u/DishComprehensive466

I have cancer. That's what my doctor told me after I came in complaining of a simple headache. They moved me from white sterilised room to white sterilised room.  A couple of scans and discussions later, my life was over, or was soon to be. It’s strange the things your mind goes to when your clock starts to run out. I am not a young man, but I thought I still had time to set things right. I’ve been a catholic for the better part of two decades now, and there are things I wish to confess. But these sins I’ve committed are too great to confess to anybody close to me. I couldn’t bear the way they would look at me if they ever knew the vile, senseless horrors I’ve covered up. So here I am, retelling the story of the ghosts that still stalk my dreams to strangers on the internet. I apologise for any grammar or spelling mistakes. I’ve never been the best with computers. 

When I think of my greatest sins, they all lead back to one man. I’ll call him Mr Smith for the purpose of this confession. I was Mr Smith's chauffeur, but I did more than just drive his car. You see, Mr Smith had an addiction that meant he often got stuck in compromising positions or situations. My job was to retrieve him and organise the clean-up crew. Mr Smith was a powerful man on Wall Street, nobody could ever confirm his true net worth, but it was clear to anyone that he was in the one per cent. He wore his wealth for all to see. Watches and rings worth castles and handcrafted Italian suits from the finest craftsmen in the world. He drank the sweetest of wines from countries I’d never heard of and in hindsight may never have existed, and it may never have been wine. 

The year was 2002, and I was twenty-eight. I had received a text from Mr Smith to retrieve him from (address omitted) exactly an hour after the message was sent. The address was located in the shipping and port area of Chicago. It was an old abandoned suburban house from back when fishermen used to live closer to their work. The once-white paint of the building had completely weathered and chipped away, revealing the rotten, decrepit oak beneath. It wasn't noticeable being cramped between two large warehouse buildings. The curtains were drawn closed, and the only sign of life from around the building had been a murder of crows that landed and flew like a wave of black wings. Their ugly cries carried through the empty district, echoing off dystopian concrete obelisk buildings we call homes. 

The mob still drowned folks here. It was popularised in the 1920s by the likes of Al Capone and Hymie Weiss, but truthfully, it never really died out. Sure, the concrete shoes were purely a myth made up by Hollywood, but there were bodies in the docks if you knew where to look.  Long forgotten drowned souls whose murders the cops don’t even know happened. The place always gave me the creeps. Of course, that’s not the only way the mob would dispose of their victims. Not paying your debts on time wasn't a crime worth the effort of hiding a body. They’d break a window and throw a Molotov or plant an improvised explosive device in the base of the house, and watch it burn from a distance. Either there was nobody home, and now they would never come back, or they were home, and the cops would rule it was an accident. Either way, their reputation was secure. 

3:03 am 
It had been exactly an hour since Mr Smith had messaged me. I stepped out onto the street to make my way to the house. It had a porch out front. I was scared the old wooden stairs would give way under my weight, but they held steady. I grabbed hold of the doorknob and swung the front door open. Before I worked for Mr Smith, I worked in a slaughterhouse out in Mississippi. I can remember the smell of death and of the animals' bowels emptying as we cut them open. The smell of death and excrement would drift down into my hometown on Wednesdays. It would cling to my clothes and skin, requiring a long shower to remove it, and even then, sometimes that wasn't enough. When I opened that door, I was struck with that same familiar, almost nostalgic smell. Death smells like death, no matter the species. 
The first room of the house was the living room. Mouldy murron furniture scattered the room, and a smashed-in TV sat crumpled in the corner. It’s glass shards spilled across the stained carpet. There was a red and brown mass lying on the floor. At first, it was hard to tell it was a person until I saw the limbs and what remained of his face. His lower jaw had been torn off his skull. Serving the vital tendons that held his face together, causing his skin to sag like a wet rag against his skull. His tongue hung out of the gaping hole and rested against his throat. Blood covered the floor in a thick pool that soaked into the carpet. His shirt hung in tatters around his torso. It served as a thin veil to the mutilation underneath.

I winced at the sight. I stood there for a long moment. Sucking in deep, shaky breaths to steady myself. I couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of Mr Smith, or I might join the mangled corpse on the floor. I could hear something wet and most squelching down the hall to what I assumed were the bedrooms. It sounded like when we’d feed the hogs back home. The sound of ravonise chewing, flesh tearing from bone, small grunts of satisfaction as their hunger is satisfied. These sounds became louder and louder as I moved through the kitchen. They became faster and faster.  I could hear skin being stripped from bone, tendons snapping at every bite. The full vulgarity of the scene came into view as I turned into the hallway. Long streaks of blood painted the walls like red ribbons, their long, spindly fingers pooled in the cracks where the wall met the floor. A man was down on his knees, clutching a woman in his arms. Blood caked his upper body in red. The blood stained his hair and face, marking him as the perpetrator of this crime. The woman's stomach was cut open, her intestinal fluid stained her pants, and her entrails leaked out in long crimson ropes that ended near my feet. 

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that the man was chewing on the woman’s face. I could see his teeth scraping across the bone of her skull. She was surely dead, but her eyes still looked over her shoulder, back to a room behind her. Terror still eched it’s self in every wrinkle of the right side of her face. The left side was nothing but a mess of hanging skin and clean bone that the man seemed intent on polishing with his tongue. He suddenly stopped and opened his eyes. They flicked to me as saliva dripped from between his bloody lips. 

“Sir?” My voice was shaky
“Johnny, I didn’t think you’d be, be here so soon,” he slurred his words as he attempted to stand. The body of the woman crumpled beneath him. Mr Smith stumbled forward, clearly intoxicated by his feast, before placing a hand on the wall for support. I could hear him gagging, his back arched downward as a slurry of brown meat poured from his throat. 
“Fucking junkies,” He spat.
“Such beautiful young bodies, and they fill it with, with TAR,” Mr Smith fumbled over his words. He ran a hand through his blood-soaked, black hair and sighed. 
“Why’d you pick 'em then?”
“What,”

I froze. My muscles went tight. I knew that maybe I could make a break for it through the front, but even in his anerbrated state, he’d still catch me. I could make it onto the street, but then what? I was stupid, so stupid, thinking I could speak to him like that.
Mr Smith paused for a long moment. He looked me up and down with a pair of blue eyes, his surprise at me questioning his actions plain to see on his face. 
“Watch yourself, boy,” He snarled. There was an even longer pause before he continued.
“I heard them planning to mug me. Down on Main Street, so I followed them.” A grin began to spread across his face. "Turns out there was some untainted meat here after all.” 

He outstretched a finger to the open door at the end of the hallway. I leaned to the side so that I could see inside. In comparison, this room was remarkably cleaner than the rest of the building. It was dark, but I couldn't see any mould or holes in the wall. It was clear that an effort was made to keep this room separate from the rest of the building. Small toys scattered across the floor, a rocking horse, and papers covered in colourful crayon drawings. Hell, even a dollhouse sat in the corner in nearly pristine condition, and next to it was a small bed, with a little girl fast asleep inside. She tossed from side to side, dreaming of imaginary monsters, while a real monster stole her parents. 
“Did they scream?”
“No, didn’t want to wake the calf,”
“Are you gonna take her too?” 
Mr Smith licked his lips before exhaling slowly. “No. I’m afraid I’m full for the night. Come on, Johnny old boy, I’d like to get home.” He fell forward, and I caught him and put one of his arms over my shoulder as I walked him out of the house. I felt relief wash over me as I finally escaped the house, the retched smell still polluted my nose, but the images that had accompanied it were gone. 
That’s not the truth. The truth is, I still see that family every day. Every time I fall asleep or rest my head, I see the woman without a face and her husband standing side by side while a little girl cries for people that she will never see again.

I lowered Mr Smith into the car, he moved like a drunk. I closed the door to the limousine and flipped open my phone. I dialled, and when I heard the pick up, I didn’t wait for them to ask who it was. “(omited location) two died, one child alive. I need the whole house gone by tomorrow,” I explained my plan on how we were going to cover up Mr Smith's latest atrocity. It was not only my job to drive this remorseless fiend around, but I was also to make sure he never saw a day in jail. I slid back into the car and took a long, shaky breath before turning on the ignition.

The next evening, I waited outside the front of Mr Smith's estate. He had a press conference, and of course, I was to deliver him and pick him up. I watched him walk down to the car in a perfectly ironed suit as usual before sliding into the back of the limo. 
“You are a fucking artist,” he said, dropping a newspaper through the window between the passengers and drivers' section of the car. The front page read “TWO KILLED IN FIRE BOMBING”.
“Two junkies fail to pay their dealer back for excessive amounts of dope they were buying,” Mr Smith was now leaning through the window. “SO, in righteous retribution, they burn down the house.” He lowered his voice in mock sadness. “BUT WAIT, their darling little girl miraculously survives, having been cared out by one of her burning parents. Truly incredible stuff, “ Mr Smith patted my shoulder, and I turned on the ignition. “Thanks, sir,” I replied.

That is just one of the many situations Mr Smith found himself in. I may confess more of his and my own sins in the future, but just reading this story has taken a lot from me. 
I’ll leave you here. 

I have cancer. That's what my doctor told me after I came in complaining of a simple headache. They moved me from white sterilised room to white sterilised room.  A couple of scans and discussions later, my life was over, or was soon to be. It’s strange the things your mind goes to when your clock starts to run out. I am not a young man, but I thought I still had time to set things right. I’ve been a catholic for the better part of two decades now, and there are things I wish to confess. But these sins I’ve committed are too great to confess to anybody close to me. I couldn’t bear the way they would look at me if they ever knew the vile, senseless horrors I’ve covered up. So here I am, retelling the story of the ghosts that still stalk my dreams to strangers on the internet. I apologise for any grammar or spelling mistakes. I’ve never been the best with computers. 

When I think of my greatest sins, they all lead back to one man. I’ll call him Mr Smith for the purpose of this confession. I was Mr Smith's chauffeur, but I did more than just drive his car. You see, Mr Smith had an addiction that meant he often got stuck in compromising positions or situations. My job was to retrieve him and organise the clean-up crew. Mr Smith was a powerful man on Wall Street, nobody could ever confirm his true net worth, but it was clear to anyone that he was in the one per cent. He wore his wealth for all to see. Watches and rings worth castles and handcrafted Italian suits from the finest craftsmen in the world. He drank the sweetest of wines from countries I’d never heard of and in hindsight may never have existed, and it may never have been wine. 

The year was 2002, and I was twenty-eight. I had received a text from Mr Smith to retrieve him from (address omitted) exactly an hour after the message was sent. The address was located in the shipping and port area of Chicago. It was an old abandoned suburban house from back when fishermen used to live closer to their work. The once-white paint of the building had completely weathered and chipped away, revealing the rotten, decrepit oak beneath. It wasn't noticeable being cramped between two large warehouse buildings. The curtains were drawn closed, and the only sign of life from around the building had been a murder of crows that landed and flew like a wave of black wings. Their ugly cries carried through the empty district, echoing off dystopian concrete obelisk buildings we call homes. 

The mob still drowned folks here. It was popularised in the 1920s by the likes of Al Capone and Hymie Weiss, but truthfully, it never really died out. Sure, the concrete shoes were purely a myth made up by Hollywood, but there were bodies in the docks if you knew where to look.  Long forgotten drowned souls whose murders the cops don’t even know happened. The place always gave me the creeps. Of course, that’s not the only way the mob would dispose of their victims. Not paying your debts on time wasn't a crime worth the effort of hiding a body. They’d break a window and throw a Molotov or plant an improvised explosive device in the base of the house, and watch it burn from a distance. Either there was nobody home, and now they would never come back, or they were home, and the cops would rule it was an accident. Either way, their reputation was secure. 

3:03 am 
It had been exactly an hour since Mr Smith had messaged me. I stepped out onto the street to make my way to the house. It had a porch out front. I was scared the old wooden stairs would give way under my weight, but they held steady. I grabbed hold of the doorknob and swung the front door open. Before I worked for Mr Smith, I worked in a slaughterhouse out in Mississippi. I can remember the smell of death and of the animals' bowels emptying as we cut them open. The smell of death and excrement would drift down into my hometown on Wednesdays. It would cling to my clothes and skin, requiring a long shower to remove it, and even then, sometimes that wasn't enough. When I opened that door, I was struck with that same familiar, almost nostalgic smell. Death smells like death, no matter the species. 
The first room of the house was the living room. Mouldy murron furniture scattered the room, and a smashed-in TV sat crumpled in the corner. It’s glass shards spilled across the stained carpet. There was a red and brown mass lying on the floor. At first, it was hard to tell it was a person until I saw the limbs and what remained of his face. His lower jaw had been torn off his skull. Serving the vital tendons that held his face together, causing his skin to sag like a wet rag against his skull. His tongue hung out of the gaping hole and rested against his throat. Blood covered the floor in a thick pool that soaked into the carpet. His shirt hung in tatters around his torso. It served as a thin veil to the mutilation underneath.

I winced at the sight. I stood there for a long moment. Sucking in deep, shaky breaths to steady myself. I couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of Mr Smith, or I might join the mangled corpse on the floor. I could hear something wet and most squelching down the hall to what I assumed were the bedrooms. It sounded like when we’d feed the hogs back home. The sound of ravonise chewing, flesh tearing from bone, small grunts of satisfaction as their hunger is satisfied. These sounds became louder and louder as I moved through the kitchen. They became faster and faster.  I could hear skin being stripped from bone, tendons snapping at every bite. The full vulgarity of the scene came into view as I turned into the hallway. Long streaks of blood painted the walls like red ribbons, their long, spindly fingers pooled in the cracks where the wall met the floor. A man was down on his knees, clutching a woman in his arms. Blood caked his upper body in red. The blood stained his hair and face, marking him as the perpetrator of this crime. The woman's stomach was cut open, her intestinal fluid stained her pants, and her entrails leaked out in long crimson ropes that ended near my feet. 

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that the man was chewing on the woman’s face. I could see his teeth scraping across the bone of her skull. She was surely dead, but her eyes still looked over her shoulder, back to a room behind her. Terror still eched it’s self in every wrinkle of the right side of her face. The left side was nothing but a mess of hanging skin and clean bone that the man seemed intent on polishing with his tongue. He suddenly stopped and opened his eyes. They flicked to me as saliva dripped from between his bloody lips. 

“Sir?” My voice was shaky
“Johnny, I didn’t think you’d be, be here so soon,” he slurred his words as he attempted to stand. The body of the woman crumpled beneath him. Mr Smith stumbled forward, clearly intoxicated by his feast, before placing a hand on the wall for support. I could hear him gagging, his back arched downward as a slurry of brown meat poured from his throat. 
“Fucking junkies,” He spat.
“Such beautiful young bodies, and they fill it with, with TAR,” Mr Smith fumbled over his words. He ran a hand through his blood-soaked, black hair and sighed. 
“Why’d you pick 'em then?”
“What,”

I froze. My muscles went tight. I knew that maybe I could make a break for it through the front, but even in his anerbrated state, he’d still catch me. I could make it onto the street, but then what? I was stupid, so stupid, thinking I could speak to him like that.
Mr Smith paused for a long moment. He looked me up and down with a pair of blue eyes, his surprise at me questioning his actions plain to see on his face. 
“Watch yourself, boy,” He snarled. There was an even longer pause before he continued.
“I heard them planning to mug me. Down on Main Street, so I followed them.” A grin began to spread across his face. "Turns out there was some untainted meat here after all.” 

He outstretched a finger to the open door at the end of the hallway. I leaned to the side so that I could see inside. In comparison, this room was remarkably cleaner than the rest of the building. It was dark, but I couldn't see any mould or holes in the wall. It was clear that an effort was made to keep this room separate from the rest of the building. Small toys scattered across the floor, a rocking horse, and papers covered in colourful crayon drawings. Hell, even a dollhouse sat in the corner in nearly pristine condition, and next to it was a small bed, with a little girl fast asleep inside. She tossed from side to side, dreaming of imaginary monsters, while a real monster stole her parents. 
“Did they scream?”
“No, didn’t want to wake the calf,”
“Are you gonna take her too?” 
Mr Smith licked his lips before exhaling slowly. “No. I’m afraid I’m full for the night. Come on, Johnny old boy, I’d like to get home.” He fell forward, and I caught him and put one of his arms over my shoulder as I walked him out of the house. I felt relief wash over me as I finally escaped the house, the retched smell still polluted my nose, but the images that had accompanied it were gone. 
That’s not the truth. The truth is, I still see that family every day. Every time I fall asleep or rest my head, I see the woman without a face and her husband standing side by side while a little girl cries for people that she will never see again.

I lowered Mr Smith into the car, he moved like a drunk. I closed the door to the limousine and flipped open my phone. I dialled, and when I heard the pick up, I didn’t wait for them to ask who it was. “(omited location) two died, one child alive. I need the whole house gone by tomorrow,” I explained my plan on how we were going to cover up Mr Smith's latest atrocity. It was not only my job to drive this remorseless fiend around, but I was also to make sure he never saw a day in jail. I slid back into the car and took a long, shaky breath before turning on the ignition.

The next evening, I waited outside the front of Mr Smith's estate. He had a press conference, and of course, I was to deliver him and pick him up. I watched him walk down to the car in a perfectly ironed suit as usual before sliding into the back of the limo. 
“You are a fucking artist,” he said, dropping a newspaper through the window between the passengers and drivers' section of the car. The front page read “TWO KILLED IN FIRE BOMBING”.
“Two junkies fail to pay their dealer back for excessive amounts of dope they were buying,” Mr Smith was now leaning through the window. “SO, in righteous retribution, they burn down the house.” He lowered his voice in mock sadness. “BUT WAIT, their darling little girl miraculously survives, having been cared out by one of her burning parents. Truly incredible stuff, “ Mr Smith patted my shoulder, and I turned on the ignition. “Thanks, sir,” I replied.

That is just one of the many situations Mr Smith found himself in. I may confess more of his and my own sins in the future, but just reading this story has taken a lot from me. 
I’ll leave you here. 

I have cancer. That's what my doctor told me after I came in complaining of a simple headache. They moved me from white sterilised room to white sterilised room.  A couple of scans and discussions later, my life was over, or was soon to be. It’s strange the things your mind goes to when your clock starts to run out. I am not a young man, but I thought I still had time to set things right. I’ve been a catholic for the better part of two decades now, and there are things I wish to confess. But these sins I’ve committed are too great to confess to anybody close to me. I couldn’t bear the way they would look at me if they ever knew the vile, senseless horrors I’ve covered up. So here I am, retelling the story of the ghosts that still stalk my dreams to strangers on the internet. I apologise for any grammar or spelling mistakes. I’ve never been the best with computers. 

When I think of my greatest sins, they all lead back to one man. I’ll call him Mr Smith for the purpose of this confession. I was Mr Smith's chauffeur, but I did more than just drive his car. You see, Mr Smith had an addiction that meant he often got stuck in compromising positions or situations. My job was to retrieve him and organise the clean-up crew. Mr Smith was a powerful man on Wall Street, nobody could ever confirm his true net worth, but it was clear to anyone that he was in the one per cent. He wore his wealth for all to see. Watches and rings worth castles and handcrafted Italian suits from the finest craftsmen in the world. He drank the sweetest of wines from countries I’d never heard of and in hindsight may never have existed, and it may never have been wine. 

The year was 2002, and I was twenty-eight. I had received a text from Mr Smith to retrieve him from (address omitted) exactly an hour after the message was sent. The address was located in the shipping and port area of Chicago. It was an old abandoned suburban house from back when fishermen used to live closer to their work. The once-white paint of the building had completely weathered and chipped away, revealing the rotten, decrepit oak beneath. It wasn't noticeable being cramped between two large warehouse buildings. The curtains were drawn closed, and the only sign of life from around the building had been a murder of crows that landed and flew like a wave of black wings. Their ugly cries carried through the empty district, echoing off dystopian concrete obelisk buildings we call homes. 

The mob still drowned folks here. It was popularised in the 1920s by the likes of Al Capone and Hymie Weiss, but truthfully, it never really died out. Sure, the concrete shoes were purely a myth made up by Hollywood, but there were bodies in the docks if you knew where to look.  Long forgotten drowned souls whose murders the cops don’t even know happened. The place always gave me the creeps. Of course, that’s not the only way the mob would dispose of their victims. Not paying your debts on time wasn't a crime worth the effort of hiding a body. They’d break a window and throw a Molotov or plant an improvised explosive device in the base of the house, and watch it burn from a distance. Either there was nobody home, and now they would never come back, or they were home, and the cops would rule it was an accident. Either way, their reputation was secure. 

3:03 am 
It had been exactly an hour since Mr Smith had messaged me. I stepped out onto the street to make my way to the house. It had a porch out front. I was scared the old wooden stairs would give way under my weight, but they held steady. I grabbed hold of the doorknob and swung the front door open. Before I worked for Mr Smith, I worked in a slaughterhouse out in Mississippi. I can remember the smell of death and of the animals' bowels emptying as we cut them open. The smell of death and excrement would drift down into my hometown on Wednesdays. It would cling to my clothes and skin, requiring a long shower to remove it, and even then, sometimes that wasn't enough. When I opened that door, I was struck with that same familiar, almost nostalgic smell. Death smells like death, no matter the species. 
The first room of the house was the living room. Mouldy murron furniture scattered the room, and a smashed-in TV sat crumpled in the corner. It’s glass shards spilled across the stained carpet. There was a red and brown mass lying on the floor. At first, it was hard to tell it was a person until I saw the limbs and what remained of his face. His lower jaw had been torn off his skull. Serving the vital tendons that held his face together, causing his skin to sag like a wet rag against his skull. His tongue hung out of the gaping hole and rested against his throat. Blood covered the floor in a thick pool that soaked into the carpet. His shirt hung in tatters around his torso. It served as a thin veil to the mutilation underneth.

I winced at the sight. I stood there for a long moment. Sucking in deep, shaky breaths to steady myself. I couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of Mr Smith, or I might join the mangled corpse on the floor. I could hear something wet and most squelching down the hall to what I assumed were the bedrooms. It sounded like when we’d feed the hogs back home. The sound of ravonise chewing, flesh tearing from bone, small grunts of satisfaction as their hunger is satisfied. These sounds became louder and louder as I moved through the kitchen. They became faster and faster.  I could hear skin being stripped from bone, tendons snapping at every bite. The full vulgarity of the scene came into view as I turned into the hallway. Long streaks of blood painted the walls like red ribbons, their long, spindly fingers pooled in the cracks where the wall met the floor. A man was down on his knees, clutching a woman in his arms. Blood caked his upper body in red. The blood stained his hair and face, marking him as the perpetrator of this crime. The woman's stomach was cut open, her intestinal fluid stained her pants, and her entrails leaked out in long crimson ropes that ended near my feet. 

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that the man was chewing on the woman’s face. I could see his teeth scraping across the bone of her skull. She was surely dead, but her eyes still looked over her shoulder, back to a room behind her. Terror still eched it’s self in every wrinkle of the right side of her face. The left side was nothing but a mess of hanging skin and clean bone that the man seemed intent on polishing with his tongue. He suddenly stopped and opened his eyes. They flicked to me as saliva dripped from between his bloody lips. 

“Sir?” My voice was shaky
“Johnny, I didn’t think you’d be, be here so soon,” he slurred his words as he attempted to stand. The body of the woman crumpled beneath him. Mr Smith stumbled forward, clearly intoxicated by his feast, before placing a hand on the wall for support. I could hear him gagging, his back arched downward as a slurry of brown meat poured from his throat. 
“Fucking junkies,” He spat.
“Such beautiful young bodies, and they fill it with, with TAR,” Mr Smith fumbled over his words. He ran a hand through his blood-soaked, black hair and sighed. 
“Why’d you pick 'em then?”
“What,”

I froze. My muscles went tight. I knew that maybe I could make a break for it through the front, but even in his anerbrated state, he’d still catch me. I could make it onto the street, but then what? I was stupid, so stupid, thinking I could speak to him like that.
Mr Smith paused for a long moment. He looked me up and down with a pair of blue eyes, his surprise at me questioning his actions plain to see on his face. 
“Watch yourself, boy,” He snarled. There was an even longer pause before he continued.
“I heard them planning to mug me. Down on Main Street, so I followed them.” A grin began to spread across his face.“Turns out there was some untainted meat here after all.” 

He outstretched a finger to the open door at the end of the hallway. I leaned to the side so that I could see inside. In comparison, this room was remarkably cleaner than the rest of the building. It was dark, but I couldn't see any mould or holes in the wall. It was clear that an effort was made to keep this room separate from the rest of the building. Small toys scattered across the floor, a rocking horse, and papers covered in colourful crayon drawings. Hell, even a dollhouse sat in the corner in nearly pristine condition, and next to it was a small bed, with a little girl fast asleep inside. She tossed from side to side, dreaming of imaginary monsters, while a real monster stole her parents. 
“Did they scream?”
“No, didn’t want to wake the calf,”
“Are you gonna take her too?” 
Mr Smith licked his lips before exhaling slowly. “No. I’m afraid I’m full for the night. Come on, Johnny old boy, I’d like to get home.” He fell forward, and I caught him and put one of his arms over my shoulder as I walked him out of the house. I felt relief wash over me as I finally escaped the house, the reched smell still polluted my nose, but the images that had accompanied it were gone. 
That’s not the truth. The truth is, I still see that family every day. Every time I fall asleep or rest my head, I see the woman without a face and her husband standing side by side while a little girl cries for people that she will never see again.

I lowered Mr Smith into the car, he moved like a drunk. I closed the door to the limousine and flipped open my phone. I dialled, and when I heard the pick up, I didn’t wait for them to ask who it was. “(omited location) two died, one child alive. I need the whole house gone by tomorrow,” I explained my plan on how we were going to cover up Mr Smith's latest atrocity. It was not only my job to drive this remorseless fiend around, but I was also to make sure he never saw a day in jail. I slid back into the car and took a long, shaky breath before turning on the ignition.

The next evening, I waited outside the front of Mr Smith's estate. He had a press conference, and of course, I was to deliver him and pick him up. I watched him walk down to the car in a perfectly ironed suit as usual before sliding into the back of the limo. 
“You are a fucking artest,” he said, dropping a newspaper through the window between the passengers and drivers' section of the car. The front page read “TWO KILLED IN FIRE BOMBING”.
“Two junkies fail to pay their dealer back for excessive amounts of dope they were buying,” Mr Smith was now leaning through the window. “SO, in righteous retribution, they burn down the house.” He lowered his voice in mock sadness. “BUT WAIT, their darling little girl miraculously survives, having been cared out by one of her burning parents. Truly incredible stuff, “ Mr Smith patted my shoulder, and I turned on the ignition. “Thanks, sir,” I replied.

That is just one of the many situations Mr Smith found himself in. I may confess more of his and my own sins in the future, but just reading this story has taken a lot from me. 
I’ll leave you here.

I was nine the first time I got a concussion.

The woods next to my property have always had rumours about them. Stories of campers who never returned or children stolen in the night. The ghosts of angry miners still searching for their fortune, none of these stories had any evidence, but when you're six, you don’t need evidence. Even so, I was still one of their many explorers.

Alongside me was my little brother, Evan. He was short for an eight-year-old, we shared my mother's tangled black hair, but he had her eye. They were a deep blue that showed flecks of green that glowed in the sunlight. Evan hugged my side as we ventured forward through the thick shrubs. Tall pine trees rose all around us like great guardians of the forest, their leaves and branches unfurling overhead, only letting small rays of sunlight through the thick foliage.

“J-John, can we go back now? What if Mickey was right? What if there are wolves?”  Evan’s voice was low and shaky. I could feel his little hand wrap around mine so tight it was like he thought I was going to run off and leave him here. What if he was right? What if there are wolves? Lurking around, looking to snatch us up and feed us to their young.

“Mickey Wagner is a liar. If there were wolves, there would have been signs to warn us, it’s like the law. “ I said, doing my best to dispel thoughts of great beasts with gnashing jaws and hungry eyes.

The warm summer wind washed through the forest. It rustled the trees overhead, sending pine needles raining down on the two of us. I pulled Evan forward, and we continued our march. Birds danced and sang overhead, their sweet song filled our ears, and seemed to cheer Evan up. They were small and white, with black patches on their bellies. “Wow, I've never seen birds that look like that,” Evan said, raising his eyes to watch as they glided from branch to branch.

“What if it's a whole new species? AND WE’RE THE FIRST TO FIND IT?” I exclaimed. 

“OH MY GOD! WHAT IF YOU'RE RIGHT! WE’RE GONNA BE RICH!” Evan cheered. Suddenly, his fear was gone, and we were back to being entrepied explorers.

Suddenly, up ahead, I could see light. It slithered through the trees like great bright serpents. It was a clearing, a circular field of high grass where the sun beat down unimpeded. “Let's make camp here,” Evan said. He ran across the field, picking up sticks and giggling. I took a seat at the base of an old oak tree and watched him rummage through the dense grass.

“You’ll find better sticks closer to the trees,” I called out. Evan stood and cocked his head at me, “Why?” 

“Because they fall off trees dumbass,” I said bluntly. Evan scrunched his face up in an attempt at a scowl and raised his pinky finger at me. “Wrong finger,” I stood and began walking towards him. “Nu uh, Mickey Wagner said it's the Chinese middle finger-” 

“Stop listening to Mickey, he is also a dumbass, now get out of the grass,” I said, grabbing Evan. “Whyyyyy?” Evan protested as he tried to weasel out of my grasp. “Because there could be snakes, you can build a fire next to me.” I pulled Evan’s small frame over my shoulder and walked back to the tree line as he pounded on my back.

I spent the next half hour scratching two rocks together as Evan searched for sticks, being careful not to wander too far or I'd drag him back again. He came rushing back with an arm full of sticks and sat next to me. Evan began to divide the by length into little piles at my side. 

He glanced to his side, then stopped and began to steer across the field. “John,” Evan half-whispered through a shaky voice. I traced his line of sight across the field and saw something brown peaking over the grass on the other side of the field. It was a deer, tall, sharp horns curved around its head like a thorned halo. It stood perfectly still, just watching us.

“There’s something wrong with that deer.” Evan was pale, inching his way closer to me. Why was he so scared? Sure, it seemed off, but it was just a deer. Then I saw it, Evan was right, something was wrong. The deer's jaw hung open at a crooked angle that seemed only to grow wider and wider the longer we stared. It revealed only flesh where teeth should have been, just pink, smooth gums, and the darkness of its throat.

I stood and grabbed hold of Evan as he squinted, somehow growing paler. “What's wrong with its eyes?” Instead of large brown eyes, the deer's eyes were blue. They were tiny in comparison to the deer's head. A red lining of blood curved the deer's eyelid as the skin peeled forward like rotten fruit. Maybe it was sick? I thought, then I watched as a second set of skin enveloped its eyes. Hairless, clean, pale skin covered the eyes for only a second, just enough time for me to realise those weren’t the eyes of a deer. 

I grabbed hold of Evan and ran, dragging him behind me. I barrelled through bushes and branches, they clung to us like the limbs of some monster attempting to drag us back to the deer. I could hear Evan crying, loud wails filled the air, the birds screeched before shooting away in response. Evan stumbled, so pulled him up, jolting him forward with a whimper of pain as he cried harder.  I’d say sorry later, but I wouldn't let that thing catch us.

We picked up speed as we ran down the hill. I made more missteps now. In my rush to escape, I’d stumble forward only to catch myself at the last minute and continue sprinting.  Please god whatever that was dont let it catch us. Every shadow was suddenly the deer, its toothless mouth seeming to grow wider and wider, its features contorted. only for it to disappear when I turned my head.

It began to rain, great thunderous downpours that turned the once dry land into a collapsing mudslide. The rain blurred my vision, forcing me to squint, multiplying the illusions. I saw its face in every hollowed-out tree or loose branch. I was sure it would appear in front of us soon, but it never did.

The mud squelched under our boots as we ran. I placed my feet with the sides facing out like I was skiing. It worked for a while before one of my boots caught on a rock, and the earth rushed to meet me. I threw my hands out to brace myself, but the mud slid them out in front of me, and my head cracked on a rock hidden under the rushing mixture. 

It was like somebody had turned off a light. Deep, dreamless sleep took over my body, like a being pulled under water by a current.  I was vaguely aware of my surroundings, everything was muffled like I was hearing it through a wall.

I could feel two small hands wrapped around my ankle as a rough, wet surface slid underneath me.  My fingernails scratched across the pavement as I searched for a hold. I thrashed for a moment, kicking my foot till the person holding it let go. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw Evan crouched next to me, even though he was soaked with rain, I could still see that his cheeks were flushed with tears.

I looked down to examine myself, my entire face was covered in mud and soot, it soaked my hair and stained my clothes. I looked around and realised we were on the road, a corner away from home. Then it hit me, Evan had dragged me through the woods and rain to bring me home. I grabbed hold of him as hot, burning tears ran down my face again. “It’s ok, I’m ok”

My family moved shortly after but still, some nights I dream of those woods and that deer with the eyes of a man.

PART 3

I climbed the metal stairs to the roof, the metal ringing with every step. Lizzie and Duke had crossed the bridge and were waiting for me as I tucked the revolver back into my jacket. Lizzie stood with her arms folded across her chest. She wore a red flannel shirt and glared at me from the top of the stairs. “You idiot, we were still discussing what to do with him,” she rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Nothing to discuss, he was turned, so I shot him.” I looked over at Duke for backup, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. He was staring at the building across the bridge. I could see the muscles in his jaw twitch as he did. Duke was a tall, broad-shouldered man, muscles toned from years in the military. He reached out a hand and gestured towards the cigarette in my hand. I handed it to him, watched as he took a long, slow drag, and blew the smoke over the edge of the building. The roof was covered in large rectangular garden troughs, which burst with green vegetables, whose vines spilled out and onto the concrete. 

“He had family here, what am I gonna tell Mrs Robinson?” Lizze asked. “It wasn't your call to make.”

“Enough, we’ve got more important things to argue about,” Duke finally spoke.

“Was anybody hurt last night? I saw the door,” I asked.

“No,” Duke responded. 

“Nobody sleeps on the bottom floor, so nobody was hurt. But people have been saying they're hearing voices from down there.” Lizzie took the cigarette from Duke's hand and took a puff of her own.

“Thanks for askin-”

“Shut up,” Lizzie spat. “They must have gotten stuck there when the sun came up. We’ve only heard two so far.” 

“I’ll get some of my boys together and we’ll clear it out.” Duke nodded at me. I didn't want to go down there, but I knew I didn't have a say when it came to Duke.

“Good, once that's done, I’ll get a clean-up crew together for the alley.” Lizzie handed the cigarette back to me and started for the door to the stairwell. “You alright Duke?” I said as I stamped the cigarette out on the raised concrete outcropping of the building. Duke turned to me, his face was calm, and his voice was steady as usual, but I could see him fidgeting with the gold wedding ring around his finger. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get moving.”

I sat by the door waiting for Jackie to arrive. I had brought my shotgun, I held it in one hand and rested the barrel against the concrete. I’d left my jacket in the apartment and sat freezing in my singlet.  From here, it became apparent the full scale of the hill the beasts had created. It rose up the side of the building at nearly a vertical angle, the only footholds being between bags of loosely discarded rubbish. It was a wonder how only three of them had fallen. There were too many bags for this to have all come from the alley, they must have cleared out all the bins lining the road leading here to collect this much. I didn’t know the beasts were capable of coordinating a plan of this scale. We’d been underestimating them. Growing complacent in our high tower, believing the monsters wouldn’t find us if we were quiet. We were trapped. Any scouting parties that stayed out through the night never came back, or they did as a part of the moaning, weeping horde.

I saw Jackie being lowered down from the fire escape by a harness. He hit the pavement with a thud and stripped the harness off, before yelling something at the man above and turning to me. Jackie was young with curly red hair and a face so dotted with freckles he looked like he had a tan. “You got here early.”

“Duke and Liz are already up my ass for shooting the Robinson kid. Can’t afford to fuck this up.”

“Shit, that was you?” Jackie snorted, a small smile creeping across his lips.

“Yeah,” 

“Fair enough, Duke and Adam are gonna go through the stairwell. We’ll meet back up with them inside.”

“Doesn’t Adam work for the cooks?” I swear I could picture him and his greasy brown hair serving me a bowl of stew. 

“He did, but apparently, he asked to be transferred.”

“That why he’s with Duke? To supervise or something?”

“Guess so.”

So this was a punishment for me and a test for Adam. “ I’m surprised anybody is still willing to transfer after what happened to Raff,” I ran my fingers through my hair to steady myself. “Me too, poor guy. Guess Adam’s sick of being cooped up inside like the rest of us,” Jackie removed a pistol from the back of his waistband and reached for a torch that hung lazily from his hip. A man from the top of the building called down to us, saying we were clear to enter. I stood taking up my position in front of Jackie. It was a simple formation, he stands behind and points, I stand in front and shoot. After we drop one, we swap.

Jackie clicked on his torch, casting a straight, long beam into the darkness. The shadows lapped back and forth against the light as we moved inside. Apartment doors lined the walls, they were still boarded up, so the beasts had to still be in the hallways. Red carpet ran across the floor, and pot plants lay broken and discarded every meter or so. Their ceramic shards crunched under our boots as we moved through the corridors.

We were coming to a corner when I raised a hand to stop Jackie. I turned to him and placed one finger across my lips in a shh motion. I listened, and sure enough, I could hear the crunching of footsteps from around the corner. They were getting closer. Me and Jackie exchanged a nod of mutual understanding, and he held the light to the corner. I dropped to one knee and waited. With every crunch, I felt my muscles clench tighter. My eyesight narrowed on the corner, adrenaline pumping into my veins.

We could hear it getting closer until finally I saw a bearded man in a brown button-up shirt turn the corner. It was clear that brown wasn’t the shirt's original colour, but it was so stained with filth that it had turned milky brown. His stomach was bloated and swollen, he was clearly sick. I could smell him from here. He reeked of rotten meat. I could hear him mumbling a prayer before he noticed the light. His long hair fell forward as he lunged at us. I fired. The round caught him in the upper chest and he spun sideways against the wall. He cried in pain. “PLEASE, END IT,” His pleading, desperate eyes found mine for only a second before I fired again.

I climbed the metal stairs to the roof, the metal ringing with every step. Lizzie and Duke had crossed the bridge and were waiting for me as I tucked the revolver back into my jacket. Lizzie stood with her arms folded across her chest. She wore a red flannel shirt and glared at me from the top of the stairs. “You idiot, we were still discussing what to do with him,” she rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Nothing to discuss, he was turned, so I shot him.” I looked over at Duke for backup, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. He was staring at the building across the bridge. I could see the muscles in his jaw twitch as he did. Duke was a tall, broad-shouldered man, muscles toned from years in the military. He reached out a hand and gestured towards the cigarette in my hand. I handed it to him, watched as he took a long, slow drag, and blew the smoke over the edge of the building. The roof was covered in large rectangular garden troughs, which burst with green vegetables, whose vines spilled out and onto the concrete. 

“He had family here, what am I gonna tell Mrs Robinson?” Lizze asked. “It wasn't your call to make.”
“Enough, we’ve got more important things to argue about,” Duke finally spoke.
“Was anybody hurt last night? I saw the door,” I asked.
“No,” Duke responded. 
“Nobody sleeps on the bottom floor, so nobody was hurt. But people have been saying they're hearing voices from down there.” Lizzie took the cigarette from Duke's hand and took a puff of her own.
“Thanks for askin-”
“Shut up,” Lizzie spat. “They must have gotten stuck there when the sun came up. We’ve only heard two so far.” 
“I’ll get some of my boys together and we’ll clear it out.” Duke nodded at me. I didn't want to go down there, but I knew I didn't have a say when it came to Duke.
“Good, once that's done, I’ll get a clean-up crew together for the alley.” Lizzie handed the cigarette back to me and started for the door to the stairwell. “You alright Duke?” I said as I stamped the cigarette out on the raised concrete outcropping of the building. Duke turned to me, his face was calm, and his voice was steady as usual, but I could see him fidgeting with the gold wedding ring around his finger. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get moving.”

I sat by the door waiting for Jackie to arrive. I had brought my shotgun, I held it in one hand and rested the barrel against the concrete. I’d left my jacket in the apartment and sat freezing in my singlet.  From here, it became apparent the full scale of the hill the beasts had created. It rose up the side of the building at nearly a vertical angle, the only footholds being between bags of loosely discarded rubbish. It was a wonder how only three of them had fallen. There were too many bags for this to have all come from the alley, they must have cleared out all the bins lining the road leading here to collect this much. I didn’t know the beasts were capable of coordinating a plan of this scale. We’d been underestimating them. Growing complacent in our high tower, believing the monsters wouldn’t find us if we were quiet. We were trapped. Any scouting parties that stayed out through the night never came back, or they did as a part of the moaning, weeping horde.

I saw Jackie being lowered down from the fire escape by a harness. He hit the pavement with a thud and stripped the harness off, before yelling something at the man above and turning to me. Jackie was young with curly red hair and a face so dotted with freckles he looked like he had a tan. “You got here early.”
“Duke and Liz are already up my ass for shooting the Robinson kid. Can’t afford to fuck this up.”
“Shit, that was you?” Jackie snorted, a small smile creeping across his lips.
“Yeah,” 
“Fair enough, Duke and Adam are gonna go through the stairwell. We’ll meet back up with them inside.”
“Doesn’t Adam work for the cooks?” I swear I could picture him and his greasy brown hair serving me a bowl of stew. 
“He did, but apparently, he asked to be transferred.”
“That why he’s with Duke? To supervise or something?”
“Guess so.”

So this was a punishment for me and a test for Adam. “ I’m surprised anybody is still willing to transfer after what happened to Raff,” I ran my fingers through my hair to steady myself. “Me too, poor guy. Guess Adam’s sick of being cooped up inside like the rest of us,” Jackie removed a pistol from the back of his waistband and reached for a torch that hung lazily from his hip. A man from the top of the building called down to us, saying we were clear to enter. I stood taking up my position in front of Jackie. It was a simple formation, he stands behind and points, I stand in front and shoot. After we drop one, we swap.

Jackie clicked on his torch, casting a straight, long beam into the darkness. The shadows lapped back and forth against the light as we moved inside. Apartment doors lined the walls, they were still boarded up, so the beasts had to still be in the hallways. Red carpet ran across the floor, and pot plants lay broken and discarded every meter or so. Their ceramic shards crunched under our boots as we moved through the corridors.

We were coming to a corner when I raised a hand to stop Jackie. I turned to him and placed one finger across my lips in a shh motion. I listened, and sure enough, I could hear the crunching of footsteps from around the corner. They were getting closer. Me and Jackie exchanged a nod of mutual understanding, and he held the light to the corner. I dropped to one knee and waited. With every crunch, I felt my muscles clench tighter. My eyesight narrowed on the corner, adrenaline pumping into my veins.

We could hear it getting closer until finally I saw a bearded man in a brown button-up shirt turn the corner. It was clear that brown wasn’t the shirt's original colour, but it was so stained with filth that it had turned milky brown. His stomach was bloated and swollen, he was clearly sick. I could smell him from here. He reeked of rotten meat. I could hear him mumbling a prayer before he noticed the light. His long hair fell forward as he lunged at us. I fired. The round caught him in the upper chest and he spun sideways against the wall. He cried in pain. “PLEASE, END IT,” His pleading, desperate eyes found mine for only a second before I fired again.

I climbed the metal stairs to the roof, the metal ringing with every step. Lizzie and Duke had crossed the bridge and were waiting for me as I tucked the revolver back into my jacket. Lizzie stood with her arms folded across her chest. She wore a red flannel shirt and glared at me from the top of the stairs. “You idiot, we were still discussing what to do with him,” she rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Nothing to discuss, he was turned, so I shot him.” I looked over at Duke for backup, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. He was staring at the building across the bridge. I could see the muscles in his jaw twitch as he did. Duke was a tall, broad-shouldered man, muscles toned from years in the military. He reached out a hand and gestured towards the cigarette in my hand. I handed it to him, watched as he took a long, slow drag, and blew the smoke over the edge of the building. The roof was covered in large rectangular garden troughs, which burst with green vegetables, whose vines spilled out and onto the concrete. 

“He had family here, what am I gonna tell Mrs Robinson?” Lizze asked. “It wasn't your call to make.”
“Enough, we’ve got more important things to argue about,” Duke finally spoke.
“Was anybody hurt last night? I saw the door,” I asked.
“No,” Duke responded. 
“Nobody sleeps on the bottom floor, so nobody was hurt. But people have been saying they're hearing voices from down there.” Lizzie took the cigarette from Duke's hand and took a puff of her own.
“Thanks for askin-”
“Shut up,” Lizzie spat. “They must have gotten stuck there when the sun came up. We’ve only heard two so far.” 
“I’ll get some of my boys together and we’ll clear it out.” Duke nodded at me. I didn't want to go down there, but I knew I didn't have a say when it came to Duke.
“Good, once that's done, I’ll get a clean-up crew together for the alley.” Lizzie handed the cigarette back to me and started for the door to the stairwell. “You alright Duke?” I said as I stamped the cigarette out on the raised concrete outcropping of the building. Duke turned to me, his face was calm, and his voice was steady as usual, but I could see him fidgeting with the gold wedding ring around his finger. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get moving.”

I sat by the door waiting for Jackie to arrive. I had brought my shotgun, I held it in one hand and rested the barrel against the concrete. I’d left my jacket in the apartment and sat freezing in my singlet.  From here, it became apparent the full scale of the hill the beasts had created. It rose up the side of the building at nearly a vertical angle, the only footholds being between bags of loosely discarded rubbish. It was a wonder how only three of them had fallen. There were too many bags for this to have all come from the alley, they must have cleared out all the bins lining the road leading here to collect this much. I didn’t know the beasts were capable of coordinating a plan of this scale. We’d been underestimating them. Growing complacent in our high tower, believing the monsters wouldn’t find us if we were quiet. We were trapped. Any scouting parties that stayed out through the night never came back, or they did as a part of the moaning, weeping horde.

I saw Jackie being lowered down from the fire escape by a harness. He hit the pavement with a thud and stripped the harness off, before yelling something at the man above and turning to me. Jackie was young with curly red hair and a face so dotted with freckles he looked like he had a tan. “You got here early.”
“Duke and Liz are already up my ass for shooting the Robinson kid. Can’t afford to fuck this up.”
“Shit, that was you?” Jackie snorted, a small smile creeping across his lips.
“Yeah,” 
“Fair enough, Duke and Adam are gonna go through the stairwell. We’ll meet back up with them inside.”
“Doesn’t Adam work for the cooks?” I swear I could picture him and his greasy brown hair serving me a bowl of stew. 
“He did, but apparently, he asked to be transferred.”
“That why he’s with Duke? To supervise or something?”
“Guess so.”

So this was a punishment for me and a test for Adam. “ I’m surprised anybody is still willing to transfer after what happened to Raff,” I ran my fingers through my hair to steady myself. “Me too, poor guy. Guess Adam’s sick of being cooped up inside like the rest of us,” Jackie removed a pistol from the back of his waistband and reached for a torch that hung lazily from his hip. A man from the top of the building called down to us, saying we were clear to enter. I stood taking up my position in front of Jackie. It was a simple formation, he stands behind and points, I stand in front and shoot. After we drop one, we swap.

Jackie clicked on his torch, casting a straight, long beam into the darkness. The shadows lapped back and forth against the light as we moved inside. Apartment doors lined the walls, they were still boarded up, so the beasts had to still be in the hallways. Red carpet ran across the floor, and pot plants lay broken and discarded every meter or so. Their ceramic shards crunched under our boots as we moved through the corridors.

We were coming to a corner when I raised a hand to stop Jackie. I turned to him and placed one finger across my lips in a shh motion. I listened, and sure enough, I could hear the crunching of footsteps from around the corner. They were getting closer. Me and Jackie exchanged a nod of mutual understanding, and he held the light to the corner. I dropped to one knee and waited. With every crunch, I felt my muscles clench tighter. My eyesight narrowed on the corner, adrenaline pumping into my veins.

We could hear it getting closer until finally I saw a bearded man in a brown button-up shirt turn the corner. It was clear that brown wasn’t the shirt's original colour, but it was so stained with filth that it had turned milky brown. His stomach was bloated and swollen, he was clearly sick. I could smell him from here. He reeked of rotten meat. I could hear him mumbling a prayer before he noticed the light. His long hair fell forward as he lunged at us. I fired. The round caught him in the upper chest and he spun sideways against the wall. He cried in pain. “PLEASE, END IT,” His pleading, desperate eyes found mine for only a second before I fired again.