u/Abject_Ordinary9245

Lemme start by saying I'm not a fan of The Third Parent series or book, but after my second watch of Obsession, I can't reconcile how similar the two pieces of media are. Horrific tone, oppressive atmosphere, claustrophobia, fear of the familiar made perversely sinister, even down to the kinds of uncanny valley villains Tommy Taffy and wish Nikki are.

Obviously, there are some key differences; replace the dynamic of what the characters are there for. Instead of an intruder acting as a predatory "parental figure," the main character's space is invaded and completely taken over by a violent obsessive love interest. Bear is much more of a sleeper villain with how he's characterized, but considering similarities between him and Spence (the father), it's even both of their faults that events are transpiring as they are, and they're both too crippled by fear or self-doubt to do the right thing.

There's even a horrific death by brick!

There's a lot that I don't like about Tommy Taffy and a lot of doubts that I have about the upcoming movie, but after watching Obsession and thoroughly loving what it had to say, I couldn't help but imagining how optimistic I would be if Curry Barker was at the helm.

Am I alone in this? What does everyone else think?

When I was a child, my grandmother told me that mockingbirds didn't build their own nests. That they survived by stealing their own eggs into the nests of smaller birds, as what she referred to as "brood parasites." And when the alien hatchling emerges before the others, and larger by far, the first instinct -- the first thought that a creature has -- is to throw those true, helpless eggs from the nest, and eat as many as three or four chicks' worth of food, so that the mother bird will not notice. And if by chance, she does, she's placated by the sweet songs of new chick, more beautiful than that of any other.

"And that," she'd say, "is why they're called mockingbirds."

It wasn't until long after she was gone that I learned she'd mistaken mockingbirds for cowbirds or cuckoos. The more I matured, the more I saw just how much she was mistaken about so many things. But I never forgot the mockingbird.

She'd told me on more than one occasion that a man on a horse would come one day that I could trust. One that I could invite into my life, into the cabin. One that would lift me up and capture me away into another, better life somewhere far away, if we could not make a home of this man-made ruin deep in the woods.

She told me that it was the greatest joy in life to have a child -- a daughter and a granddaughter. That there was no greater love that exists in the world than between a mother and her child. That any moment, the world could end, turn inside out, or burn to a cinder... that the oceans could rise and overtake the woods, wash away any trace of our existence, but that the love of mother and child would hold steady and true.

That much must be true. My own mother gave her life to bring me into the world. This cold, damp, empty world. There was still love to be had in her memory, in the bright red roses that grew upon her burial plot. Rose. That was her name.

For the longest time, there was only me and grandmother, who loved as much as she could in her waning years. I displeased her whenever I crept out of the cabin to run barefoot in the woods. I wasn't running to anywhere in particular, but it just nice to be out. To look up at all those towering trees and the canopies of green. To climb as high as I could reach to the birds' nests. To hear them singing to one another, from one end of the forest to the other. To venture out, into those beautiful woods for all the time I could.

I learned to know those woods like the back of my hand, and by the time I was a young woman, I grew to admire how those woods might be the greatest companion I'd ever hope for. They gave us our food, our shade, our protection. They were my entire world. Until Jackson.

Grandmother was excited when I'd begun to show, and she did as much as she could still stand to do. She said she knew it was a boy the first day I fell sick, and on that she was right. She also said she'd live to see her only great grandson grow to be a strong young man, and help to raise him every step, even if it meant living to 100, but fever took her just days before the birth, at age 64. I was left to bury her, to rest lilies on her grave right beside mother's, and to bear the child alone.

It was such a strange feeling, all the time I carried him. As if we were one being. Or that I was... more. I felt in me that I had the power to give life, and I had. Every day, I fed it. Every night, I felt it grow. Never in all my life had I ever felt more at peace than those moments before sleep, uncomfortable as it was, when within me I swear I could feel out heartbeats drum to the same tune. Every day, I felt him more and more. He started as a part of me, and I knew in my soul he always would be. Soon enough, he would be the center of my life -- the only other within it, for whom I'd live and love by. I was young myself, unfamiliar with any world beyond these woods, but I was so excited. And I felt such love for the boy.

And grandmother said that the moment you hold your own first child in your hands, it's as if the world itself stops, when you realize how quickly and easily and without question you'd give your life for this special little soul, come down in the form of the smallest, most beautiful being you've ever seen. That the love you feel for what grows in the womb is pure, but it's not true until you hold it in your arms for the first time... the last well-meaning lie.

When Jackson came into the world, he did so sprawling and screaming. As I pushed I felt the claws of his fingers digging into me, as if he refused to be let out. But it was his time. Even if it took half a day all on my own, he did come out. And he cried and cried as if he were so angry at being born. In the first moments, his skin was a mass of red and purple wrinkles, and the cord wrapped around his legs like a tail. Even delirious, I was my own maid, my own midwife, and I inspected him with great care, knowing at a sight that something was wrong with him, I simply couldn't name it. Once he'd been cleaned, I could scarcely see it either, but I simply knew it. Whatever it was, something was deeply wrong, for I did not love this child.

A most horrible thing for any mother to say or to even think -- and damned if we do, but by God it was the truth. And I am beyond damned now whether I say it or not. All the love for my son that formed with him in the womb died with his coming. All hopes of love, of devotion and care, fled from the sight of this ugly wailing creature.

Perhaps I'm some witch to manifest how ungrateful I was for him, but he was, in kind, as ungrateful to be. Where I'd hoped for any measure of cheer from a child, a sense of wonderment for me to foster in exploration of our own isolated world, young Jackson was at every turn, a living nightmare. Where I'd feed him at my breast, he'd bite and grab with his sharp teeth and long-clawed fingers. Where I'd feed him in cups and bowl, he'd throw them against the wall and crawl on all fours like a beast to lap at the morsels on the floor. He'd demand of his care, as I was obligated to give, but he'd hit and scratch with flailing arms whenever I'd come too close. And whenever he'd act in such ways deserving of stern discipline, he'd melt into a well of such unrelenting, inconsolable tears and screams, his face would turn red with spits beneath his skin.

We were restless. Both of us, I suppose, how I couldn't dare sleep at any moment the child was awake. For every moment he was, it was a banshee-like cry through two rooms of the cabin. High-pitched that rung from one ear to the next that wouldn't cease for hours. Most times there was nothing he even wanted, nothing for me to give. All he'd do is scream and scream until the sounds wretched out of his throat and his face was deep red. The only thing I could ever do that possibly calmed him was that lullaby my grandmother taught me.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird..."

I dare say it gave me some peace of mind as well. He never spoke, not even to ask for food. From the screams, I knew that he could speak if he only chose to, but four years since birth, he never would. Even so, I'd hear him sometimes humming the tune of the lullaby along with my voice in those soft silences before he'd fall asleep. In those moments, I'd feel almost glad for him.

And I'd be overcome with the deepest guilt, for begrudging him so much when he was awake and only appreciating the love for him when he slept. When his little eyelids would move side to side with such speed and I knew he was dreaming. And I'd sleep and dream with my boy in my arms, and I'd finally be able to rest and scold myself to forget all my grievances. But he'd always wake with a scream, and I'd remember.

Many is the night I spent with ears ringing from the piercing of his cries, the bruises from holding him close through his terrors. He'd never quiet. For years, he'd never quiet. I'd grit my teeth and I'd curse under my breath, and pray and wish and dream what no mother should ever dare to dream of their child. And I knew I was the very worst woman in the world.

It was only a wish. Just one of a thousand half-hearted whispers into nothing. What made it so different from any of those sleepless nights I'd prayed for... a new home? Or a new life? Or a good man to call my husband?

It was only a wish.

I awoke one morning without feeling his full weight trashing against me. I threw off the covers and ran to see where he'd gone, only to see him sitting upright at the table, still and silent, waiting for his bowl with bright eyes and an agreeable smile.

From that day, he never screamed, he never cried, he never made a mess of anything anywhere he went in the house, and he never wandered without. By outward appearance, his terrors and nightmares ceased, and he slept in my arms like a stone every night. I'd sing Mockingbird and hear him humming it back with new intonation. I'd feel his shoulders and his chest rise with mine up until the moment of blissful slumber.

But there were some nights that I would stir awake from restless dreams, to the utter stillness of Jackson's body. By God, I could not hear his breaths, or even feel his beating heart. I was overwhelmed with the sorrowful thought of losing him as he lay in my arms. Overrun with exhaustion, all I could think in that moment to do was cling to him, pray it was a waking dream, and wish the morrow to bring him life again.

Morning came, and there he'd be, same as before, waiting at the table. But I began to realize I never did hear him breathe anymore. He only moved as if he were in those moments he was pressed to me, when I was still awake. The very air in the house around us turned cold even on the brightest summer day. Neither did he blink. His silence was never more deafening in all his life.

Every evening, he'd fall asleep with the setting sun and awake immediately at its rising. He'd follow wherever I went and stare at me all hours of the day with those wide, unblinking eyes. Never fidget or crawl or -- anything else. But I knew as early as that, he wasn't Jackson.

Nothing he did was of my son. Nothing he did was of this earth.

Mother and grandmother kept flowers in pots at every window in the cabin, to give light and life to our cramped little hovel. I'd always taken care to keep them high out of Jackson's reach to throw and shatter, and every day I'd do everything my grandmother taught me to keep them growing, drawing water for them as well as for us every day from the well. For whatever disrepair the cabin was in through the years, with its boarded windows and rotting shingles, the plants littered throughout gave welcome respite, and even gave me thoughts of the wider world in the face of freshness they gave.

Like the roses and lilies upon their namesake graves, the plants were as much a part of our house... until after Jackson changed.

The water drawn for the house turned sour and full of a bitter salt-iron taste unfit for anyone. Though I'd placed buckets upon the strongest portions of the roof to catch the rain of the season, it's as if overnight every one of the potted greens in the house, the vegetables grown in the garden -- Lily and Rose -- all dead. All withered and eaten from the inside, black as the poisoned well water. And there he was, room lined with gray stalks in their hanging death, while he sat at the table with his smile and eyes too wide.

I knew it was him. I knew on my aging skin, my aching bones. Somehow he was taking them from me. Taking their life, as well as mine. I knew, but I knew not what to do. And even at the sight of me shattering the dead plants past him at the walls, and scattering the soil across the floorboards. Deaf and dumb, he sat there, smiling. He would not answer.

And there was nothing I could do but wait. Wait for nightfall, for him to fall still. He even ceased the charade of tired breaths as he wrapped his cold, pale arms around me, listening to the lullaby. We lay at our sides, and through his thin hair, I sung for him:

"Hush little baby, don't say a word,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird..."

In that moment, in the dark, looking down at him, the white-grey shell of his ear, I brought my lips, whispering, "Are you awake?"

"No," I felt a cold breath hiss into my ear, crawling down my skin. "I sleep."

It was not from his mouth. But I know it came from him.

"If that mockingbird don't sing,

Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring..."

Words shuddering, I asked, "What are you?"

The voice again, like cold honey in my ear, "I'm your mockingbird, Mama."

"If that diamond ring turns brass,

Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass...

What do you want?"

"I want you to love me."

I waited, petrified. I don't know how long I waited, but I took him in my arms deep into the woods, listening as the distant thunder followed close behind. I went south, as far as my legs would take me. He felt so heavy in my arms, but I carried him as far south as I could even in the dark, I knew these woods better than I knew my own face; the call of the deer and the foxes and the ravens marked my way as I took him. Even the real Jackson had never set foot in these woods without me. I'd never taken him nor this thing so deep into the dark. In the whistling of the wind with the coming storm, I swear I could almost hear its cold voice.

"No..."

"Please..."

"Don't leave me..."

"Mother..."

With every accursed word I might've heard, I ran faster with the child-beast in my arms. Until I found a bramble thicket. I could not allow myself to be placated or fooled by its peaceful disposition of sleep. Though it had the body of a child... *my* child...

The first drops of rain fell upon the back of my neck. I laid him down under the thicket and I lifted his arms to take his gown. If the woods would not take him, the elements would.

I left him there, and made the straightest path back home posthaste as the rain fell, hard. It came in sheets from all directions, in waves around the invisible trees whose presence could only be told by errant flashes of lightning. Branches became like thousands of clawed fingers reaching out to me, lashing at my legs, my face, and my back, ripping at my hair.

North, I thought. As straight north as you can go. So many times did I think I was lost or turned around, or thought I'd never make it back to the cabin. I wiped as much fresh blood as rain from my face as I ran for dear life, telling myself that to turn, to stop, to even slow in my pace was death. That I'd see that abominable child behind me in as little as one second.

I know not how far I ran, or how far I ventured into the woods to begin with. But by the time, I finally made it back, I was wading through the mud, dragging myself on my hands and knees through freshly-showered grasses, as the pale dawn bled over the horizon. The blood from my head and shoulders dripped down my matted hair, and beneath the cloth covering my arms. I reached, exhausted, for the knob of the door and watched it creak open.

There he was, dressed in his gown, seated at the table. Smiling.

What else could I do? So wounded, so exhausted, I was incapable of anything else. So I rose. I fed him. I excused myself to dress my injuries as best as I could, watching him look at me from halfway in the door. I pulled the dying weeds from around the house, feeling weaker than I ever had, while he had the appearance of the freshest youthful bloom.

I acted as his mother, if only to not upset him. Finally, dusk set in for the last time over my grandmother's cabin. But I did not go to the bed. I sat still and silent, seated at the table. And I watched him, yawning from the bedroom door. The Jackson shuffled over to me, expressionless, hugging me as tight as he could with his stiff little arms, settling in where I was. I summoned everything in me to stay still, placing a shaking hand on his head.

I looked down at his tufts of hair, thinking of my son's, like it wanted me to. I felt the cold of his skin and imagined voice crawling down my bones and I sang.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird..."

My head stood still as my eyes trailed along the table, to the bread crumbs leading to the knife leant over the butter plate.

"If that mockingbird don't sing..."

I took one hand -- gently, ever so gently -- off his head.

"Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring..."

My arm extended til the fullness of its length reached just short of the handle. My heart thundered and the words stung in my throat.

"If that diamond ring turns brass..."

I walked my fingers like spider legs as far as I could, tapping, rolling against the smooth wood.

"Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass..."

Finally my fingers curled around it, tightening as I glanced at the blade, raising it as softly as I could from the sliced loaf. I looked down at him one last time, tears welling in my eyes. My arm returned upright, shaking knife clutched to my hand. "What did you do to Jackson?"

It said, "I put him down the well."

I knew. Somehow I'd known. Hot tears came freely from my eyes, but I could not let a cry escape my breath, for somehow -- *somehow* -- I'd known he was asleep. I knew not if he could see me, if he could hear into my mind, how he'd the cheated the woods and the storm, if this last act would even succeed, or what would come after. Yet it didn't matter.

In spite of it all, I smiled, tears trickling down to the corners of my lips, hand held high. I held him close with the other and I finished.

"Hush little baby, don't you cry,

Mama's gonna love you until you die."

Part 1

Majority rules. I saw the betrayal in Mike’s eyes as I heard Sam shuffling the bag to the side, setting down his flashlight and setting up the board.

"So!” Sam started us. “There are three rules to Ouija. Number one, never play alone. Check. Number two, never play at home or a cemetery. Check. Number three, always say ‘Goodbye…’ We'll get to that. Who wants to be the voice of the group?"

Mike would never.

"I'll do it." I was actually pretty excited.

We all sat together, on our knees or criss-cross, on the cold, dusty concrete of the promenade, hands on the planchette as we all shared our own looks at one another. Sam was excited, I was curious, Mike was nervous. I started us off.

"Hello? Is there anybody here with us tonight?"

Silence. No movement.

"Spirits?"

"Come on, Emma." Mike muttered, frustrated.

"Spirits?" I announced, "Are you with us?"

I focused all my attention on the planchette, and the three pairs of hands that covered it on all sides, save for the glass eye in the middle space between G and T. I realized then just how insanely cold the air was around us. It was the middle of the night in May, but from the top of my head, to the back of my neck, to my shoulders, to my chest, all the way down my arms felt like the sensation of taking a cold shower, but dry. And incredibly still.

Sam: "Are you cold?"

"You don't feel that?"

I felt the chill shiver all the way down to the tips of my fingers, as the planchette started to move. I swear to God, it wasn't me. I know everyone says that about Ouija boards, but I know what I felt. I still remember how stiff my arms were, I didn't move. Not by myself. It's like the air itself was flexing around me, tightening like a sleeve or a cold pair of gloves, lying flat on top of my hands, guiding them to the S.

Sam: “Is that you?”

H-O-U-L-

Mike: "No!"

D-N-T-B-E-

Sam: "Well it's not me."

H-E-R-E

It stopped.

Mike: "Em?"

"'Shouldn't be here…’”

Mike looked at me with the widest, whitest eyes. "That's not funny."

Sam: "Ask who it is. Is it Eddie or Dan?"

Mike: "Sam, I don't like this.”

Sam: "I’m not moving it. If this is real, it’s real. Em, ask who it is."

My throat was so dry.

"Are we speaking to... Eddie? Eddie M-- McK -- ?"

Sam: "McKinnon."

"Eddie McKinnon? Are you here with us?"

Slowly, the planchette moved under our hands to the top left corner of the board.

YES

Mike: "Guys…? Can we please go?"

Sam: "Ask how he died."

I couldn't move. "Eddie? How did you die?"

Four short scrapes along the second line of letters.

T-O-N-Y

Mike: "Sam. I'm asking you to stop."

Sam: "It's seriously not me, man."

Mike: "Emma?"

"It's moving again..."

Q-U-I-E-T

I wanted to let go of the planchette, but somehow I just couldn't. It was still moving anyway, just slowly. I could feel the tentative three-way balance between us fall utterly apart when Mike let go, standing straight up.

H-E-L-L

“‘Quiet hell…?’” I repeated out loud, looking as my hands slowly kept moving to new letters.

H…

"No.” Mike violently shot up, shaking his head, taking his hands off the board to run through his hair. “Fuck this. Fuck you! This isn't funny, Sam."

E…

Sam: "Mike, you're not supposed to let go!"

Mike: "You're the one who's doing it, it's bullshit! Let's go."

A…

Sam: "I swear it's not me."

R

Mike: "Then let go!"

Sam: "We'll lose the connection!"

That's when I realized it stopped.

"'Quiet hell hear...?'"

Sam: "'Quiet he'll hear...'"

"Who's he talking about?"

Mike: "Emma!! Let's go!"

"Mike, shh!"

Sam: "Shut up, man! You don't know what's out there."

Mike: "Oh like you care. You've had your fun, you've dragged her into your game… We're not wanted here. Let's go!"

The pull of my fingers to the planchette and board never felt more pronounced now, more forceful.

"It's moving again."

"Oh Jesus..." Mike walked just a few paces off.

The cold wind whistled, picking up around us, holding tighter.

Q-U-I-E-T-S-T-O-P-

Sam and I both read along the words as the planchette shifted faster, more violently with each and every letter across the board.

H-E-H-E-A-R-S-Y-O-U-

"Sam..." the frightened word escaped my mouth as something kept pulling my hands.

S-T-O-P-N-O-W-G-O-

I looked into Sam's eyes and saw the same fear I felt in my soul.

"I'm letting go now."

G-O-N-O-W-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Frantic, his eyes stared into mine, his head nodding almost imperceptibly as our hands moved on their own, frozen to the frantic planchette.

R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: "Together. On three. One…”

"Do you guys hear that?" Mike's voice trailed off.

R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: “Two…”

R-U-N-R-U-

"Three!" I screamed.

In an instant, we both raised our hands violently up from the board, the planchette flying straight up and down before clattering onto the ground, ceasing its movement. It felt as if the air itself was a rubber band pulled until it snapped, releasing the tension around us as we stared at each other. My hands were practically vibrating as the numbing pain in them receded. I realized I was holding my breath and I gasped, running a hand through my hair as Sam shakily asked, "You okay?"

"I -- I think so," I patted myself as if to feel I was still there, "Are you?"

Sam nodded, eyes wandering and fixing curiously at something over my shoulder.

"Mike?" he started, raising to one knee.

I turned to see Michael, standing ramrod straight behind us, tall back turned away, facing up toward the bright full moon. Silent as everything around him. Still as the statue. Sam picked up his phone light and started walking forward, and all I could do was stare under the light of the headlamp. I could see the pinstripes on the back of Mike's navy jacket, and I realized just how still he really was. Even his pale hands at his sides were stiff as boards, before they started shaking.

"Mike?" Sam asked, hand reaching out to his shoulder, "You okay?"

I could hear his shallow breaths as his head cocked to the side, fingers flicking at his sides. I remember, specifically, in that moment thinking about how he sounded. How the one word, the only word, that came to mind was "hollow."

Sam touched his shoulder. Mike turned with his body and his expressionless face, his wild, front-facing eyes, contorted into a twisted scowl, showing all his teeth. His light breaths turned to a low hiss, and then a high, ear-piercing shriek as he swung an open palm hard into the side of Sam's head. He fell like a rock straight down while Mike dropped to his knees, grabbing and throwing him back against the concrete, screaming, wailing on him like a maniac.

Mike was taller, but Sam was bigger. I'd seen him get into so many fights, he was always, always stronger, but here it's like there was nothing he could do. On his back, forced to the ground, he tried grappling, hitting back, getting away, but Mike's long arms batted away Sam's hands effortlessly as he just kept punching. His arms were loose, swinging straight up and down, slamming one at a time with unbelievable force. And screaming, screaming like nothing I'd ever heard before. Huffing, screeching, louder and louder every time his half-open hands smashed against Sam's head. I broke out of my frozen trance, running and shouting.

"Mike! What the fuck?!"

No sooner than I got within arm's distance did Mike suddenly spin around, eyes and teeth catching the light of my headlamp -- one wide swing of his arm clashing with my face. I fell back to the concrete. I saw stars explode across my vision and felt a hard, white-hot stinging pain at the bridge of my nose. I saw my blood dripping onto board just a few inches from my head as the cracked light flickered on and off, and heard Mike's howling cry as he went back to Sam.

Hard thuds of knuckles, pained and curdled gasps, the beginning sounds of pleading snuffed out by more sickening punching. And hooting. That's what it was. With every shattering strike that Mike made with the full motion of his body, he yowled with all the air in his lungs. He didn't stop. Not til the gasping and the panicked breaths stopped. The hard cracks of Mike's fists on Sam's face started to give purchase, and it started to sound like smashing fruit. Then it was the sound of panting, light huffs, wet chewing, and smacking lips.

All I could see in the low light was the wideness of Mike's back, hunching over Sam's body, hidden under the folds of Mike's jacket. His shoulders moved up and down with his haggard breaths, he kept his hunchback. He raised his head, turning his body toward me, his knees tucked into his chest. The light flickered on, and he looked at me with black, empty, soulless eyes, mouth and chin and throat dripping with Sam's blood. As soon as his eyes met mine, his mouth stretched thin across his face, showing his blood-stained teeth. It looked like a dentist was using a tool to pull his lips apart.

I pushed up from the ground and ran hard as I could, headlong into the dark. I could hear Mike's fists pounding the ground as he howled just as loud as before, chasing me. I only sprinted faster when the light of the headband occasionally flickered back to life, showing the uneven walkways ahead of me. Thoughts running as fast as I was, I turned it off begging myself to remember the way out by distance. The light gave me away.

The moon peeked over the vine-coated fence and I ran past the splintered silhouettes of the exhibits. Past the downturned fence, I knew I was going in the right direction. Behind me, I heard the shuffling rhythm of Mike's hands and feet. The wind and the light ringing in my ears eventually drowned out the sounds of panting, hooting, ripping cloth. I didn't slow down. Barefoot in the dark, running on concrete and tripping over weeds and roots, I didn't slow down. My only thought was getting out. Get to the car – run as fast as you can to the car. I swore I remember Sam said something about his dad’s gun in the glovebox; if I could get to that… but I’d never even held a gun before. Don’t even know where the safety is. If it’s there at all. That’s when I remembered it was Sam who had the keys.

I saw the branches of a tree overhead and I hid on the other side of the trunk. Caught my breath, covered my mouth, stood absolutely still, and listened. Howls in the distance. Heard him getting closer and stopped hearing the scrapes of his shoes against the pavement. Stopped hearing the sound of pavement at all, even as his high-pitched screeches echoed louder. What I heard was rustling, not ten feet from where I hid.

Slowly, I craned my head to see him. A dark silhouette, naked against the pale moon, crawling with poise along the top of the fence on his hands and feet. Low, curious whimpers as he slowly went along, squatting over the side, long arms hanging down. His body leaned from side to side wherever he moved his head to look.

I moved back, breathing deep and slow, quiet as I could. I had an idea. A Hail Mary. With a shaky hand, I took off the headlamp, wrapping the strap tight around the small heft in my hand. Hand covering the light, I hit the button, seeing the orange glow through my skin. I stepped out, arm back, aiming for the moon.

Saw him lean forward in the dark, almost like he saw me, but as the light flashed and spiraled over his head, his entire body followed its arc, hooting before jumping down the far side. Echoes helped me to gauge where he was and I ran back to the "Great Apes" promenade, cursing myself under my breath all the way. I almost tripped under one of his discarded shoes. Past the giraffe fence, under the archway. Under the moonlight, I could see the planchette, the board, and Sam lying limp next to it.

Couldn't make out his face. Part of me knew I didn't want to. Patted his shirt pockets, damp and thick with his blood. It was on the ground too, more than I could see; I felt a lukewarm puddle at my knees. Pockets were slick shut and I had to pry them open again, only to find them empty. Felt my way down his body to his sides. No keys. Fuck, had he lost them? How could I get back without them? If they weren’t here, what could I do?

Started breathing heavy, racking my brain with the question of where, and I realized just how much I couldn't see, how much coming back was a mistake. If Mike got tired of the light and started looking for me again… I imagined him stalking me in the dark. Getting closer with every pocket that turned out empty. Thought I could even hear his huffing breaths behind me, but all I saw was black stillness. Turned Sam on his side and reached in his only back pocket.

My heart leapt at the sound of clinking metal and the teeth of the keys scraping against my fingers. I grabbed them, clinging them to my chest. I couldn't really see him, hear him, even smell him, but before I left, I touched his shoulder. Even if he couldn’t hear me, I had to say something.

"I can't carry you. I'm sorry, I can't carry you... I have to go, I'm so sorry, I have to go... I'll come back. I promise I'll come back for you..."

That final stretch was the longest few minutes of my life. Running like never before. No light ahead but the faint glow of the moon to tell what blended shapes were the fence, the other enclosures, or the trees in between. Kept running with no regard for the sound of my footsteps or my heaving breaths. Clutched the keys for dear life and swore to God there was nothing that would make me stop or slow til I found the way out. The fact that I'd long stopped hearing the shambling sounds of Mike, still in here somewhere, only lit a fire under my feet.

Felt cloth under one running step that almost made me stumble. Mike's jacket. Kept running. Saw the dim, shiny outline of the statue covered in leaves and kept running. Food court, kids' playground, gift shop – there was the exit! Kept running. I'd forgotten just how dark and enclosed the inside was. Ran as straight as I could, jumping over molded toys and toward the slight blue outline of the double doors. Outside.

I threw open the door and sprinted into the unkempt grass. I could see the outline of the car – glinting windows, the grill that looked like a bulldog's face. Didn't slow down. I remember clicking the key fob to see the headlights blink twice, when I felt a hard, sharp crack on the top of my head. The next moment, I was sideways in the grass, stinging pain rocketing through my skull. My hand covered the painful spot, warm and wet, my vision blurred even in the dark. Felt like the hardest punch I'd ever felt in my life but there was no one there.

Then I heard Mike's excited shrieking. Rhythmic, loud, from a high place. My eyes adjusted to see his sharp silhouette hopping up and down, rattling the top of the fence, before he leapt down, arms raised, into the grass. I let go of my head, clutching fist-fulls of grass and pulling myself upright. My hand slipped. I got up and heard the heavy breaths and beating of the ground get closer. Felt like my head was sizzling as I fell hard into the side of a cold metal slab. The car door. Fumbled it open and crawled headfirst over the clutter of the backseat. My hand pulled it closed and I pushed myself away with my foot.

Could still hear the screaming. Muffled on the outside. Windshield cracked and there was tumbling on the roof. A heavy knocking, beating, pounding right over my head. He screamed louder. The ceiling started denting downward. I grabbed the shoulders of the passenger seat, pulled myself forward with all my strength. Head blaring as thick beads of black sweat fell into my eyes. I rolled into the seat, legs hanging over the console. Heard glass breaking and the roars getting louder as he ran on all fours to the driver's side. Hands kept slipping as I opened the glove box, and I felt the car start rocking. Heard the unnatural strain of metal against metal, screeching as it broke apart.

I looked up to see the wide frame of Mike's chest cover the window. Both arms broke the door clean off its hinges, shattering it. Paper cut my fingers while I reached in blind for Sam’s dad’s gun and watched Mike throw the door off to the side before he started crawling on his hairy arms towards me.

I aimed the gun. Clicked a switch on the side that I guessed was the safety. And I shot him.

Blinding flash, deafening ring in my ear, and a bloom of bright red blood that streamed from his chest. It only made him angry. He roared, teeth bared, reaching for me. So I shot again. And again. Saw his face in flashes from the gun; eyes bloodshot, lips and teeth dripping red, jaws wide in an underbite. I kept firing until he stopped, until it stopped. Head throbbing, incessant ringing in my ears, I blinked away the brightness to see Mike pulling himself away, staggering his way out of the car. He was whimpering, arms covering his chest as he walked away. And I hoped he was dead.

That was my last clear memory of that night. I'd passed out once or twice in my life, it kinda felt like falling asleep; gradual, a struggle to stay lucid, then nothing. This wasn't like that at all. One moment I was there, and then it was all black. It was lost time. Apparently it was a rock that he'd cracked my skull with. I was concussed and unconscious for days and woke up in a hospital room. Police picked me up the morning after, a few miles from the zoo, where the Bulldog had apparently rolled into a ditch.

They found me, Daisy Buchanan, comatose at the wheel, broken nose, hole in my head, and a gun at my feet.

They found Mike in the trunk. Naked, shot to death. It still looked like Mike.

They found Sam... later.

I could only imagine what a mess my situation looked like. Even if I was 100% certain of my sanity, there were no words. What possible combination of words exists for me to explain any of it in any way? It was insanity. Real, pure insanity. Sometimes even that's easier to wrap my head around. The meds certainly helped.

I'd have given anything in the world to be at their funerals, but I was still inpatient. And under suspicion. It was weeks before even my parents could see me. But even they looked at me all different now. I get it.

There was never a point in telling my side. I knew no one would believe me. I don't like what all the experts and professionals pretend actually happened, but there was nothing I could do about that from the funny farm. Even my psychiatrist doesn't really believe me. Why would she? She's rational. Because she never saw what I saw. She does fall asleep to the sounds of Mike’s monkey chants. And she doesn’t wake up to see him standing at the foot of my bed, covered in hair. But why would she?

She says my mind is trying to protect itself from something else. Something I'm too afraid to look at in the eye. Maybe it is. She says it doesn't matter that I didn't say goodbye on the board. Maybe it doesn't... I can't honestly say that I know anymore. None of it feels real looking back. But if there's one thing I do know with absolutely certainty, it's this:

Never ever go anywhere near that town. If you find yourself there, at the gates, do what we didn't. Save yourself. Save your friends. And run.

Run as far away as you can.

And for the love of all that's good in the world, never play with a Ouija board at that abandoned zoo.

(nosleep took it down lol y'all enjoy!)

Part 1

Majority rules. I saw the betrayal in Mike’s eyes as I heard Sam shuffling the bag to the side, setting down his flashlight and setting up the board.

"So!” Sam started us. “There are three rules to Ouija. Number one, never play alone. Check. Number two, never play at home or a cemetery. Check. Number three, always say ‘Goodbye…’ We'll get to that. Who wants to be the voice of the group?"

Mike would never.

"I'll do it." I was actually pretty excited.

We all sat together, on our knees or criss-cross, on the cold, dusty concrete of the promenade, hands on the planchette as we all shared our own looks at one another. Sam was excited, I was curious, Mike was nervous. I started us off.

"Hello? Is there anybody here with us tonight?"

Silence. No movement.

"Spirits?"

"Come on, Emma." Mike muttered, frustrated.

"Spirits?" I announced, "Are you with us?"

I focused all my attention on the planchette, and the three pairs of hands that covered it on all sides, save for the glass eye in the middle space between G and T. I realized then just how insanely cold the air was around us. It was the middle of the night in May, but from the top of my head, to the back of my neck, to my shoulders, to my chest, all the way down my arms felt like the sensation of taking a cold shower, but dry. And incredibly still.

Sam: "Are you cold?"

"You don't feel that?"

I felt the chill shiver all the way down to the tips of my fingers, as the planchette started to move. I swear to God, it wasn't me. I know everyone says that about Ouija boards, but I know what I felt. I still remember how stiff my arms were, I didn't move. Not by myself. It's like the air itself was flexing around me, tightening like a sleeve or a cold pair of gloves, lying flat on top of my hands, guiding them to the S.

Sam: “Is that you?”

H-O-U-L-

Mike: "No!"

D-N-T-B-E-

Sam: "Well it's not me."

H-E-R-E

It stopped.

Mike: "Em?"

"'Shouldn't be here…’”

Mike looked at me with the widest, whitest eyes. "That's not funny."

Sam: "Ask who it is. Is it Eddie or Dan?"

Mike: "Sam, I don't like this.”

Sam: "I’m not moving it. If this is real, it’s real. Em, ask who it is."

My throat was so dry.

"Are we speaking to... Eddie? Eddie M-- McK -- ?"

Sam: "McKinnon."

"Eddie McKinnon? Are you here with us?"

Slowly, the planchette moved under our hands to the top left corner of the board.

YES

Mike: "Guys…? Can we please go?"

Sam: "Ask how he died."

I couldn't move. "Eddie? How did you die?"

Four short scrapes along the second line of letters.

T-O-N-Y

Mike: "Sam. I'm asking you to stop."

Sam: "It's seriously not me, man."

Mike: "Emma?"

"It's moving again..."

Q-U-I-E-T

I wanted to let go of the planchette, but somehow I just couldn't. It was still moving anyway, just slowly. I could feel the tentative three-way balance between us fall utterly apart when Mike let go, standing straight up.

H-E-L-L

“‘Quiet hell…?’” I repeated out loud, looking as my hands slowly kept moving to new letters.

H…

"No.” Mike violently shot up, shaking his head, taking his hands off the board to run through his hair. “Fuck this. Fuck you! This isn't funny, Sam."

E…

Sam: "Mike, you're not supposed to let go!"

Mike: "You're the one who's doing it, it's bullshit! Let's go."

A…

Sam: "I swear it's not me."

R

Mike: "Then let go!"

Sam: "We'll lose the connection!"

That's when I realized it stopped.

"'Quiet hell hear...?'"

Sam: "'Quiet he'll hear...'"

"Who's he talking about?"

Mike: "Emma!! Let's go!"

"Mike, shh!"

Sam: "Shut up, man! You don't know what's out there."

Mike: "Oh like you care. You've had your fun, you've dragged her into your game… We're not wanted here. Let's go!"

The pull of my fingers to the planchette and board never felt more pronounced now, more forceful.

"It's moving again."

"Oh Jesus..." Mike walked just a few paces off.

The cold wind whistled, picking up around us, holding tighter.

Q-U-I-E-T-S-T-O-P-

Sam and I both read along the words as the planchette shifted faster, more violently with each and every letter across the board.

H-E-H-E-A-R-S-Y-O-U-

"Sam..." the frightened word escaped my mouth as something kept pulling my hands.

S-T-O-P-N-O-W-G-O-

I looked into Sam's eyes and saw the same fear I felt in my soul.

"I'm letting go now."

G-O-N-O-W-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Frantic, his eyes stared into mine, his head nodding almost imperceptibly as our hands moved on their own, frozen to the frantic planchette.

R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: "Together. On three. One…”

"Do you guys hear that?" Mike's voice trailed off.

R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: “Two…”

R-U-N-R-U-

"Three!" I screamed.

In an instant, we both raised our hands violently up from the board, the planchette flying straight up and down before clattering onto the ground, ceasing its movement. It felt as if the air itself was a rubber band pulled until it snapped, releasing the tension around us as we stared at each other. My hands were practically vibrating as the numbing pain in them receded. I realized I was holding my breath and I gasped, running a hand through my hair as Sam shakily asked, "You okay?"

"I -- I think so," I patted myself as if to feel I was still there, "Are you?"

Sam nodded, eyes wandering and fixing curiously at something over my shoulder.

"Mike?" he started, raising to one knee.

I turned to see Michael, standing ramrod straight behind us, tall back turned away, facing up toward the bright full moon. Silent as everything around him. Still as the statue. Sam picked up his phone light and started walking forward, and all I could do was stare under the light of the headlamp. I could see the pinstripes on the back of Mike's navy jacket, and I realized just how still he really was. Even his pale hands at his sides were stiff as boards, before they started shaking.

"Mike?" Sam asked, hand reaching out to his shoulder, "You okay?"

I could hear his shallow breaths as his head cocked to the side, fingers flicking at his sides. I remember, specifically, in that moment thinking about how he sounded. How the one word, the only word, that came to mind was "hollow."

Sam touched his shoulder. Mike turned with his body and his expressionless face, his wild, front-facing eyes, contorted into a twisted scowl, showing all his teeth. His light breaths turned to a low hiss, and then a high, ear-piercing shriek as he swung an open palm hard into the side of Sam's head. He fell like a rock straight down while Mike dropped to his knees, grabbing and throwing him back against the concrete, screaming, wailing on him like a maniac.

Mike was taller, but Sam was bigger. I'd seen him get into so many fights, he was always, always stronger, but here it's like there was nothing he could do. On his back, forced to the ground, he tried grappling, hitting back, getting away, but Mike's long arms batted away Sam's hands effortlessly as he just kept punching. His arms were loose, swinging straight up and down, slamming one at a time with unbelievable force. And screaming, screaming like nothing I'd ever heard before. Huffing, screeching, louder and louder every time his half-open hands smashed against Sam's head. I broke out of my frozen trance, running and shouting.

"Mike! What the fuck?!"

No sooner than I got within arm's distance did Mike suddenly spin around, eyes and teeth catching the light of my headlamp -- one wide swing of his arm clashing with my face. I fell back to the concrete. I saw stars explode across my vision and felt a hard, white-hot stinging pain at the bridge of my nose. I saw my blood dripping onto board just a few inches from my head as the cracked light flickered on and off, and heard Mike's howling cry as he went back to Sam.

Hard thuds of knuckles, pained and curdled gasps, the beginning sounds of pleading snuffed out by more sickening punching. And hooting. That's what it was. With every shattering strike that Mike made with the full motion of his body, he yowled with all the air in his lungs. He didn't stop. Not til the gasping and the panicked breaths stopped. The hard cracks of Mike's fists on Sam's face started to give purchase, and it started to sound like smashing fruit. Then it was the sound of panting, light huffs, wet chewing, and smacking lips.

All I could see in the low light was the wideness of Mike's back, hunching over Sam's body, hidden under the folds of Mike's jacket. His shoulders moved up and down with his haggard breaths, he kept his hunchback. He raised his head, turning his body toward me, his knees tucked into his chest. The light flickered on, and he looked at me with black, empty, soulless eyes, mouth and chin and throat dripping with Sam's blood. As soon as his eyes met mine, his mouth stretched thin across his face, showing his blood-stained teeth. It looked like a dentist was using a tool to pull his lips apart.

I pushed up from the ground and ran hard as I could, headlong into the dark. I could hear Mike's fists pounding the ground as he howled just as loud as before, chasing me. I only sprinted faster when the light of the headband occasionally flickered back to life, showing the uneven walkways ahead of me. Thoughts running as fast as I was, I turned it off begging myself to remember the way out by distance. The light gave me away.

The moon peeked over the vine-coated fence and I ran past the splintered silhouettes of the exhibits. Past the downturned fence, I knew I was going in the right direction. Behind me, I heard the shuffling rhythm of Mike's hands and feet. The wind and the light ringing in my ears eventually drowned out the sounds of panting, hooting, ripping cloth. I didn't slow down. Barefoot in the dark, running on concrete and tripping over weeds and roots, I didn't slow down. My only thought was getting out. Get to the car – run as fast as you can to the car. I swore I remember Sam said something about his dad’s gun in the glovebox; if I could get to that… but I’d never even held a gun before. Don’t even know where the safety is. If it’s there at all. That’s when I remembered it was Sam who had the keys.

I saw the branches of a tree overhead and I hid on the other side of the trunk. Caught my breath, covered my mouth, stood absolutely still, and listened. Howls in the distance. Heard him getting closer and stopped hearing the scrapes of his shoes against the pavement. Stopped hearing the sound of pavement at all, even as his high-pitched screeches echoed louder. What I heard was rustling, not ten feet from where I hid.

Slowly, I craned my head to see him. A dark silhouette, naked against the pale moon, crawling with poise along the top of the fence on his hands and feet. Low, curious whimpers as he slowly went along, squatting over the side, long arms hanging down. His body leaned from side to side wherever he moved his head to look.

I moved back, breathing deep and slow, quiet as I could. I had an idea. A Hail Mary. With a shaky hand, I took off the headlamp, wrapping the strap tight around the small heft in my hand. Hand covering the light, I hit the button, seeing the orange glow through my skin. I stepped out, arm back, aiming for the moon.

Saw him lean forward in the dark, almost like he saw me, but as the light flashed and spiraled over his head, his entire body followed its arc, hooting before jumping down the far side. Echoes helped me to gauge where he was and I ran back to the "Great Apes" promenade, cursing myself under my breath all the way. I almost tripped under one of his discarded shoes. Past the giraffe fence, under the archway. Under the moonlight, I could see the planchette, the board, and Sam lying limp next to it.

Couldn't make out his face. Part of me knew I didn't want to. Patted his shirt pockets, damp and thick with his blood. It was on the ground too, more than I could see; I felt a lukewarm puddle at my knees. Pockets were slick shut and I had to pry them open again, only to find them empty. Felt my way down his body to his sides. No keys. Fuck, had he lost them? How could I get back without them? If they weren’t here, what could I do?

Started breathing heavy, racking my brain with the question of where, and I realized just how much I couldn't see, how much coming back was a mistake. If Mike got tired of the light and started looking for me again… I imagined him stalking me in the dark. Getting closer with every pocket that turned out empty. Thought I could even hear his huffing breaths behind me, but all I saw was black stillness. Turned Sam on his side and reached in his only back pocket.

My heart leapt at the sound of clinking metal and the teeth of the keys scraping against my fingers. I grabbed them, clinging them to my chest. I couldn't really see him, hear him, even smell him, but before I left, I touched his shoulder. Even if he couldn’t hear me, I had to say something.

"I can't carry you. I'm sorry, I can't carry you... I have to go, I'm so sorry, I have to go... I'll come back. I promise I'll come back for you..."

That final stretch was the longest few minutes of my life. Running like never before. No light ahead but the faint glow of the moon to tell what blended shapes were the fence, the other enclosures, or the trees in between. Kept running with no regard for the sound of my footsteps or my heaving breaths. Clutched the keys for dear life and swore to God there was nothing that would make me stop or slow til I found the way out. The fact that I'd long stopped hearing the shambling sounds of Mike, still in here somewhere, only lit a fire under my feet.

Felt cloth under one running step that almost made me stumble. Mike's jacket. Kept running. Saw the dim, shiny outline of the statue covered in leaves and kept running. Food court, kids' playground, gift shop – there was the exit! Kept running. I'd forgotten just how dark and enclosed the inside was. Ran as straight as I could, jumping over molded toys and toward the slight blue outline of the double doors. Outside.

I threw open the door and sprinted into the unkempt grass. I could see the outline of the car – glinting windows, the grill that looked like a bulldog's face. Didn't slow down. I remember clicking the key fob to see the headlights blink twice, when I felt a hard, sharp crack on the top of my head. The next moment, I was sideways in the grass, stinging pain rocketing through my skull. My hand covered the painful spot, warm and wet, my vision blurred even in the dark. Felt like the hardest punch I'd ever felt in my life but there was no one there.

Then I heard Mike's excited shrieking. Rhythmic, loud, from a high place. My eyes adjusted to see his sharp silhouette hopping up and down, rattling the top of the fence, before he leapt down, arms raised, into the grass. I let go of my head, clutching fist-fulls of grass and pulling myself upright. My hand slipped. I got up and heard the heavy breaths and beating of the ground get closer. Felt like my head was sizzling as I fell hard into the side of a cold metal slab. The car door. Fumbled it open and crawled headfirst over the clutter of the backseat. My hand pulled it closed and I pushed myself away with my foot.

Could still hear the screaming. Muffled on the outside. Windshield cracked and there was tumbling on the roof. A heavy knocking, beating, pounding right over my head. He screamed louder. The ceiling started denting downward. I grabbed the shoulders of the passenger seat, pulled myself forward with all my strength. Head blaring as thick beads of black sweat fell into my eyes. I rolled into the seat, legs hanging over the console. Heard glass breaking and the roars getting louder as he ran on all fours to the driver's side. Hands kept slipping as I opened the glove box, and I felt the car start rocking. Heard the unnatural strain of metal against metal, screeching as it broke apart.

I looked up to see the wide frame of Mike's chest cover the window. Both arms broke the door clean off its hinges, shattering it. Paper cut my fingers while I reached in blind for Sam’s dad’s gun and watched Mike throw the door off to the side before he started crawling on his hairy arms towards me.

I aimed the gun. Clicked a switch on the side that I guessed was the safety. And I shot him.

Blinding flash, deafening ring in my ear, and a bloom of bright red blood that streamed from his chest. It only made him angry. He roared, teeth bared, reaching for me. So I shot again. And again. Saw his face in flashes from the gun; eyes bloodshot, lips and teeth dripping red, jaws wide in an underbite. I kept firing until he stopped, until it stopped. Head throbbing, incessant ringing in my ears, I blinked away the brightness to see Mike pulling himself away, staggering his way out of the car. He was whimpering, arms covering his chest as he walked away. And I hoped he was dead.

That was my last clear memory of that night. I'd passed out once or twice in my life, it kinda felt like falling asleep; gradual, a struggle to stay lucid, then nothing. This wasn't like that at all. One moment I was there, and then it was all black. It was lost time. Apparently it was a rock that he'd cracked my skull with. I was concussed and unconscious for days and woke up in a hospital room. Police picked me up the morning after, a few miles from the zoo, where the Bulldog had apparently rolled into a ditch.

They found me, Daisy Buchanan, comatose at the wheel, broken nose, hole in my head, and a gun at my feet.

They found Mike in the trunk. Naked, shot to death. It still looked like Mike.

They found Sam... later.

I could only imagine what a mess my situation looked like. Even if I was 100% certain of my sanity, there were no words. What possible combination of words exists for me to explain any of it in any way? It was insanity. Real, pure insanity. Sometimes even that's easier to wrap my head around. The meds certainly helped.

I'd have given anything in the world to be at their funerals, but I was still inpatient. And under suspicion. It was weeks before even my parents could see me. But even they looked at me all different now. I get it.

There was never a point in telling my side. I knew no one would believe me. I don't like what all the experts and professionals pretend actually happened, but there was nothing I could do about that from the funny farm. Even my psychiatrist doesn't really believe me. Why would she? She's rational. Because she never saw what I saw. She does fall asleep to the sounds of Mike’s monkey chants. And she doesn’t wake up to see him standing at the foot of my bed, covered in hair. But why would she?

She says my mind is trying to protect itself from something else. Something I'm too afraid to look at in the eye. Maybe it is. She says it doesn't matter that I didn't say goodbye on the board. Maybe it doesn't... I can't honestly say that I know anymore. None of it feels real looking back. But if there's one thing I do know with absolutely certainty, it's this:

Never ever go anywhere near that town. If you find yourself there, at the gates, do what we didn't. Save yourself. Save your friends. And run.

Run as far away as you can.

And for the love of all that's good in the world, never play with a Ouija board at that abandoned zoo.