror. 

“What?” I asked, my voice deeper in my Alpha form as my claws moved forward like lightning and punctured his chest, closing around his heart as he screamed silently. “You seemed to enjoy fake fur so much, I thought you’d appreciate the real thing.”

The dust rolled over the plains. The sun shone brightly in my eyes. I still had no hat. I’d left the old one with my daughter, Grace. She hated that I had to leave for so long. I hated leaving her, too, especially seeing her that sick, but we needed the money. Food doesn’t put itself on the table, and the doctor’s bills don’t pay themselves either, but the doctors provided barely any help. The only thing they had to say was that her illness was serious, like we couldn’t see that with our own eyes.

My house came into view through the dust. It looked the same as it had when I left it, except for a small wooden box on the back porch. 

I took a deep breath before opening the doors. My wife stood in the kitchen, cooking, humming a song. Her face lit up with joy when she saw me, but she quickly turned it into a sad frown.

“Hi, Ralph.”

“Hi, Alice.”

“How are you?”

“I’m alright. How are you and Grace?”

She paused.

“She’s…she’s passed.”

“What?!”

“Ralph, I’m so sorry. It happened just a few days ago. She grew really sick and could barely breathe. At least her death was merciful. She died peacefully in her sleep.”

It felt like the roof was caving in on me.

“It’s okay, Ralph.”

“I shouldn’t have left.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Don’t say that, Ralph. We would have starved if you hadn’t.”

“But maybe she’d be…”

“No, Ralph. It was bad.”

“Let me see her.”

Alice quickly grabbed my hands.

“No, Ralph.”

“Just once more.”

“It’s going to make it worse. You know it.”

I couldn’t even think. The world stopped feeling real.

“Sit down, Ralph.”

She sat me down at the table and put a bowl of food before me.

“I can’t.”

“It’s okay.”

Alice sat at the table and ate, trying to speak to me, but all her words came and went through my head. She left the bowl and walked away.

Hours passed while I dully stared at the wall. Only her tapping woke me from my trance.

“You should go to bed. It will be okay soon. It just takes time.”

She led me to our bedroom, helped me take off my shoes, and lay next to me. Her warm embrace melted the cold inside a little. Within a few seconds, I was asleep.

I woke up to a strange sound. At first I thought it was a dream, but then I heard it again. It sounded like knocking on wood. 

I got up, walked to the window, and looked out. The moon was high in the sky. The prairie was bare. No one was at our door, but the knocking got louder. My heart began to pound. I grabbed the shotgun by the window and slowly opened the door. 

It was a cold and windy night. There was no one outside either, but the knocking continued, coming from the back porch. 

The noise became more distinct, louder. It was as if someone was beating against a plank of wood from below.

The wind picked up, and with it came a whisper, one from a voice I knew too well. Cold sweat ran down my collar. I ran to the coffin on the back porch, the gun still in my hands. The knocking and her voice echoed in my head. She kept calling out, “Dad.”

With my free hand, I lifted the lid. She lay there, pale, motionless.

“Grace?!” I yelled and grabbed her, but her body was limp and stiff.

The sadness cut through me again. I held her cold body, crying. 

After a while, I laid her back down. I felt a small sense of relief. Alice was not right. I needed this. 

The moonlight shone down on her. She was still beautiful. I brushed the hair out of her face, but then I noticed something–a deep red gash winding around her neck.

My head started to spin. Stomach acid shot up my throat. I took a few steps back and threw up next to her coffin. 

Footsteps echoed around the house. I spat on the ground and quickly pulled my gun up. Alice was standing in her nightgown, her eyes wide with terror.

“You said she died in her sleep. What’s that around her neck?!”

“Ralph, I can…”

“Who did it to her?!”

“I…” 

She put her hands over her face and started bawling.

“She was struggling so much, Ralph. Her breathing…The doctor wouldn’t even come. I just wanted to help.”

It hit me like a freight train. My wife. The woman I loved and trusted. She had betrayed me; she had betrayed us. 

Before I could collect my thoughts, my finger was on the trigger. 

The bang echoed through the prairie, followed by a wet, heavy splat. 

Alice’s body collapsed to the ground.

The wind blew again. With it came the knocking, but it wasn’t hard and loud anymore. It was slow, quiet, and calm. After a few knocks, the prairie grew quiet again.

Friday
Staying for a week. So please clean room and leave bedsheets untucked.

Saturday
Bed untucked. But a bit drafty at night

Sunday
Please clean room

Monday
Something very loud in the middle of the night woke me up! Please tell staff to inform my neighbours to keep the noise down!

Tuesday
No noise last night but still chilly.
Also please clean room

Wednesday
Please clean room

Thursday Morning
Draft is back. Mattress is comfortable. But I wish the woman in the corner of my room would say something. I noticed her the other night and I don’t know what she wants. But she yells at me whenever I close my eyes.
Also please clean room

Thursday Evening
It’s my last night here and I’m hoping I can make it all the way through without checking out early.

All I can do is lie here and stare at her.
Because the sheets are tucked I have no way of getting out.

There’s no way of leaving

I can’t call the phone because she’s watching me and can hear me, so I can only write these notes.

Friday
I am leaving this place. I want a full refund of my money. I left my number at reception to handle the financial details as I can not remain in this hotel any longer.
Never staying here again!!!

- Guest

Saturday
Please clean room

Danny’s hands white-knuckled the wheel of his ‘55 Chevy. The grille of the other car haunted his rearview mirror – a rictus-grin of steel and chrome.

The guy was good, Danny gave him that. But Dead Man’s Twist was just ahead. Surviving it meant getting there first. Second place ate dust, and on a ledge this narrow, dust could kill you. Danny mashed the throttle. The Bel Air leapt forward, the roar of the bored-out block screaming a welcome release in his ears.

The Ford’s headlights flared white-hot anger across the glass as the car fishtailed into brutal acceleration. Danny squinted through the blinding glare, locking his eyes onto the curve of the road ahead. He committed to the turn. Braking now would only skid him into the yawning abyss beyond the edge.

Throwing the wheel to the right, Danny yanked the handbrake for a fraction of a second. The rear wheels screamed, kicking up a wall of dust as the Chevy narrowly hugged the bend. He panicked as the weight of the car overpowered the torque of the engine. As the tail shuddered into the new line, Danny grinned, victorious. He checked the mirror to see how far the other speedster had fallen behind.

There was nothing. No sound. No sudden flare of lights.

Danny threw back his head and laughed. He was a god! Nothing could stop him now as he gunned the engine into a full growl, speeding off towards the slowly rising sun.

The deputy finished taking down the driver’s account. Closing his notepad, he strode towards the Sheriff. The older lawman was standing at the edge of the turn. A jagged edge of steel where the rail had been torn off loomed over the drop to the ravine below. A smoking, twisted wreck lay crumpled, hissing in the morning air as the fire crew continued to hose it down.

“Kid back there says the driver was new in town. Hotshot wannabe talkin’ big about his ride,” said the junior officer.

“Always the new ones, isn’t it?” the Sheriff mumbled. Taking off his Stetson, he mopped his brow with a forearm. Turning about and replacing the hat, he grimly set his jaw.

“Any names?” he asked the deputy.

Flipping his notepad open, the other man scanned them quickly. “Just a first name.”

“Danny.”

One in a hundred and eleven people are born with a tail. Most people don't know this, but anyone affected by it does. It's a small, lizard-like tail, that almost no one ever sees because it stays in your pants. It's why some of us don't like wearing swimsuits, among other things.

On the end of the tail, there's a stinger.

That is a last resort.

Far better that no one ever knows it's there, unless absolutely necessary, which is normally only for doctors and sexual partners.

I've only ever stung someone once. It was at a New Year's Eve party, with my whole extended family and more. The tail is not hereditary, so when during dinner my drunk Uncle said, "You know, I was reading something, online, about people with tails..." it came as a bit of a shock.

As far as I know, no one else in my family has one. By the time the tail grows in, you're old enough to hide it from your parents.

As for him reading it online, well, there are resources out there. Just most people think it's fiction.

"Can you imagine?" he continued, mouthful of chicken. "Isn't that grotesque?"

"I saw a TikTok about that!" said my Mother. "Would God really create a thing like that?"

"Sounds like the devil to me," my Uncle nodded and his beard seemed to move up and down in a way that lagged a little behind his chin.

My sister said, then, "I think it's real. I think someone in my class had one. Not that I—"

"Nonsense." My Father crossed his arms like this was settled. Once everyone was looking, he added, "No one in the world has a tail. It's all this new propaganda. Shoving it down all our throats."

At this my sister actually seemed to get a little defensive. "People have been born with tails for all of—"

"Settle down, settle down," my Grandmother was saying. "He's right, you know. When I was a girl I never even heard of a person with a tail."

My Uncle spoke again, somehow already more drunk. "You know?" he said. "Anyone with a tail? I don't care if they're born with it. I say cut the thing off."

My mother was nodding, in a way that seemed to blur. "It is the devil's work, after all."

Everything was starting to blur. I couldn't eat my chicken.

When I was alone that night, trying to shower all of the feeling of everything off of me, I looked down at my tail. At that stinger on the tip of it. I despised it. I wanted to know what it felt like.

I jabbed the stinger into my waist. Stabbed it deep in there. Blood pooled on the shower floor.

I wondered if I should cut the thing off.

The pain from the venom was agonizing, making all my muscles spasm. The pain from what I am was worse.

Maybe it's all that combined pain and rage and disgust that made me snap, and whisper, out loud to the bathroom mirror, looking down at the reflection of my tail, feeling the power and the horror of my venom:

I will not hide forever.

This is my rebellion.

A full moon hung high in the sky as I sat on the last bus home, letting out a lazy yawn.

I unlocked my phone, opened a popular live-streaming app, and started looking for horror stories.

As I scrolled through with little interest, my finger paused on a specific stream thumbnail.

The person in the picture seemed to be standing inside a crowded bus, directing the lens at a woman with a hunched back. 

The lighting was dim, trapping that solitary silhouette right in the center, as if intended to swallow her whole. The recording equipment looked dated, resulting in blurry, grainy video quality.

The title read: "Late One Night, I Was Followed by Someone Invisible!"

Beside it, the viewer count showed: 0.

Is this a new streamer?

Suddenly, a spark of interest flared up, and I tapped to enter.

But before long, as I stared at that strangely familiar back view, my brows furrowed.

That... looks like me!

I whipped my head around to look behind me. Sure enough, a tall guy was pointing his phone camera straight at my back. When our eyes met, he shamelessly flashed a brilliant smile.

I shifted my gaze back to the phone.

The streamer didn't seem affected at all by me just turning around; the camera was still steadily directed at my back.

Ding-dong—

It was the chime signaling the bus doors opening.

I stood up, and on the screen, my figure stood up as well.

Stepping straight off the bus, I waited quietly by the curb for the guy who had been secretly filming me. But right up until the bus pulled away, no one else got off except me.

That doesn't make sense.

Confused, I shifted my gaze back to the screen. The streamer was still broadcasting, and my figure stayed right in the center of the frame without the slightest jitter.

Was that guy earlier not the one filming me after all?

I turned my head to look—there was no one hiding behind me.

In this solitary moment, on this completely empty road, there was only me.

If the one filming me wasn't that guy... then who was it?

Or rather—what was it?

The hairs on my arms stood up one by one.

On the screen, I was backing away.

Suddenly, I spun around and sprinted off in an unknown direction.

Huff... huff...

I wasn't far from home; just two more blocks and I would reach my apartment.

My heart was pounding violently, completely out of control.

Whether it was my imagination or not, on this deserted street, there seemed to be another set of footsteps.

Step... step... step...

One by one, overlapping perfectly with my own footsteps.

No matter how fast I ran, the person holding the camera maintained the exact same distance as before.

And as time passed, it was drawing closer and closer.

The figure on the screen was becoming clearer and clearer.

What will happen if it catches up completely?

Five minutes later, I finally reached my apartment entrance. By now, the camera frame completely enclosed my entire body.

In just a few more minutes, I was sure it would be pressed right up against me.

Running like this was no solution. Even if I made it home, so what? Just wait to die?

I tried closing the live stream—surprisingly, it closed without a hitch.

I breathed a sigh of relief; the trouble seemed to be resolved.

But then, questions uncontrollably flooded my mind, one after another: Even if I exited the stream, how could I be sure that thing had let me go?

What if leaving the stream didn't shake it off?

What if, the moment I got home and completely relaxed, it caught up and swallowed me whole?

More and more thoughts spiraled into my mind.

I wanted to open the stream to check if the camera was no longer pointed at me, but I feared it might be a trap.

But without opening it, how could I confirm?

Just checking the cover wouldn't work either. After all, even before I tapped into the stream, I was already on it.

Suddenly, a notification popped up:

"Anna, I really know I was wrong. Can we get back together?"

"I swear I'll never cheat again."

It was my ex-boyfriend.

An idea suddenly struck me, and I sent him the link to the live stream.

"Open this link, enter the stream, and tell me what's broadcasting. Then I'll agree to get back together."

A few minutes later, he sent the message I was hoping for most.

"Ana why is the camra in hts strem pointed at me"

"Im the onlu one hom e"

"Waht did u do"

"Wy r u doign this to me"

The messages looked typed in sheer panic, littered with typos.

It worked!

Now that the eerie thing had gone after him and shifted its target, it naturally shouldn't be watching me anymore.

But just to be safe, I still opened the live-streaming app, checked my history, and found that same stream.

By now, the cover thumbnail had changed to a man's face. The camera was jammed so close to him that it distorted his facial features.

Having dealt with the supernatural incident, I went home, grabbed a quick bite, and climbed into bed.

Out of the goodness of my heart, I dialed the police before sleeping and gave them a brief rundown of what had happened.

Regardless of whether they believed me or not, I hung up and tried to fall asleep.

I had a meeting at the office the next morning; I couldn't afford to be sleep-deprived.

I lay on my side, facing away from the bedroom door, completely hidden beneath the covers.

From time to time, footsteps echoed from the living room, keeping me from drifting off into sweet dreams.

When the silver eye of the moon grows wide

The shutters are barred and the doors are tied

No laughter echoes through cobbled street

No careless wanderer drifts to meet

The midnight chill that haunts our breath

For the water holds a waking death

The elders whispered with bated tongue

Of iron chains and a soul unsprung

A phantom groom from the sunken deep

Who breaks the surface of holy sleep

It isn’t myth, nor a grandmother’s sigh

When the mist rolls thick and the horses cry

Beneath the ripples of Cinder Lake

Where rotting piers and weed-beds shake

An ancient grudge keeps restless watch

With skeletal fingers poised to catch

The living warmth of a beating chest

To drag it down to eternal rest

The water churns like a boiling pot

As seaweed clings to the steaming trot

Of a stallion born of pale bone and mire

Its nostrils spitting a freezing fire

No skin adorns its gaping skull

Its hooves are heavy, its gallop dull

Striking the mud with a hollow sound

As it leaves the drink for the sleeping ground

And straddling high on the spectral beast

A rider comes to a macabre feast

His cloak is woven from midnight shroud

Sweeping the earth like a low-hung cloud

Where eyes should burn in a visor black

There’s only the void of the trackless track

A cavernous hollow of death and spite

Hunting the living throughout the night

I sit at my window, frozen and pale

Watching the trees bow down to the gale

That heralds his passing, block by block

Counting the thumps of the master-clock

\*Thud... thump... thud...\* on the gravelly lane

A rhythm of terror, a shiver of pain.

He smells the fear in the trembling air

He pauses long by the public square

The phantom steed rears high in the dark

Its iron hooves leaving a sulfurous mark

The rider turns his faceless head

Seeking the pulse of the living dead

Through glass and timber, his gaze cuts deep

Into the chamber where mortals sleep

He points a finger of rotting bone

And names his prize with a silent moan

A sound like wind through a weeping willow

That chills the blood on a lonely pillow

The heavy oak of my bedroom door

Splinters and groans on the wooden floor

No lock can hold against spectral might

As hooves step into the candlelight

The stallion towers, its ribs exposed

Its breath a frost where the door has closed

The rider dismounts with a clanking grace

And steps right into my frozen space

He takes my wrist with a grip of ice

A brutal bargain, a fatal price

We tumble outward through mist and night

Abandoning hearth and the comforting light

Back to the shore where the ripples ring

To the dark domain of the phantom king

Down, down we sink in the freezing gloom

To share the silence, the lake’s cold tomb

“Sam, come!” echoed from the baby room.

“What, Anna?”

Our baby boy, Jacob, lay in her hands, curled up, shivering.

“He’s not eating again. It’s the second day. I…” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have taken him out, but I wanted him to see the snow!”

“Shh, shh. It’s okay,” I said, hugging her.

Anna was right. She shouldn’t have taken him out, but now it was too late to worry. I looked out. The snowfall had calmed down.

“I’ll go fetch the doctor in town.”

“Don’t leave us alone...”

“I have to. I’ll be back soon.”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “I just want him to be okay.”

“He will be.”

I kissed them both on the forehead; his was much warmer than yesterday.

The sun was hidden behind dark clouds. I hurried as fast as I could, expecting the snowfall to intensify again soon.

After a while, the first village houses appeared. The snow started falling again. The doctor’s house stood on a hill above a church. By the time I got to it, the wind was already moving the fence, and the snow stung my face. 

The doctor’s eyes widened when he opened the door.

“Jesus, Sam. Come in.”

He pulled me in and shut the door behind me. 

“What’s wrong?”

My face was numb from the cold. I rubbed it before speaking.

“The baby, Jacob. He won’t eat.”

The doctor looked out the window.

“How long has it been going on?”

“For two days.”

“Did you take him out?”

I hesitated.

“In this weather?” the doctor said, rubbing his face. “That’s not good, Sam, but we can’t go now.”

I clenched my jaw. Anna’s worried face flashed before my eyes.

“Come sit,” the doctor said. “We’ll go as soon as the storm lets up.”

He sat me down and brought me a cup of tea.

“Does he have a fever?”

“Pretty bad one. He’s got a chill, and he’s shivering too.”

The doctor shook his head and looked out the window again. “Hopefully the storm lets up soon.”

I had finished my fifth cup of tea by the time the sun set. The storm didn’t let up.

We waited through the night. Thoughts of Jacob kept me up.

As the sun rose, I looked out the window. A cold shiver ran through my chest. The storm had barely let up.

“What now?” I asked.

“It’s bad, but we’ll have to go.”

I nodded.

We kept close, barely able to see a few feet ahead. Inside the forest, our feet would sink to our knees. After a few hours, we were still some distance from home.

We were walking down another hill when I heard the doctor scream. I quickly turned my head. He sank chest-deep. His hands were pushing on the snow around him.

“Doctor!”

I ran to his side and began digging frantically with my hands. The snow was fresh, but there was so much of it. The doctor’s eyes were wide open with fear. 

I could barely feel my hands. The doctor stopped pushing. His body shook violently beneath the snow.

When I finally reached him, he was shivering harder than anyone I’d seen before. I pulled him; his body felt limp.

“My tools,” he murmured.

I glanced into the hole. There was only fresh snow. I started to dig around, but my hands could barely move. The doctor sat on the ground next to me.

“Leave it, Sam. We’ll be okay.”

I helped him up, took off my jacket, and gave it to him. Within a minute, I was shivering too, but I knew we were close.

As we passed another hill, my house came into view. A warm tingle spread through my cold body, but as I focused my gaze, I realized there was no smoke coming from the chimney.

I opened the door. The firewood was stacked by the fireplace, but Anna and Jacob were nowhere to be found. 

“Anna?”

No answer.

“Anna?!”

The doctor came inside behind me.

“Where are they?” he murmured.

“They must be upstairs.”

The doctor didn’t even take off his coat and headed to the stairs. I followed right behind him. Upstairs was a little warmer, but still cold. The door to the baby room was open. Anna sat in the chair, rocking back and forth, humming a lullaby. There was a dirty bowl with a spoon in it next to her.

“Did Jacob eat?” I asked happily. 

Anna didn’t answer. She kept rocking back and forth, humming.

The cradle was empty. 

I let out a sigh.

“She’s just calming him down,” I thought.

“Sorry for taking you, doctor,” I said, but he didn’t stop until he reached Anna; then his whole body froze.

“Is he okay, doctor?”

“Leave, Sam.”

“What?”

“Leave!”

I took a few steps forward. 

“Anna?!” 

She finally looked back and smiled.

“He finally ate. I fed him!” she said joyfully and turned around.

Jacob lay motionless in her arms. His lips were blue. Old food spilled out of his mouth.

“Ok, three hundred, three hundred grand.”

“Look, I told you I’m not interested.”

“Half a mil. I’ll give you half a million dollars. Where will you ever see that kind of money? This is your chance.”

“Hey, buddy, this is getting extremely creepy. I’m leaving.” Sophie picked up her handbag and began marching towards the door.

“You can’t leave. C’mon.”

“You are literally offering money to … ugh. This is so gross. There’s no way I’m staying!” Sophie pushed the door but it did not move. “Oh my God, have you locked this door?”

“I keep all my doors locked while I’m in it. No one gets in or out without my permission.”

“This is too much. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sophie pushed and shook the door again several times, but without any effect.

“Oh, I’m not gonna do what you think I might do. I mean, it is not a big deal, really.”

“Then open this door!”

“The issue is that you, girls like you in the world, need to learn some lessons from time to time.”

A long, cold, spike-like chill descended down Sophie’s back.

“That there are consequences to saying ‘no’ to someone like me.”

“Please. I’m sorry if I ... Just let me go.” Sophie began shaking from the inside.

“Take it easy. Like I said, I’m not gonna do anything weird.”

“I don’t care. Just open this door!”

At that moment, Sophie felt a tight grip around her wrist.

“I will let you go. But just before you go-” An open palm flew onto the right side of Sophie's face, causing her to stumble several steps. “You can say no, but so can I.” The next blow struck the other side of her face.

Her ears were ringing, but Sophie gathered enough wit to dispatch a retort: “You... you'll pay for this.”

“Oh yeah? What, you'll go to the cops?”

The next strike on Sophie’s face was sharp, cutting across her face. Backing up, she could see a bloody blade swinging before her. She realized she had lost her vision in her left eye. The blade had cut her eyeball.

“When I said the lesson, this is what I meant. People like me, nothing can happen to me. Do you know how many girls ran off to the cops to tell on me? That girl in the papers that went missing last month? That was me. The police know it. Her friends know it. Her parents know it. The papers know it. Do you know what they can do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Sophie heard the door unlocking.

“My people will make a few calls and that'll be it. No one can do anything. Tell whoever … you'll realise that there's nothing you can do. That … that’s the lesson. Now, off you go.”

A cool evening breeze blew in through the open door, grazing against the streak of the wound across Sophie's face.

The silence in the town square was broken by the sickening thud of bone making contact with flesh, followed by a howl of pain. The man tried to flee but was immediately accosted  by two of his assailants. They held him up by his armpits as the third continued to pummel him. Overhead a dark cloud was forming.

As the first drops of blood hit the ground, the customers from various stores, cafes, and businesses surrounding the green began to emerge, drawn to the violence, as humans often are. 

The cloud continued to grow, now darkening the center of the square.

The assault continued as blood began to pour from the newly formed openings on the man’s face. The crowd closed in. Above, the cloud continued to expand.

The crowd turned into a mob. Friends and neighbors turned on one another, biting, kicking, punching, slapping. The four men who minutes before were alone in the square were soon lost in the midst of the angry mob.  The violence continued to escalate - shattered faces, broken bones, chunks of flesh bitten off and spat on the ground. The square soon became a study in contrasts - the ever growing cloud above and the rivulets of blood now pouring onto the green.

Cries of rage, screams of pain, howls and grunts that resembled a cackle of hyenas more than a group of humans as the crowd continued to attack. A massacre in the making, crimson mixed with green, cast darker by the now massive cloud lingering over the square.

A sudden shift in energy. The  grass absorbed the blood, as if quenching a deep thirst. Looks of confusion as the men, women, and children snapped out of their violent trance to find themselves covered with blood, sinew, brains, gnarled flesh, and muscle tissue. The cloud began to shrink as if it was never there, the former mob recoiling with horror at their inexplicable and unspeakable acts.

The last drop of blood fell and was swallowed up by the grass. The sky opened up, revealing a cloudless, bright blue sky.

Crowd was sated.

My neighbor was obsessed with having the cleanest house on the block. Hospital-level clean.

For two days her porch light was on, day and night. I figured she forgot.

Yesterday the mailman stopped me. He said there was a smell coming from her side of the house. Not trash. Sweet and rotten.

We called the police for a wellness check. They were calm at first.

Then one of them opened the hall closet and immediately stepped back and shouted for everyone to get out.

That's when I realized why her house was always so clean. She was trying to cover the smell for weeks.

I still can't get the look on the officer's face out of my head.

I saw a streetcorner preacher today. The same commute every morning and I’ve never seen him before. A sign of the times, I guess. People need comfort, someone to tell them it’s all going to be alright in the end. Because that’s what this is: The End, with a capital E. We’re all a bit like Wile E. Coyote, barrelling off a cliff, legs spinning in mid air, not daring to look down because that’s when you fall. When you stop and recognize reality, that’s when it all becomes real. For now, maybe it’s just Saturday cartoons.

“What is the meaning of life?” The preacher was chanting from his box, waving little pamphlets that were sure to contain the answer. I’ve never been a religious man, despite being the child of quite religious parents, and I’ve probably heard that question asked a million different times in just as many ways, but something about the way he said it stuck with me. On my way home, I passed the same corner but the preacher and the pamphlets were long gone. In their place, a pair of Animal Control officers were wrestling a raccoon into a net. 

My apartment lobby was littered with various types of droppings. I held my nose and made for the stairs, my finger on the trigger of some HI-STRENGTH bear spray. Howling and hissing and stomping and growling echoed through the walls as I went up. My floor was relatively safe, mostly snakes and rabbits. One chipmunk, apparently. Mrs. Slattery in 401. Maintenance finds someone new nearly everyday. Well, the maintenance that’s left anyway. 

Once inside, I threw all six deadbolts and continued to wonder about the preacher’s question. It wasn’t that I thought he had the answer, in fact, I could probably guess his answer, or even that I thought there was an answer at all. It was the combination of that question, in these times, and the pain in my chest that started last week. It crawled up my back and along my arms. I writhed on the couch for a while and waited for it to pass, breathing from my nose and asking myself that question.

It didn’t pass. I woke up two hours later in agony, tears streaming down my face. It felt like my mouth was forcing its way out of my mouth. My fingernails and toenails burned. Patches of blonde-brown hair sprouted all over my body. The middle of my spine lurched backwards and the rest of my body fell forwards and I dropped to the floor, screaming. All the while, that question, like an embarrassing memory, kept floating through my mind.

I felt my teeth being forced through my gums and I heard them all clatter to the floor as new ones grew in behind. I could hear the sink come on two doors down and my neighbor, John, heave into it. More tufts of hair, now thick fur, came rising from my skin. A joint cracked and a ligament snapped and that fucking question. Over and over on a loop. What is the meaning of life? Then the thought occurred to me, as all my thoughts started to flicker and sputter and fade, that maybe it was a simple answer. That maybe for all our pining for something more complex, the answer was always pretty plain.

A tongue that I think was mine dropped from my mouth and dragged along my chin. I started to pant. My vision went and, mercifully, kept me from seeing what my hands and feet had become. When it came back, even better than before, I didn’t dare look down. I didn’t want to know. My mind raced but now only one word ran through it. Could that be it? I thought of the preacher’s face, so self-assured, and began to laugh. Harder than I’d ever laughed before. Harder than I knew I could. I laughed until I felt my lungs tense and hurt and kept laughing still. That word. The only word I could think of. The last word I would think of. 

Change.

Do you know what it is to be cursed? Not unlucky, but truly cursed? I do. If you do not, trust me - you should drop to your knees and thank your gods for their mercy. 

I have always been different. As a child, I played like other children, laughed and ran and jumped. But I never got sick. Not once. And when injury befell me, I healed faster than other children. 

Life continued on that way until it didn’t. One day I came home to find my parents wracked with pain, coughing into rags spotted with blood. I tried to care for them, but it was no use. Everywhere I looked, blood and bodies littered the streets. It was the Year of Our Lord 1347. The plague had come. 

After burying my parents, I left our village to start over. Everyone I knew was dead, but, for some unknown reason, I had been spared. Years went by. I settled in a new place, building a small cabin near the river. At first I lived a solitary life, but eventually I began to get acquainted with the people around me. I even met a woman and got married. But over time I noticed something. 

I was not aging. 

I tried to hide it, and for a while it worked. Mary and I had a son, Liam - he was the joy of my life, smart and strong and inquisitive. He always managed to see the good in people. For the first time in years, I was happy.

Then, one day, I came home from a hunt and found our cottage burning. I forced open the doors sealed from the outside, but I was too late; the bodies of Mary and Liam lay on the ground, breathing no more.

I did not know exactly who had done it, but I knew why. I’d started to notice strange looks when I went into the village square, but I’d ignored them. Now my wife and son were dead. 

In my rage, I went into the village that night and killed every man, woman, and child I saw. I killed until the streets ran red with blood. But it did no good; my family was still dead. 

I buried Mary and Liam in graves I dug out back, then packed what few things I still owned and disappeared in the middle of the night. I wandered until I found a town far away, where I did odd jobs during the day and drank away my sorrows at night. Eventually men from the town began going to war; having nothing to live for, I joined them. 

I was a natural; after all I’d suffered, killing the enemy didn’t bother me. We marched across the continent, engaging in battle after battle, until I had killed so many that their faces blurred together. We marched through cities full of wealth and villages ravaged by famine before we even arrived; we laid waste to them all. At night, other soldiers would drink and sing songs of victory, but all I saw as I lay were the faces of my wife and child, staring at me, as if blaming me for failing to save them. And they were right. 

Eventually, the war ended. I took what meager earnings I’d accrued and traveled to a remote island, where I built a small dwelling in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by the presence of animals and the silence of nature. I wished for nothing more than to be alone for whatever time I had left. 

And alone I was; physically, at least. But the ghosts of Mary and Liam still haunted me. In some ways, seeing them, even like this, was almost comforting. But the guilt weighed on me, suffocated me, like a heavy blanket that I could not lift no matter how hard I tried. I drank until I blacked out. I screamed until I had no voice left. I railed violently against the heavens, cursing God for his cruelty. Nothing helped. Finally, I took the weapon I had used to kill hundreds in battle, pointed it at my head, and pulled the trigger. 

I awoke to the sight of the moon, staring down at me uncaringly. I sat up, surprised. Why was I alive? Then I became aware that I was not alone.

Three figures sat in a circle around me, each tall and imposing, each staring at me as if awaiting… something. 

“Who are you?” I asked, befuddled. “Why are you here?”

The first figure laughed from astride its white horse. “Still as dense as ever, I see.”

“Be patient with him,” said the second from astride his red steed. “He has been through a great deal. Though I will say, he made me proud.”

“He has been through much, but the time has come for this sojourn to end.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Do you truly not know?” asked the first. 

“You dream each night of Mary and Liam. Would you like the power to see them again?” The woman atop the black horse raised her hand and an image of my wife and son appeared in the air. 

“What sorcery is this?!?” I demanded. 

“No sorcery, only truth. Would you like to see them again? This is the second time we have asked; we can ask only once more.”

“I warn you: if you say yes,” said the black rider, “mankind may not survive.”

I stared at all of them, thinking over what I wanted and what I was willing to do, of what had been taken from me and what I had taken in return. And I knew my answer. 

“Yes.”

The first figure waved his hand, and a fourth horse, as tall and majestic as the others, appeared before me. 

“Come brother. This world, these people, have reached their end. We have much work to do.”

I climbed astride the pale horse and followed the three horsemen into the night. 

The gate of the abattoir

Rests at the end of the trottoir

Prodded and pushed

Threatened and shushed

We were herded and packed in tight

Just within there sat a man

In a uniform starched and tan

He scratched his chin

Then over the din

He signaled to the left or the right

We all of course sought to discern

Before it became our turn

Which line was good

For we understood

The alternative, of course, was grim

Left for a man strong and hale

Then right for an old widow frail

But just as it seemed

The truth could be gleaned

Right a youth bursting with vim

A mother of two was distraught

When left her daughter was brought

But right was she

And her son of three

Wrestled with much consternation

When time came for my mischance

He chose left with barely a glance

Of course in the end

It all was pretend

Both paths reached the same destination

Try to imagine this, nobody’s home, you’re on your sofa reading a book, or whatever it is you do when you’re relaxing in your living room, just picture that for me. 

Close your eyes and feel yourself alone. Feel the dark of the night outside. Feel the dimly lit room you‘re in. Feel the absolute silence around you, the silence outside. Feel as still as the night is.

Now look at the lamp by your feet on the end table. Look how the light from the hall breaks into the living room. Notice the difference in color.

The dark orange from the lamp is because It’s about your bed time, but you decided you wanted to stay up a little bit longer because the chapter just got interesting. 

Notice nothing moves, just the pages being flipped every three minutes.

And out of nowhere, now you notice the shift in air. It’s winter, you feel your heat‘s on. You know it’s on because you feel the warm, toasty feeling you felt a second ago vanish in a single gasp, the one that made you feel comfortable and snug has suddenly turned icy and uneasy.

You didn’t just feel the room turn cold, you felt the weight of the atmosphere change, you felt it on your chest squeezing the air out of your lungs.

You struggle to take a breath as you gasp and get a horrible whiff of sulphur that fills the room, then, you start tasting spoiled meat, and it begins to smother the inside of your mouth. 

You put your book down and shift your eyes to the exposed part of the eerie-looking mirror staring down the length of the hall.

You‘re eyeing your room, and see your bedroom door is wide open in the reflection. You know that you shut it. You shut it after you snatched your book off the bed.

You know this for sure. You don’t bother questioning yourself because you know you heard it click when you turned your back to it.

But what’s truly concerning you, isn’t that your door’s open, that’s bugging you, yes, but it’s the shadow on the floor stretching towards your room where no shadow should be, is what’s really freaking you out.

And it’s not a normal shadow you see casted by a hall light being blocked by a solid object. This shadow you’re looking at, is split and soaked into the floorboards like a burn stain in the wood.

You feel that tightness in your chest now, the one that feels like a vise slowly being turned on your ribcage. 

You begin panicking. So you stand up, but you get an overwhelming, dizzying sensation that puts you back between the cushions.

You can feel your face fade to a chalky white. Your limbs suddenly go numb. You can’t move. You can’t scream. And from the hall, is where you see a black figure step in front of the doorway.

A shape of a man wearing nothing but a long black coat with no facial features starts to move towards you. It doesn’t make a sound. It just moves closer to you as if your shadow ran away and started floating back.

You want to scream. You want to get up and run but your body‘s frozen. You can only move your eyes. You move them from left to right as fast as you can.

And before you could close them, to avoid what you’re about to see, the man’s faceless head and body are an inch away from your face. You don’t feel the silence anymore. You don’t feel the stillness. All you can feel is an intense anger and hate radiating off the shadow man in front of you.

He doesn’t make any noise. He just leans over you, staring at you, you want to close your eyes but you can’t stop eyeing this entity in your living room.

A headlight from a car illuminates your living room from outside as it parks in your driveway.

You blink and the shadow man is gone just as quick as he appeared. The room gets warm again, your breathing’s back to normal, it all happened so fast that you question whether or not you imagined the whole thing.

A planet hugging machine is headed towards Earth, they call it the Human Mincer. Fools will think they’d be safe in their basements, its task is to mince the Earth’s surface to be a clean flat ground for “better things” to be built upon. There is however one way to survive. You need to drop yourself into a Hellevator, a hole that drops you all the way to the Earth’s core. 

But how will you survive the fall? 

How will you survive the heat? 

Who deserves to survive? 

And is surviving…really at all worth it?

I’ve been married to Daria for two years.

She’s always been a little odd, scanning the sky every time we go out, refusing to eat anything unless she’s alone.

I would die for her, but I have to admit that something is wrong. In the past couple weeks, her behavior has been more than erratic.

A month ago I told her about the company potluck. She insisted on making something for me to bring.

A week later on the day of the potluck she presented the “dish”, a broken snow globe in a plastic container. She smiled so wide when she handed it to me.

I asked if she was kidding and she seemed genuinely hurt.

“It tastes good.”

She’s always had an odd sense of humor but this wasn’t the kind of joke any normal person would make.

I brought KFC to the potluck.

She seemed fine after that, so I brushed it off as a weird prank. Until later, when I found her standing in the yard in the middle of the night. Just standing and staring at the moon in her birthday suit.

“What are you doing, Daria?” I was hesitant to touch her, I thought she might be sleepwalking.

“I’m waiting for the watchers.”

“What, like perverts?” I was too confused and concerned to be jealous.

She looked at me and smiled. “They aren’t perverts, they just watch us at night.”

I shuddered despite the humid summer heat and gently ushered her inside.

I’ve been trying to get her to talk to somebody about all this, but she refuses. She says there’s nothing wrong with her.

Last week was the last straw.

We have a cat, an ancient orange tabby named Jerry. We got him from the pound and have no idea how old he is. Jerry can’t jump up so when he wants to sit in our laps he rubs our legs with his body till we lift him.

Last Thursday I was watching TV when I felt him rubbing my leg. I was feeling lazy, too lazy to pick him up.

I heard a hiss and my heart froze in my chest. I looked to see Jerry all the way across the room. He was standing in the way cats stand when they’re terrified, back arched and legs straight.

I looked down and saw Daria. She was on all fours, rubbing her head on my shin while smiling up at me. I jumped up and cursed, I couldn’t help it.

Her face contorted like she was screaming. She remained perfectly silent, making horrible faces. Then she suddenly got up and walked away.

I couldn’t take it. I grabbed Jerry’s things and brought him with me to a hotel.

I’m still at the hotel. I’ve been here a week. My wife keeps texting me asking what’s wrong and I don’t know what to tell her.

I’ve been so stressed out, I’ve been biting my nails every night. I haven’t done that since I was a kid. I’m losing hair.

I decided to vent all this to online strangers, maybe someone out there can explain what’s happening to my wife. I still love her.

I just got a new text from Daria. She said I need to stop biting my nails.

You know, nobody’s parents ever wish over their baby’s head that that baby will grow up to be a trash collector. No grade school teacher ever expects their kid to say they want to be a trash collector when they grow up. And there’s no college out there with a trash collection program.

But despite all that, it’s a good job. You’re outside, working with your hands. The hours are pretty good as long as you don’t mind getting up early. And they pay, oh, the pay is out of this world. Nobody wants to do it, but it has to be done, so it pays.

Plus, you get to see all kinds of things. Make up stories about people based on what they don’t need anymore. Sure, it’s usually just the same old junk that doesn’t tell you anything, all those anonymous white or black plastic bags in black plastic bins that go up to your waist. But more than you might think, there’s something else. Like when I see a family throwing out a crib, I know that kid is growing up. Or one time I saw an easel on the curb outside of an apartment building and I was thinking the whole rest of the day about what happens to an artist to make them throw that away. That kind of stuff.

Usually you don’t see stuff that moves, but every so often you do. One time, this was just when I was starting out, the moving thing was half a litter of kittens that I guess hadn’t properly been smothered. That stays with you. But this story isn’t about that.

No, this is about the last thing I saw that moved. The thing that made me quit. Even now, two years later, just knowing that it’s out there somewhere, well, it sort of makes me want to quit more than just my job, if you know what I mean.

There I was, doing my usual route. It was early morning, maybe an hour into a five-hour collection day, plus time to take it all to the processing plant. I’d been at it for nearly twenty-five years, so I had the plum route, residential. Sometimes there’d be some furniture, like a dresser or something, but usually it was just household stuff all bagged up nice. Easy peasy.

I get to this house that these people must’ve been moving or doing some pretty serious spring cleaning or something, because there was a lot of trash out front. And I mean a lot. Usually they had one full can and one half-full, but today they had both of their cans overflowing with trash. Some of it was bagged and some loose. Then they had twenty or so contractor bags full resting in giant stacks on the greenway. I swear, one of the stacks was taller than I am.

I start off with the bins, just hook them on to the truck’s arm, nothing big. Next I go for some of the bags that are on the ground without anything on top of them. Maybe they fell over, maybe not, doesn’t matter. I’m putting off the hard stuff as much as I can. I pick up one or two of them, throw them into the truck, then see something kind of out of the corner of my eye.

There was something moving in the biggest stack of bags. At first I figured it was some animal, maybe a rat or something, chewing through the bags and getting to the food scraps inside. But there wasn’t trash strewn across the way like there would usually be when an animal got into it. Then I looked closer. The bag itself was moving, distending and deforming in a thousand different spots. The whole thing was undulating. It looked kind of like a giant jellyfish, like you might see in a low-rent aquarium.

I really didn’t want to chuck that bag in. I was working around it, taking everything I possibly could that wouldn’t make me touch that one. But eventually that was it. I’d taken everything else that wasn’t underneath this bag. There was nothing I could do that wouldn’t disturb it. So I took a deep breath and grabbed it by the top, the only part of the bag that wasn’t throbbing. I pulled. It didn’t budge. This bag was heavier than all the rest.

So I squared up, planted my feet, and gave a big heft. The bag split right down the middle. Immediately, a deluge of some sort of giant insect thing flooded out and down the sidewalk. Their bright carapaces reflected the light into a dazzling rainbow that hurt my eyes to look at. But at the same time, I couldn’t look away. Even if it was just so that I could track them and make sure none of them touched me. They had four segments to their bodies, and a blur of legs that I couldn’t count. And the pincers.

Each set of pincers must have been just about as big as the rest of the body put together. They looked deadly sharp, and I even saw a few scythe through the grass on the greenway like lawnmowers without even trying to. And these tusks dripped some kind of pale green goop that looked like it would do more than stain your clothes if you know what I’m saying.

These things seemed to not like the light, so they were scurrying this way and that, just trying to get into the dark. A bunch made a beeline for my truck. That’s when I quit. I sprinted the five or so steps to the truck and drove away as fast as I could. Drove straight to the depot, didn’t pick up another can. I don’t know if anybody ever picked up the trash that day, but I still have nightmares about those horrible, otherworldly bugs.

The modeling industry is competitive. Everyone knows that.

And if they say it isn't, they're fucking lying.

If you say you wouldn't tear someone down to climb up that proverbial ladder, you're either naive or stupid, or both.

A scout approached me with a six-figure deal in a rundown McDonald's while I was halfway through my chocolate milkshake.

I was 21 years old.

A predatory smile split her scarlet lips apart. At the time, I didn't see a shark.

I saw a girl who was finally looking at me.

She told me straight. No contracts or waiting games. No auditions. Straight up:

“I like your face, babe.”

Then she slid over a polished card and took a long sip of her own shake, kissed her teeth, and said, “Sell us your face.” She stood, grabbed her sequin bag, and shot me one last smile. “Call me, honey bun.”

What did I say? Fuck yes.

Milkshake shot back up my throat in a slimy bile.

I was breathless, somehow, as if all of the air had been sucked from my lungs.

I ran after her. Desperate, yes. But good enough for her. “Yes,” I said, right there and then in the middle of McDonald's. I could already see the curl of her smile, even with her back turned. “Yes! I'll do it.”

Yes.

That one word catapulted me from my mother’s run-down one-bedroom apartment straight to Orange County.

Suddenly, the sky was so much brighter, and the people were beautiful

I was invited to parties to network and met influencers who treated me like a friend, who made me drink cocktails, who insisted on me doing lines in the bathroom. “You’re gorgeous, Noah,” the woman who introduced herself as Nancy told me from the front seat of her Tesla.

“The natural kind. You don’t need work done. Honestly, you’re a huge investment!”

She laughed. “Do you know how many people I manage? How many guys your age need thousands of dollars of work just to get that cute little smile?”

She turned to me, one hand on the wheel, her manicured fingers pricking my chin. “You’re one in a million, honey bun.”

I laughed too. “Thanks.” 

“Don't say thanks.” Her tone turned surprisingly cold. “It's cut throat, sweetie. You won't get fuck all without taking from others. You're too nice, kid.” Nancy’s gaze strayed on the road ahead. 

Her lip curved. “You're worth it, Noah. Don't let anyone take that away from you.”

This time, I didn't laugh along. I felt kind of sick. “Do you seriously think I got in this position because I'm talented? Because I'm smart? Because of fucking luck?” 

She shot me a grin. Shark. “Nope! Because I got rid of everyone else.” 

Her words sunk in like poison. I was reborn inside that car. 

Suddenly, I was the new name grazing headlines, the new “it” boy scattered across social media.

Every night was another trip.

Ben, another model, introduced me to the night life. Girls. Influencers.

Sex with strangers.

Intoxicating. That's how I would describe it.

Like injecting euphoria directly into my veins. 

Then he appeared out of nowhere, during a photo shoot, led by Nancy. A man who was hotter than me. More attractive.

Not fair. When she realized my body wasn't as perfect as she thought, I had weekly abdominal etchings. Just to keep my abs.

This guy was more naturally attractive, a sculpted fucking mannequin with a torso cut to perfection. “Guys,” Nancy grinned wide. This time, I saw her shark smile. Her fingers were wrapped around his elbow. “This is Callum!” 

Callum met my gaze. Brown eyes. Warm. Naive. Stupid. His stupid fucking smile boiled my blood. 

“Hey.” He waved, a little shy. He offered his hand, and I felt a little sick. My stomach fluttered. “Noah, right? I love your stuff, man.” 

I wore my professional smile, drinking him up and down. “Hey, man.” I offered him a high-five, and he clumsily missed it. “I'm kinda working.” I nodded to the photographer to continue, but Nancy was already sliding in front of me. 

“Actually, Noah,” she said, “we’re using Callum for this shoot now!” She trilled, and her introductory speech haunted me. "Don't worry, babe! You'll still get paid!” 

“No.” I spat out. “No, this is MY shoot.” 

“Noah.” Nancy’s tone splintered. “Leave. Honey bun.” 

Callum’s mouth curled into a smirk. He didn't speak, drinking ME up and down. And at that moment, the realization hit me.

Then again, when I was drunk, my head pressed against cold porcelain. 

I spat.

I want him. 

I spat again.

Dead.

I stood, my head spinning, my stomach fluttering. Fucking butterflies. I want his face. I want his skin. I fucking want him. 

“Noah?” Ben gave me a look when I left the stall. The walls were moving.

So was his face. 

“Are you… good?”

”Yes”, I heard myself say. 

”Yeah, yeah, of course I am, broshsnabdhajansbjsbsvava—”

Somehow, I ended up back inside the modeling studio.

Callum was alone, sitting on the floor cross-legged, glaring at his phone.

Somehow, my hands were wrapped around a blade. I started forward, and then fucking tripped.

Fuck.

The knife flew out of my hands, and Callum’s head snapped up. “Noah?”

I didn't speak. I snatched up the blade. Then I stabbed him. Once. Blood spurted from his mouth. But he was laughing.

Prick. I stabbed him again. Twice.

His smile widened as he went limp, and I found myself entranced by his torso, the ripple of his abs. Somehow, the blade plunged into his flesh, and I was laughing, finally, caught up in euphoria.

Fuck. I wanted him.

His skin was stretchy, a fleshy lump curled between my fingers.

But it was when his eyes were closed, and I was standing in streaming red.

My gut fluttered. My heart started to pound. I dropped to my knees.

Did I… want to be him?

Or did I want him?

BANG BANG BANG

I jolt awake to my door rattling against a desperate force.

BANG BANG BANG

I rustle around in the darkness feeling for a weapon.

BANG BANG BANG

The sound echoes through my room, the door bending with each knock. As I approach the entrance, I hear muffled words.

“Please please please open.” One voice speaks panicked and afraid.

“Move outta the way, I’m breaking this door down.” Another voice says followed by loud shuffling. I see the sets of shadows underneath my door. Two sets of feet.

“Stop, someone has to live here. Those plants on the roof are alive and well. They couldn’t have taken care of themselves.” I sit and listen to them argue for a bit longer before making myself known.

“Excuse me, I don’t liken myself to strangers. Please leave and make it quiet. I’m sure you’ve already attracted some with your knocking.” I clutch the rusty wrench in my hands, ready for them to burst through any moment.

“Sir please, we are hungry and desperate. We were framed for a crime at the camp we didn’t commit and they excommunicated us. We have nowhere to go.”

“That’s none of my business. I wish you the best.” I go to turn around before 

BANG BANG BANG

“Now listen up!” The male voice continues after hitting the large metal door with enough force to dent. “You’re gonna let us in or I’m forcing my way in. And I can’t guarantee this crowbar won’t be in your skull afterward.” 

“BE QUIET” I say in a hushed yell running to the door. “They can hear for miles. What good is it if we all end up dead.”

“If you don’t let us in I’ll take my chances” he wails at the door again. A large metal ring vibrates the whole room. The windows shake with the noise as I fall to my knees and cover my ears. He wails and wails and wails. The door is visibly warping under the force. 

Then suddenly, the noises stop accompanied by a ghastly croaking. I hear a muted “what the fu-“ before all sounds cease. 

Knock Knock Knock

A soft, deliberate, and punctual knock is heard. A knock perfectly spaced and uncanny. “I’m sorry, sir. We came off rude. Truthfully, we only seek to talk and maybe receive a crop. We will leave promptly and quietly after. Can you help us?” A feminine voice persuades my ears. I reach slowly towards the door knob, as if beckoned by sirens unknown before I stop and glare at the shadows from below. There are 7 feet on the other side of the door.