I cannot believe how I got here. I don’t even know if I’m going to make it out. But I need to know that someone knew I was here. I need to know that I’ll be remembered, even if this place won’t remember me. 

It started a few weeks ago. I was at home scrolling online, looking for job postings. With everything going on in the world, you don’t have to think too hard about why I was searching. The job market is a mess, and employers are still toting the “no one wants to work” motto. I wanted to work. Student loans and medical debt are trailing me wherever I go. No escaping that. So I went job hunting. I started applying for everything I found. Waitress, baby sitter, dishwasher, cashier, stocker; you name it I applied for it. Well, at least everything that would allow me to apply with a certificate for 3D arts. I couldn't even finish a full degree. 

While I was searching, I came across this posting. It was from this senior living community in my city, maybe about a ten minute drive from where I lived. Pay was decent too, $19.50 an hour, full time, Tuesday night thru Saturday night, or Sunday morning I guess, the wording seemed off but I was desperate. Overnight receptionist wanted. Skimming the requirements, I thought it was a long shot. It was wanting someone with any kind of degree and they preferred bilingual people. But everything else I was great at. I’ve worked in retail and customer facing roles since I was old enough to be hired. And I’ve worked at the front desk for places before as well. I thought I’d give it a go. So I did, and got back to hunting. 

It wasn’t until I got an email about the posting that I even remembered that I had applied. The email came from the community’s hiring manager, and it held a link for continued questioning. It felt off, but with how much technology is advancing and relying on AI, I just thought that maybe they were too. Following the link led me to this virtual interview thing. I was given questions and I had to record myself answering. It was typical stuff like why do you want to work for us, do you believe in our goals and beliefs. Normal everyday interview questions with full automation. No more than an hour after sending in the virtual interview did I get the email saying I was hired. I would be given links for training videos, an appointment time to do a drug test, and a log in so I could clock in and out for watching the videos. My first day would be that following Tuesday night. Three days away. 

The drug test came first. I had a premade appointment with a clinic of the companies choosing, and just had to show up. The clinic knew what company I was there for, I guess they do all of the drug testing for them. That, or I gave too much information when I checked in. Either way, I remember the lady at the desk gave me a look of pity when I went to fill out paperwork. Like, she knew something I didn’t but wouldn’t tell me. I wish I had known why. But I had been so swept up in the excitement of finally getting hired I didn’t think much of it until now. After I was done at the clinic, I went home and logged in to start the training videos since I was starting in three days. 

The videos had that old corporate feel to them. The ones that had people pretending on camera to act out scenarios, or do dramatic re-enactments of seniors with dementia getting angry at a care giver. The whole time it felt like I was watching relics of the past, not updated information. I learned more about the community I was going to be working at, for privacy sake I’m calling it WG. WG had been around since 1999, and was founded as part of a larger group of communities around the eastern seaboard. Seemed pretty normal at the time. Nothing stood out to me. Sitting here I remember there was one video that kept buffering around a part that kept talking about how WG had the highest rated memory care experience, but it buffered and repeated “memory” over and over until I had decided to give it a rest and start the video again the next day. 

I finished the other videos with no problem. I had a whole day to spend just relaxing and mentally preparing myself for going in. So I did what any sane person would do; I practiced a phone greeting in the mirror. It’s crazy sounding, but I had been answering phones for other places, I didn’t want to trip up and say the wrong place. When I was confident in that, I spent some time shopping for a few new blouses. One of the emails I had gotten said the dress code for the receptionist role was black or khaki slacks, a WG polo or other dress shirt (button ups, polos, blouses, those kinds of things). I had a few, but wanted to get a few new things so I had a little bit of variation, even though my shifts were going to be from 11pm at night to 7am the next day. I was still meant to be the first face someone saw when arriving at WG. 

While I was out shopping, I got a text message from a number I did not recognize. The text was extremely formal and professional. I almost ignored it. I changed the name of who texted me. I can’t risk them being found again.

“Hello, this is Laura from WG. I will be your mentor for onboarding. Please bring your documents and a notebook. I will see you at 11pm.”

So Laura was meant to train me in person tomorrow. The entire time since I got accepted had been automated or through some outside company. I was excited and nervous. I had so many questions at the time. How long would she be training me? Was this just another automated message and Laura was actually some AI program the company used? 

I got my sleep schedule fixed for doing overnights, and when Tuesday night came around, I was greeted by a person. The entrance for the place was really nice. There was an awning over the loading area for the entrance. Sliding doors that led to a vestibule that had a second sliding door that was locked. Laura had to let me inside. 

“Welcome. I’m Laura. Did you bring the documents I asked you about?” Laura got right to it. Her hair was drawn back into one of those loose half up ponytails, black slacks, and she had this bright yellow blouse with a grey cardigan over it. It reminded me of the sun coming out after a storm. How I wish I knew then that she was warning me of the approaching storm I’m facing now. 

I cleared my throat, “Yes, I did.” I handed them over and walked with her to the desk. The lights in the main lobby had been lowered, and Laura explained to me that the interior doors locked at 8pm when the sun went down. They stayed locked until 7am the next morning when the day staff would arrive. She told me this was to make sure no bad actors got inside. 

“While I get your documents scanned in, would you please put your name on your name tag? The label maker is in the bottom drawer.” Laura asked me once we sat at the desk. I did as instructed, and put my name. Silent. After that, everything was pretty standard. Laura showed me how to access the cameras, access Microsoft Teams for our phone system, showed me what doors are locked and where deliveries came to. 

At first I didn’t have questions. The overnight shift was pretty much there to make sure Care Staff did their jobs, answer stray phone calls at night, and accept the odd delivery every once in a while while doing rounds of the main building every few hours. It was around 1am that Laura showed me how to do the rounds, and introduced the “checklist”. She never handed it to me directly, but showed me where to find it when I was by myself. 

“Whenever you leave to do these rounds, always make sure that you grab the cell phone, the walkie, and the master keys. The door code is hidden under the keyboard. For tonight, I’m going to walk you through and show you. Tomorrow, I’ll have you do the whole thing.” Laura said, showing me where to find the aforementioned items. Near the time clock, at the desk, and under the desk. Pretty simple. Laura made sure that I held nothing tonight, showing me the best route and how to check the doors without waking anyone. 

“Now, whenever you leave the desk for any reason, you NEED to bring these items with you. If you realize halfway down the hall you forgot something, don’t go back and get it.” I didn’t think about it at the time, but sitting here I know why she said that. I had given her an inquisitive look when she first said that, and I remember her face changed from neutral to scared.

“WG wants us to report rounds within a certain timeframe. Backtracking can make that time go over, and they prefer the shorter times. Longer times typically mean problems that the directors don’t want to deal with,” she explained. I took it at face value. A company wants to report efficiency over quality at times. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. From there, we walked the floors of the building. The desk was on the second floor, so we had some weird route to follow to get to all the other external doors. Anytime we walked past a certain apartment, Laura would tell me about a memory she had of that resident. Mr. Smith would always whistle instead of sing at sing-alongs. Mrs. Harlow needed to be across the street in Memory Care, but her son wouldn’t sign the paperwork. She wandered the halls at night. But if there was whispering from her room, she was in bed for the night. 

The 1am rounds were relatively quick. 20 minutes at most for the size of the building. When we got back to the desk, I noticed that there was a delivery driver standing at the main entrance. I was about to speak up about it, when Laura put a hand on my shoulder and walked me towards the copy room, hidden just behind the desk.

“Shouldn’t we see who the delivery is for?” I asked, confused as Laura started getting out papers from the cabinets.

“Not that one.” she said flatly. I was confused. She had told me earlier that we buzz in deliveries after hours to sign for them. I guess she sensed my confusion and went on to explain. “That one dresses like a delivery driver. Has the right style of outfit, but he never has any company logo on. He’s one of the bad actors we don’t let in.” I nodded at her explanation.

“Why haven’t we called the police about him if he keeps showing up?” I asked, worried. If that guy shows up so often that we know he’s a bad actor, why wouldn’t we?

Laura gave me a look that I couldn’t pinpoint at the time, but was telling me that this isn’t something that I really should be asking.

“We’ve… tried,” she says slowly, like she’s searching for the right words. “He…. always ends up gone by the time police show up. It’s best to ignore him.” She seemed a little more confident in her words. “If you ever see him at night, just make sure not to trigger the motion sensor by the door. That’s the only way he can get in.” After a beat of silence, we went back to the desk and he was gone. Just like that. I decided to just take it in stride. If they tried, the new girl wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. 

The next few hours were mostly quiet. There were maybe one or two phone calls for the other building that Laura showed me how to transfer, and then said something odd. She had said that the only time we ever talk with the other building at night was to transfer phones. I was about to ask why when she explained that the care staff have their own things going on that I might interrupt if it wasn’t a phone transfer. 

It was at 3am when we did our next rounds. Same thing. Phone, walkie, keys, door code. Laura still carried everything. But before we left, she had me check the cameras. The one for an entrance to the main building over by the loading dock.

“What am I looking for?” I asked. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was dark, but the night vision showed some insects flitting around and the outlines of the dumpsters. 

“If you don’t see anything, we are good. Let’s go,” was the only answer she gave me. I followed behind her as we went the opposite way for the rounds this time. There were some more stories of residents as we passed by apartment doors, and I noticed that the numbers seemed like they repeated themselves. I would blink and they looked right again. I attributed it to not being used to the overnight schedule. There was one door we passed by that we tested, apartment 329, that was unlocked when I jiggled the door. 

A faint voice answered through the door “Is that the knitting needles I ordered?” Laura’s face drained of color as she quickly locked the door. 

“No, no knitting club today Mrs. Lyra.” Laura whispered and shooed me on. A few doors down, Laura was still pale. I gave her a look, and she just smiled.

“That resident has her days mixed up. She got her needles a few weeks ago, but the club was cancelled due to lack of interest. Her door is always unlocked on these rounds. If she says something to you, just remind her that there’s no club today and move on.”

“What if the door is locked and she still answers?” I ask.

“Then you - “ Laura was about to answer when the walkie crackled to life. I couldn’t quite make it out, but Laura turned it off. After it was shut off, she turned it back on and set it to channel 2. She said nothing else, and started walking again. I followed, still trying to wrap my head around the layout of the building. 

These rounds took 30 minutes. When we got back, Laura showed me how to log the rounds into the computer, and we spent the next hours with me doing more training videos. I remember almost falling asleep a few times, and Laura was always there to nudge me awake. At some point, maybe around 4:40am, she showed me where to get coffee at the cafe near the desk. I think I was imagining it, but I remember seeing a shadow out of the corner of my eye when we were walking back. 5am came and went and we had our final rounds at 5:30am. It was the exact same thing as the other two rounds, but Laura let me pick which way to go. I wanted to see the route for the 1am again, so we went towards Mr. Smith’s door came and went, as did Mrs. Harlow’s door. I stopped to listen for the whispering, but I didn’t hear it this time. I looked at Laura. 

“She’s probably wandering the building. It’s best to just make sure the door is locked and keep going. She knows the way back.” Laura said, as if she was expecting the whispering to be gone. I took the keys and locked the door, which was still locked. I moved on, and right before we got back to the desk, I saw her. I think I did at least. There was a woman at the desk in a night gown that was moving her lips like she was in a trance. Laura and I returned to the desk, and sat down. 

If it had not been as quiet, I’m certain I would have missed where the woman asked “Are you here to help me Jane?” It took a moment, but I was about to say something about my name, when Laura piped up and said something else in response.

“Yes, I will meet you at your door.” That was enough for the woman, and she started shambling away from the desk. I stared after her, wondering why we wouldn’t clarify that we weren’t whoever this Jane person was.

“It’s just a thing for overnight staff. We don’t want to confuse residents, so if they think we are someone else, it’s just best to let them think that.” Laura explained. I remember reading that dementia residents lived whatever reality they were in, and agreed that it would be easier to just agree sometimes. 

Laura finished up the shift by showing me how to prep for the morning crew, and waited with me until it was time to leave. She asked if I had any questions before leaving. The only one was where to find the checklist tomorrow so I could practice with her. She showed me, and I went to pack my notebook. When I turned to say bye, she was already gone, the outside door sliding shut. 

All of this was yesterday. I was expecting Laura to be here when I got in tonight, but when I arrived, I was greeted with a locked door and an envelope addressed to me. I picked it up, and was surprised to see what was inside. 

“Silent,

Thank you for choosing WG as your new home for your career in senior living. We are excited to welcome you to our Reception Team. Below, you will find your door code to enter the building after hours. Second Shift has already gone home for today, but going forward you will swap with them at 11pm. 

For this evening, please find all your onboarding paperwork in the top left drawer in the copy room and fill out between your rounds. The Round Checklist is in the right drawer at the desk. Everything you need to know will be on that paper. 

If you have questions, please use the computer to email your supervisor. If an emergency arises, follow the normal emergency procedures.

Welcome, to WG
Management”

I was confused at the time, but I realize now what made that letter so unsettling. I used my new door code and let myself inside. Everything was the same as the night before, just… No Laura. I searched for the paperwork the letter mentioned, worked on that, apparently got lost in it. The next time I looked up at the clock was at 1:15am. A whole two hours had slid past me and I was already late for my first round. I scrambled for the checklist, and found it in the drawer, right where Laura and the letter had told me it’d be.

Third Shift Night Rounds

On all rounds bring the following

• Desk Cell Phone (access code on back)
• Walkie Talkie (set to channel 2)
• Master Key (located under the desk)
• Door Code (provided at hiring)

Under no circumstance are you to return to the desk before completing a round.
Log your round as soon as you return, including how long the round took.

1:00 AM Rounds

• Check all exterior doors to ensure security
• Ensure all resident doors remain locked

3:00 AM Rounds

• Check the Loading Dock Camera before leaving the desk
• If you see no activity, proceed by going to opposite way of the 1:00 AM rounds
• Ensure all resident doors remain locked

5:30 AM Rounds

• The order of these rounds do not matter
• Ensure all resident doors remain locked

OUTSTANDING INCIDENTS
If anything occurs during your rounds, log them into the book when you return. Do not allow residents to linger at the desk for too long. 

I read and reread the checklist. It was a lot more… clinical than Laura had mentioned last night. But I grabbed everything from the desk and started the rounds. The building was a lot quieter than last night. Every rustle of fabric or creaking in the floors made me jump. I went the same way we went last night, and went towards where Mrs. Harlow’s room is. I was hoping for something from last night, and was relieved to hear whispering when I got close to her room. But when I listened closely, it wasn’t coming from her room. It was behind me. 

I could feel my body turn rigid and my blood turn to ice. Laura said to lock the door and keep moving, right? I reached for the door, and started to turn the lock that was already in place. And that’s when I heard it.
“You are late Laura.”

It was just a whisper, but I couldn’t help the slight gasp. Laura? I turned around, expecting to see Laura behind me, but she wasn’t there. Just the woman in the night gown from last night. I was frozen. Was she talking to me?

“I…. I’m not Laura. I’m Silent.” I said, slowly. I remember the sense of dread that covered me as soon as the words were out.

The woman's frame twitched. Then a hand reached out. Towards me. I took a step back, and realized what I had done. I didn’t confirm the reality the resident was in. Mrs. Harlow looked up at me, slowly, almost mechanically. Her eyes were like voids when her gaze met mine, and I knew I messed up. 

I didn’t wait for anything. I sprinted down the hall as fast as I could, took a set of stairs and ran to one of the first doors I could find. A supply closet. 

It's not even 2am on my second night and I already messed up. I locked myself in here with the lights off. I can’t move. My legs burn, and I can barely see the screen while I type this. I am terrified. I can hear Mrs. Harlow wandering past the closet every so often. She keeps whispering my name, like she is trying to coax me out. But I don’t even know if that’s her out there. I just need someone to know I was here, just incase… I’m not anymore. 

I keep hearing something crinkling behind me. I’m too scared to even look. What did I sign up for? And am I even going to be able to get out?

The circumstances surrounding this case are absolutely vile. I've read that Ohio is particularly harsh in regards to granting parole. Can anyone speak to the likelihood of MS being paroled in 2037? Obviously no one has a crystal ball.

I wasn’t supposed to see the second sky.

Three years ago my brother died and my sleep went with him. I started staying up until 5 or 6 AM drifting through forums about “thin places” — spots where reality supposedly folds wrong.

Most of it was the usual sludge.

Shadow people.

Frequency weapons.

Schizophrenic static.

But one thread was different.

No usernames. No avatars.

Just a title:

IF YOU DREAM OF THE STAIRS, DO NOT KEEP CLIMBING.

Attached was a blurry image of white staircases suspended in clouds.

At first I thought it was just surreal art. But the comments underneath weren’t treating it like art.

They were treating it like directions.

Never take the left staircase after the third arch.

If you hear footsteps above you, lie down immediately.

Do NOT look through the windows.

One reply just said:

> They notice you faster if you climb confidently.

The thread vanished two days later.

I should’ve forgotten about it.

Instead I became obsessed.

For months I searched dead occult boards, archived links, reverse image databases.

Every mention eventually led back to the same phrase:

The Higher Passages.

Apparently people saw it during near-death experiences, fevers, comas, sleep deprivation. The descriptions were always identical.

Endless white stairs.

Open archways leading nowhere.

Clouds beneath your feet.

And a feeling of being measured.

Not watched.

Measured.

Like something was calculating whether you belonged there.

I didn’t believe any of it until I started dreaming about the place myself.

It always began the same way.

I’d wake up barefoot on cold white marble with clouds stretching beneath me instead of ground. The air smelled sterile. Electrical. There was no sun, but everything glowed blue-white anyway.

The staircases made no sense.

Some climbed upward forever. Some folded back into themselves. Others just ended midair.

And somewhere far above me, I’d hear footsteps.

Slow.

Heavy.

Descending.

The first few times I panicked and forced myself awake.

Eventually curiosity won.

I started climbing.

Distance didn’t work correctly there. I could walk for what felt like hours without getting tired, but when I looked back the place I started was somehow still visible beneath me.

The windows were worse they didn’t show sky. They showed other places.

One looked like an ocean hanging vertically in darkness. Another showed gigantic black geometric structures rotating around each other like machinery.

Sometimes I saw movement behind the glass.

Things impossibly large and slightly out of focus.

Every time I stared too long, pressure built behind my eyes like my brain was trying to reject what it was seeing.

Then one night I made a mistake.

I looked beneath the clouds.

There was another sky underneath ours.

I know how insane that sounds, but that’s exactly what it was.

Beneath the clouds stretched a gigantic spiraling void full of stars and glowing lines that looked like burning equations carved into space. It twisted downward forever like reality itself had opened into a drain.

That’s when I saw them.

Figures standing on staircases far below me.

Small at first.

Then one moved.

Not human movement either. Its body unfolded upward instead of standing normally. Parts of it lagged behind themselves like frames loading out of order.

My brain refused to process its shape all at once.

Then more appeared.

All staring up at me.

I woke up screaming hard enough my neighbor slammed on the wall.

After that, things started bleeding into real life.

I’d hear footsteps in my apartment at night even though I lived alone.

Sometimes staircases would briefly look much longer than they should before snapping back to normal.

Then one evening while walking home, the clouds above me spiraled inward for half a second.

Like something enormous had turned beneath them.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk because I swear I saw glowing symbols hidden inside the clouds.

My nose started bleeding instantly.

That same night I found the thread again.One new comment had been added.

No username.

Just:

YOU LOOKED DOWN.

Underneath it was another image — the spiraling void beneath the clouds.

And one final reply:

Most people wake up before they are noticed.

I stopped sleeping after that.

I stayed awake for almost three straight days because I knew if I went back there, something bad was going to happen.

Eventually exhaustion won andvI passed out in my kitchen. And then I went back.

This time the stairways were silent.

No footsteps.

No movement.

The silence scared me more than the footsteps ever did.

Because I realized they weren’t above me anymore.

They were waiting ahead.

At the center of the stairways stood a massive archway I’d never seen before. Complete darkness inside it.

Then I heard my brother’s voice.

“Please help me.”

Exactly his voice.

Not close. Not almost.

Perfect.

I knew it wasn’t real.

But grief does something horrible to logic.

I walked toward it anyway.

The closer I got, the more wrong the voice became.

Not distorted.

Assembled.

Like something constructing human speech piece by piece.

“Please… help… me…”

Then I noticed the stairs around the archway were wet.

Not water.

Blood.

And hanging upside down above the archway…

was my brother. His body was bent backward like a broken spider. His mouth stretched impossibly wide.

Inside his mouth were stars. An entire galaxy slowly turning where his throat should’ve been.

Then he smiled.

And every staircase around me filled with them.

Thousands.

Standing perfectly still.

Watching me.

Not angry.

Not hungry.

Curious.

Like scientists observing bacteria.

One of them forced something directly into my mind.

Not words.

Understanding.

The stairways weren’t heaven.

They were a border.

A filtration system between realities.

Human beings were never supposed to perceive what exists beneath our world.

We are not the top layer of existence.

We are something small living above something ancient.

Something that has been waiting for us to notice it. I woke up in the hospital four days later.

My landlord found me unconscious with my skull cracked open at the bottom of my apartment stairs.

Doctors said I must’ve fallen.

The problem is…

I don’t live in an apartment building anymore.

I live in a single-story house there are no stairs inside it and last night, for the first time since the hospital, I heard footsteps above me again.

We had started out the evening with a bottle of expensive Merlot I ordered off the wine menu. Monica always loved it when I took charge this way and saved her the trouble of having to browse the selections herself. Besides, after six months of dating, I was confident I had her preferences down to a T. When the bottle arrived I pointed out the label to her.

"Did you know Merlot is French for 'blackbird'?" I asked as our server poured us two glasses. We were at our usual table, rooftop seating, with an expansive view of the city.

"I did not know that," Monica acknowledged. I could always tell she was grateful when I taught her something new. I was glad when she didn't ask about the rest of the label. Probably could have figured it out if I tried, though. I've always been good at picking up on context clues.

"You know, speaking of birds, I read something interesting the other day," I mentioned as I swirled by glass. "They just published a study that found birds in the city are more afraid of women than men. You'd think it'd be the other way around."

"Who even pays for those studies?" Monica wondered. She surprised me by breaking off a piece of bread—Monica never ate bread—but it was only to crumble it up and sprinkle it near her chair.

"Seems like you have no trouble endearing yourself." I smirked as I watched a sparrow hop over to cautiously peck at the crumbs she had scattered for it. "Guess I'm dating a real-life Disney princess."

"Maybe if one lands on me you can say that," she played along with a laugh. "Or if I spontaneously break into song."

"I'd kind of like to hear that."

She scrunched her nose in a way I found adorable. "Take me out to karaoke next time."

Next time. If I had my way, there would be plenty of next times. I was going to marry this girl sitting across from me watching that little bird hop around her heels. She was funny, smart, beautiful, and judging by her intense focus, fascinated by the wonders of the natural world. She observed that bird like couples at neighboring tables observed the glowing screens of their devices. It didn't hurt that she didn't break the bank every time I took her out and insisted on treating her. She barely ate as far as I could tell. Yep, I was definitely a lucky guy.

"Hey, I'm gonna go use the restroom real quick." I set my napkin aside, still smiling, and rose. Monica looked up from the bird to beam at me. God she was gorgeous. Really I wanted to flag down our waiter without arousing her suspicions and see if there was anything special I could do for her tonight. Maybe I could lie and tell them it was her birthday so they made a big fanfare about it. Pretty sure she would love that, and the servers always looked like they enjoyed themselves in those moments. Sometimes I'd see them called to different tables five or six times in the course of a single evening. I'd never worked in the service industry, but it seemed like a fun job.

I never located our server. On my way back from the bathroom I paused at the entry to the deck, surprised, as I spotted Monica still sitting alone at our table. She had something in her hand, but that something wasn't her phone. I realized it was the bird she had been feeding earlier. She held its tiny body clasped in one hand, and was gently massaging the fragile dome of its head with one fingertip. Its beady little eyes were squinted half-closed in... was that contentment? Or fear? An uneasy feeling stole over me, but I shook it off. No, it looked like it was being lulled to sleep by her caressing. I wondered how she'd got hold of it. Clearly it trusted her enough to be held.

My girlfriend, the Disney princess. Communing with nature. I stood back and observed a moment with an indulgent smile on my face. I probably looked like a cornball, not something I've ever been accused of being, but I couldn't resist. I watched as Monica brought the bird nearer to her lips. I thought she was going to plant a kiss on it before letting it go, an idea I was less enthusiastic about.

Thoughts of avian germs, lice, parasites flew from my mind the next moment. I could see the bird visibly struggling now in Monica's fist, her skin bleaching white with the ferocity of her grip. She opened her mouth, and it was so much more than a kiss. Her lips parted wide, wider, until I thought her jaw would dislocate—and then it seemed to unhinge, and continue opening wide, ropes of saliva trailing between her upper and lower teeth, the crown of her head practically sinking back into the nape of her neck. The bird gave one last fearful struggle in her hand, but it was too late, as its head disappeared inside my girlfriend's mouth.

She didn't finish it in one bite, even though she could have, easily. Her teeth, so much longer than I knew, with her lips pulled back, champed down, pulling the bird's head from its spine, like Saturn devouring his son, a Goya painting I once described to her in great detail on our first date in a way that impressed her enough to agree to a second. I had guessed from the outset that Monica preferred a man of culture. But I was starting to wonder what I knew about Monica's preferences, actually.

Her mouth opened a second time, like the act of eating was mindless, automatic, her tongue the conveyor delivering the rest of the bird (still flapping, how was it still flapping?) down the yawning chasm of her throat. Her jaws snapped shut, her lips pressed tight together, and I watched the wriggling lump slide under her skin and disappear beneath the pressed Peter Pan collar of her dress.

I thought about bolting. I had never dined and dashed in my life; but wasn't Monica the only one who had dined at this point? My vision was tunneling, and still I stood rooted to the spot, fight or flight (hadn't the bird tried both and lost?) giving way to freeze. Monica glanced up then and spotted me, and there was no escaping back into the restaurant undetected. I walked slowly over to our table and sat down.

Our server reappeared within moments to take our order. "Just the house salad with dressing on the side for me," Monica said, folding her menu shut. I stared at something caught in her teeth. She noticed, and closed her lips abruptly, feeling around, her tongue bulging out a pouch in her lower lip before sweeping sideways to her cheek. She fiddled this way for a while, then plucked the detritus free and laid it out neatly beside her plate. "You know what they say about girls who can tie cherry stems into knots with their tongues," she said slyly. "They don't say they're Disney princesses."

"Uh-huh." She hadn't been drinking any Shirley Temples I was aware of, and the gnarled trophy she had produced for me definitely wasn't a cherry stem.

When our entrées arrived, I watched her sip wine and move leaves around her plate as she carried on convivially. At least she was giving the impression of eating. I hadn't even touched my Chicken Parmesan. I was too busy shooting furtive glances at all the other female diners—single, paired, gathered in groups—and noticing the identical house salads plated before them with dressing on the side. I could have sworn several of them were looking at me. The sun had just sunk below the horizon, and either the lengthening shadows or their evaluating gazes made my skin grow cold. There were no more birds hopping around underfoot. Maybe they had all flown away?

"What?" I asked when I realized Monica was awaiting a response.

"I was just thinking, when we move in together, we should set up a bird feeder," she repeated. "Or even a bird house or bath. We can make it really welcoming for all the urban birds in the neighborhood. That way, they'll know I'm not something they need to be afraid of."

"Uh-huh."

She smiled again, then dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin. She seemed to be having some indigestion.

I rose without meaning to. "I think I need to use the—"

I was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of people. I sat back down, sweating bullets, hemmed in on all sides. Someone slid a slice of cake in front of me, right next to my untouched meal, and a fleet of servers started clapping and singing in unison. A pair of hands garroted me with an elastic band as a conical hat was affixed atop my head.

"When you were in the bathroom earlier I told them it was your birthday!" Monica crowed.

To be clear, this isn't comprehensive roster of every inmate sentenced to death by the state of Ohio by any means.

This is instead a small sample size of 24 entries I've completed so far while surveying Ohio's death penalty cases (excluding executions and what the DPIC considers to be "exonerations", which are covered separately) in my personal capital punishment research project. The state of Ohio has over 375 death penalty cases under that criteria, which I've written 27 entries for as of now.

Be warned, many of the 24 cases listed here involve extreme sexual violence against children, and some of the gory details are discussed in depth. Please read at your own risk.:

1. Lester Keran (condemned in 1977, robbery, living): Keran and the also formerly condemned Jack Beatty broke into the home of a coin collector, 61 year old Virginia Wandtke. The pair strangled her to death with a towel and stole $50,000 in coins according to a 1977 Toledo Blade article. Police found and recovered an estimated $8,000 worth of coins the pair left in plastic bags at Wandtke’s residence. In 1979, the Ohio Supreme Court reduced Keran’s death sentence to a 15 year to life term. Although Keran presently remains incarcerated, he is eligible and/or slated for parole in July 1, 2027 according to Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections (ODRC) records.
2. Jack Beatty (condemned in 1978, robbery, living): Beatty was the accomplice of the above mentioned Lester Keran, and was also formerly condemned for his involvement in the burglary that killed Virginia Wandtke. As mentioned in Keran’s entry, the pair strangled Wandtke to death and stole tens of thousands of coins from her coin collection. In 1978, the Ohio Supreme Court vacated Beatty’s death sentence, and resentenced him to a 15 years to life term. Although Beatty remains incarcerated, ORDC records report that he is eligible and/or slated for parole in July 1, 2027.
3. Billy Penix (condemned in 1983, robbery, deceased): Penix and his friends went drinking with a man, 37 year old Stephen Barker, they met on their way to a bar. Wanting to steal a money bag they noticed inside his car, Penix convinced an exhausted and intoxicated Barker to allow the group to drive him to Penix’s home. After they arrived at the residence, Penix bludgeoned a couch sleeping Barker to death with a baseball bat. He then snatched Barker’s wallet and stuffed his corpse inside the trunk of Barker’s car. Some of Penix’s friends reported the murder to police, and a police search of Penix’s home found the stolen car with Barker’s body inside the garage. Police also recovered the bloodstained baseball bat from the back porch. In 1987, the Ohio Supreme Court vacated Penix’s death sentence over “improper” jury instructions, and resentenced him to a 30 years to life term. Although I cannot find any sources about his passing, ODRC records report Penix’s status as “released-death.”
4. Rhett DePew (condemned in 1985, robbery, deceased): DePew attempted to burglarize his former landlord’s home, and was confronted by the former landlord’s wife, 27 year old Theresa Jones and her younger sister, 12 year old Elizabeth Burton. He stabbed the sisters and Theresa’s daughter, 7 year old Aubrey dozens of times each and set the house on fire. DePew only spared Theresa’s youngest infant daughter, and carried her to a nearby home to safety. After DePew’s girlfriend reportedly implicated him during an interview with investigators, DePew was arrested on an unrelated warrant, and he confessed while in custody. In 2000, the United States 6th Circuit Court of Appeals overturned DePew’s death sentence due to a prosecutor pushing uncorroborated claims of a knife fight he was allegedly involved in and criticizing his refusal to take a witness stand. On retrial, DePew was resentenced to three consecutive 30 years to life terms. Per ORDCs records, he presently remains incarcerated and is eligible for a March 17, 2075 release date. If he is granted parole on that day, DePew will be 122 years old.
5. Samuel Moreland (condemned in 1986, domestic disturbance, deceased): Reportedly in a drunken rage, Moreland shot and killed his girlfriend, 46 year old Glenna Green, her daughter, 23 year old Lana, and three of her grandchildren, 7 year old Dartin, 6 year old Datwan, and 6 year old Volina, with a .22 rifle inside their home. Three of Glenna’s grandchildren, 11 year old Dayron, 5 year old Tia, and 2 year old Glenna, that survived the attack also suffered gunshot wounds and beatings with a rifle butt. Despite being shot in the head, Dayron identified Moreland as the shooter, and testified for the prosecution. After the bodies were discovered by Green’s other daughter, police arrested Moreland with traces of gunpowder residue on his hands, carrying a blood stained $20 dollar bill, and wearing pants with bloodstains that tested positively for two of the victims’ blood type [Moreland v. Bradshaw, 699 F. 3d 908 - Court of Appeals, 6th Circuit 2012]. According to the Ohio Attorney General’s 2025 Capital Crimes Annual Report, DNA testing conducted in 2012 on Moreland’s request couldn’t exclude Lana as a contributor to the bloodstains on the blood stained $20 dollar bill. Other evidence used by prosecutors include the discovery of a bag of ammunition near Moreland’s ID cards in a room and the account of Moreland’s acquaintance reporting that Moreland confiding to them about a shooting. Although scheduled for execution in 2028, Moreland succumbed to undisclosed natural causes in 2026.
6. Juan Kinley (condemned in 1991, domestic disturbance/robbery, living): Over their break up, Kinley confronted his ex-girlfriend, 31 year old Thelma Miller, at a home where she worked as a housekeeper. He then hacked both Thelma and her son, 12 year old David, accompanying her to death with a machete he found inside the residence. The homeowners found Thelma and David’s mutilated bodies in their garage, and they also reported that at least $300 (including $25 left for Thelma as payment) was missing from their bedrooms. Police at the scene were also unable to find Thelma’s purse and her car keys. Investigators found bloodstains inside Kinley’s car, a shirt he wore also stained with blood linked to David by DNA testing, $291 in cash from inside his residence, and the bloodstained machete behind his home [Kinley v. Bradshaw, Court of Appeals, 6th Circuit 2026]. Thelma’s employers identified the machete as belonging to them. According to Thelma’s family, she and Kinley’s relationship was rife with domestic violence at his hands, and she was filing a restraining order against him for his harassment shortly before the killings. Per ODRC records, Kinley currently remains under a death sentence.
7. Timothy Dunlap (condemned in 1993, domestic disturbance/robbery, living): While living in Ohio, Dunlap blindfolded his girlfriend, 32 year old Belinda Bolanos, and lured her into a forest on the pretenses of a picnic and surprising her with a gift. After he shot Balonos in the neck and chest with a crossbow, Dunlap stole her car, check book, and credit cards, and used one of her stolen checks to purchase a shotgun in Kentucky. Ten days after Balonos’ murder, Dunlap traveled to Idaho, and shot and killed a teller, 24 year old Tonya Crane, with the purchased shotgun during a bank robbery. Dunlap reportedly fled the bank without the $50,000 that the surviving tellers were preparing to hand over to him, and surrendered to police pursuing him. He received death sentences in both Ohio and Idaho for the Bolanos and Crane murders respectively. As of writing, Dunlap remains condemned in Ohio and is awaiting execution on Idaho’s death row.
8. Archie Dixon (condemned in 1995, robbery, living): To steal his identity, Dixon and the also condemned Timothy Hoffner attacked their roommate, 22 year old Christopher Hammer, with a wine bottle and tied him to a bed. As Hammer was bound and gagged, the pair snatched his wallet, birth certificate, and social security card, and dug up a grave for him in a forest nearby. Dixon and Hoffner then tossed Hammer into the grave while he was still alive, buried him completely with dirt, and walked back and forth on top of him to pack down the dirt when they finished with the burial. After the murder, the pair sold Hammer’s car to a used cars lot. Investigators searching for the missing Hammer located his car at the used cars lot, and learned from the owners that Dixon and Hoffner were the sellers behind that transaction. Both Dixon and Hoffner were arrested for forgery relating to forging an ID card under Hammer’s name, and Hoffner directed police to Hammer’s grave site after implicating Dixon in the murder [State v. Hoffner, 102 Ohio St. 3d 358 - Ohio: Supreme Court 2004]. Per ORDC records, Dixon currently remains on death row, and is theoretically awaiting a June 16, 2027 execution date.
9. Timothy Hoffner (condemned in 1995, robbery, living): Hoffner was the accomplice to the above mentioned Archie Dixon, and he was also condemned for his involvement in their roommate Christopher Hammer’s murder. As discussed in Dixon’s entry, the pair buried Hammer alive in a shallow grave, and stole his car to sell and his identity. After police discovered Hammer’s car that the pair sold to a used car dealership, Hoffner directed them to Hammer’s grave. Per ORDC records, Hoffner currently remains on death row, and is tentatively scheduled for execution on July 14, 2027.
10. Sidney Cornwell (condemned in 1997, organized crime, living): Cornwell was a Crips hoodlum. In retaliation for a shooting targeting their compatriots by rival Bloods gang members, Cornwell and a group of other Crips gunmen went hunting for a Bloods affiliated drug dealer. Believing that it was sheltering their target, Cornwell and his accomplices carried out a drive by shooting against an apartment that the dealer’s family resided in. The dealer’s niece, 3 year old Jessica Ballew, was killed by gunshot wounds to her chest and head, and three adults accompanying her were also wounded. Although he was scheduled for execution in 2010, Cornwell’s death sentence was commuted to life without parole by then governor Ted Strickland on the pretenses of an extra X chromosome birth defect. Per ODRC records, Cornwell presently remains incarcerated.
11. John Stojetz (condemned in 1997, organized crime/hate, living): Stojetz was an Aryan Brotherhood leader. While incarcerated in the Madison Correctional Institution for convictions relating to armed robbery, drug use, and illegal possession of weapons, he and other Aryan Brotherhood members were outraged to learn that the correctional staff were housing them with black inmates. To contest that policy, Stojetz and five other Aryan Brotherhood hoodlums stormed the prison’s juvenile unit while armed with shivs, and forced a guard to hand over cell keys at knifepoint. The group then entered a cell holding a black inmate, 17 year old Damico Watkins, and attacked him. Despite initially him escaping the cell, Stojetz’s gang relentlessly pursued Watkins across the juvenile unit, and they stabbed him to death at a corner. After killing Watkins, Stojetz and the other five gang members surrendered to correctional officers that arrived as reinforcements. At the time of his murder at the hands of Stojetz and the other Aryan Brotherhood hoodlums, Watkins was serving a 5 to 25 year term for robbery. On death row, Stojetz and his attorneys filled claims of PTSD allegedly originating from him surviving another inmate slitting his throat. As of writing, Stotjetz remains on death row and is theoretically scheduled for a May, 19 2027 execution date.
12. Sean Carter (condemned in 1998, sex/robbery/familial disturbance): Carter lived with his adoptive grandmother, 68 year old Veader Prince, until she evicted him from her home due to his theft conviction. After he was released, Carter broke into Prince’s home to live in it against her wishes. Prince and her son confronted Carter for his intrusion, and they gave him back his car in hopes of convincing him to leave. Despite their efforts, Carter continued his refusal to vacate the residence, and remained there as Prince’s son left. With them alone together, Carter beat and stabbed Prince 18 times with a knife he grabbed from the kitchen and anally copulated her. He then stole her car, and was arrested by Pennsylvanian police while in possession of the vehicle. DNA acquired by rectal swaps also implicated Carter in the rape and murder. Initially scheduled to be executed in 2025 and 2027, a 2024 competency hearing ruled him mentally ill and too incompetent for execution. However, Carter still currently remains on death row per ODRC records.
13. Michael Stallings (condemned in 1998, organized crime/robbery, living): Stallings, a Crips hoodlum also affiliated with the Folk Nation, and two other Crips gang members stormed into an apartment belonging to a marijuana dealer’s girlfriend to rob them. In retaliation for the dealer’s slow response to their demands for money and marijuana, Stallings shot and killed the cousin of the dealer’s girlfriend, 16 year old Rolisha Shephard. When she was fatally shot by Stallings, Shephard was clutching her infant son, and the boy suffered an ear injury from falling to the floor as she collapsed. After the shooting, Stallings and his accomplice fled the scene as the dealer attended to Shephard. The dealer’s girlfriend identified Stallings as the shooter in a photo lineup [Stallings v. Bagley, 561 F. Supp. 2d 821 - Dist. Court, ND Ohio 2008]. One of Stallings’ accomplices was also arrested for an unrelated robberies of a gas station and dairy store, and testified against him during the proceedings. That accomplice’s cousin also recounted overhearing conversations about robbery plans from Stallings and his accomplices. Last but not least, Stallings confessed to Shephard’s murder while questioned by investigators. Prior to Shephard’s murder, Stallings had an extensive juvenile record relating to vandalism, truancy, and extortion, and was convicted of auto-theft and receiving stolen property as an adult. In 2008, the United States 6th Circuit Court of Appeals vacated Stallings’ death sentence over reported defense counsel related errors, and he was resentenced to a life without parole term. Per ODRC records, Stallings presently remains incarcerated.
14. Larry Gapen (condemned in 2001, domestic disturbance/robbery/sex(?), living): Although indicted for the kidnapping of his ex-wife, 37 year old Martha Madewell, Gapen was freed on bond and permitted to live with his adult daughter under house arrest conditions during the proceedings. He repeatedly violated the terms of his house arrest by remaining in contact with Madewell and freely leaving his daughter’s apartment. After he learned that Madewell was dating another man, 40 year old Nathan Marshall, Gapen broke into her home with an axe. Both Marshall and Madewell were hacked to death by Gapen as they laid together on a couch. Gapen then redirected his attention to Madewell’s daughter, 13 year old Jesica Young, and repeatedly struck her in the head while she was sleeping in her bedroom. Before fleeing the scene, Gapen abducted two of Madewell’s younger children (a 8 year old daughter and a 7 year son), and snatched her purse carrying credit cards, her paycheck, and a child support check. Madewell’s eldest teenage son was the only occupant in the home left unharmed, and he reported the bodies and his younger siblings missing to emergency dispatchers. Police arrested Gapen as he was driving with Madewell’s youngest children in his car, and they recovered Madwell’s purse from the vehicle [State v. Gapen, 2004 Ohio 6548 - Ohio: Supreme Court 2004]. During questioning, Gapen also admitted guilt to the murders, and professed to killing Madewell for “playing him too long” and killing Young for her perceived disrespectful behavior towards him. Despite the discovery of Gapen’s sperm on Madewell’s nude corpse, the spread position of her legs, and his admission of “sleeping with her” after the attack, Gapen was acquitted of Madewell’s rape in the same trial that otherwise convicted him of her and the other two victims’ murders. As of writing, he remains on death row per ODRC records.
15. Donald Craig (condemned in 2004, sex, deceased): In 1995, Craig waylaid 13 year old Malissa Thomas as she was walking home from her adult sister’s residence. He then tied her up with rope in an abandoned house, and raped and strangled her to death. Thomas’ body was found by a construction worker remodeling the house a few days after her abduction and murder. A year later, he lured the visiting friend, 12 year old Roseanne Davenport, of his girlfriend’s teenage daughter into his vehicle on the pretenses of driving her home. Like Thomas, Craig bound Davenport with rope inside another vacant house, and sodomized and strangled her to death. Davenport’s body was discovered by a man surveying and purchasing the property a few days later. Due to his proximity inside the house where Davenport was last seen, Craig was the immediate person of interest to police, and a previously reported sexual assault accusation involving him allegedly binding and assailing the accuser inside a vacant house further locked their suspicions. Despite an arrest, Craig initially avoided charges due to the DNA testing failing to implicate him at the time. Further DNA testing allowed by technological developments in 2002 implicated him in Davenport’s murder, and he was sentenced to death for it in 2004. DNA testing in 2006 also implicated Craig in Thomas’ murder, and he was condemned a second time for that offense. In 2012, Craig died of undisclosed causes while awaiting execution.
16. Donald Ketterer (condemned in 2004, robbery, living): Ketterer arrived at the home of a former employer, 85 year old Lawrence Sanders, to beg for money he wanted to pay for a court fee. Enraged that Sanders denied having any to give at hand, Ketterer repeatedly struck him in the head with a skillet. He then stabbed Sanders to death to ensure he wouldn’t report the assault to the police, snatched $70 from his wallet and other loose change from bedrooms, and initially fled the scene in his car. As he wanted to steal more items to batter for cocaine, Ketterer returned to Sanders’ home and stole some silverware. According to court records [State v. Ketterer, 855 NE 2d 48 - Ohio: Supreme Court 2006], a woman he used cocaine with testified that Ketterer was wearing gloves with bloodstains while visiting her, and DNA testing indicated that the bloodstains on the gloves originated from both Ketterer and Sanders. At the time of his arrest, Ketterer was carrying coins and papers also belonging to Sanders, and he confessed to the killing while in custody. In 2021, Ketterer’s death sentence was overturned by the Butler County Court of Common Pleas due to claims of mental illness, and he was resentenced to a life without parole term. Per ORDC records, he presently remains incarcerated.
17. Frederick Mundt (condemned in 2004, familial disturbance/sex, living): Mundt raped his stepdaughter, 7 year old Brittany Hendrickson, in their home, and dragged her outside to an abandoned well nearby. After he threw Hendrickson into the well, Mundt dropped chunks of concrete on her head to silence her screams. She suffered severe skull fractures from the falling objects, and then drowned in the well’s waters while unconscious. Hendrickson’s mother reported her missing, and she was found by searchers in the well a day later. As Mundt was left alone with Hendrickson and her siblings when she disappeared, he was the immediate person of interest to authorities, and DNA testing further implicated him. Mundt also confessed guilt to a psychologist speaking with him, and was recorded instructing his half brother to burn Hendrickson’s bloodstained clothing while interned at a county jail [Mundt v. Jenkins, Dist. Court, SD Ohio 2024]. Per ORDC records, Mundt currently remains on death row.
18. James Frazier (condemned in 2005, robbery, deceased): Wanting money to buy more crack cocaine at a drug party, Frazier walked into the apartment of a neighbor, 49 year old Mary Stevenson, with cerebral palsy. He strangled and slashed her throat with a bread knife grabbed from the kitchen, and left the scene with her purse in hand. Other partygoers reported that Frazier returned to the party shirtless. Three days after the murder, police found a trash bin many items relating to Stevenson, including her purse with her birth certificate, bank card, and library card inside, social security cards, bills addressed to Frazier, a bloodstained knife, and Frazier’s bloodstained shirt [State v. Frazier, 873 NE 2d 1263 - Ohio: Supreme Court 2007]. Frazier was a career criminal and sex offender with a history of burglary convictions dating back to the 1960s. He was also charged, though acquitted, of rape and kidnapping in 1978 and convicted of gross sexual imposition in 1979. In 2020, Frazier succumbed to a reportedly COVID related illness on death row.
19. Jason Dean (condemned in 2006, robbery, deceased): Assisted by a teenage boy, Dean embarked on a four day series of shootings and robberies. The pair’s crime spree climaxed in the killing of 23 year old Titus Arnold, a youth councilor ambushed outside of a troubled youth group home, robbed of $6, and shot to death. Other attacks carried out by Dean and his accomplice included a drive-by shooting of a home with three young children inside and the attempted robbery of a man and his female companion identified by court documents [State v. Dean, 146 Ohio St. 3d 106 - Ohio: Supreme Court 2015] as Andre Piersoll and Yolanda Lyles respectively. According to Piersoll and Lyles, Dean and the teenage accomplice accosted them at gunpoint in a grocery store’s parking lot under the guise of selling pills, and they fled by driving away in their van. Both Dean and the boy shot at the fleeing van, and Piersoll escaped with a gunshot wound to his arm. Although the teenage accomplice was the triggerman in the Arnold murder, he avoided the death penalty and received a life sentence due to his age, and Dean was condemned in his place for directing the killing. In 2019, Dean succumbed to unknown natural causes on death row.
20. Anthony Sowell (condemned in 2011, sex, deceased): Known to media outlets as the “Cleveland Strangler”, Sowell murdered at least eleven women between the ages of 25 to 44 years old between 2007 and 2009. He lured many of his victims to his home with the promises of selling them cocaine, and then tied them up to be raped and strangled them to death with ligatures. Sowell dismembered at least some of his victims’ bodies, and buried their remains in his crawlspace and backyard. After a surviving woman complained to police of him sexually assaulting her, a police search of his residence recovered the bodies or partial remains of the eleven women. Five other women testified of him abducting and sexually assaulting them during the proceedings [State v. Sowell, 148 Ohio St. 3d 554 - Ohio: Supreme Court 2016], and prosecutors also charged and convicted of the non-fatal rapes of three of those victims. Prior to his killing spree, Sowell was convicted of abducting, raping, and non-fatally strangling a woman and served 15 years in prison for the offense. In 2021, Sowell succumbed to an undisclosed terminal illness on death row.
21. Caron Montgomery (condemned in 2012, domestic disturbance/familial disturbance, living): During an argument inside her home, Montgomery stabbed his ex-girlfriend, 31 year old Tia Hendricks, over twenty times. He then turned his attention to the son, 2 year old Tyron, they shared and her daughter, 10 year old Tahila, from another relationship, and repeatedly stabbed them both in the neck. Despite Hendricks calling emergency dispatchers and naming Montgomery to them, responding officers initially weren’t able to find her location. A day later, Hendricks’ family reported her and the children missing for failing to appear at their family’s thanksgiving dinner. Police arrived at the home and were forced to break an inside chain lock to enter. They found all three victims dead in the living floor and arrested Montgomery after discovering him hiding in the master bedroom closet with minor knife injuries. Responding officers also recovered Montgomery’s shoes that were blood stained, which further correlated with bloody shoe prints found next to the victims’ bodies. Hendricks previously complained of violent behavior from Montgomery on multiple occasions, and he pled guilty to domestic violence related charges against her in 2009 [State v. Montgomery, 148 Ohio St.3d 347, 2016-Ohio-5487]. In 2023, Montgomery was removed from death row due to mental illness related claims, and an agreement between prosecutors and his defense allowed him to accept a life without parole term. Per ODRC records, Montgomery presently remains incarcerated.
22. Steven Cepec (condemned in 2013, organized crime/robbery, living): As he was admitted to a halfway house for violating his parole, Cepec ran away and visited the home of his neighbor, 72 year old Frank Munz. During an argument, Cepec attacked Munz with a hammer, and then strangled him to death with an electrical cord. Munz’s nephew overheard the scuffle and the sounds of rummaging through rooms, and called emergency services from the safety of his locked bedroom. Responding officers found Cepec hiding in bushes outside. They also discovered several bags inside the residence’s living room and kitchen, which contained $300 in cash, blood stained shirts, a blood stained hammer, bloodstained towels, and a bloodstained lamp cord. According to a Plain Dealer article published in 2012, Cepec was con artist with a laundry list of prior theft and burglary convictions dating back to 1988. Court documents [State v. Cepec, 149 Ohio St.3d 438, 2016-Ohio-8076] also reported he had strong Aryan Brotherhood ties. Per ODRC records, he currently remains on death row.
23. Arron Lawson (condemned in 2019, familial disturbance/sex, living): According to Lawson, he was in an incestuous relationship with his cousin, 27 year old Stacey Holston. She broke off their affair if his account is to be believed, and Lawson broke into Stacey’s home a week later in retribution. After he shot Stacey dead, Lawson performed necrophilic acts on her body in a bedroom. He then called the elementary school that Stacey’s son, 8 year old Devin, attended under the guise of Stacey’s husband. Lawson persuaded the school staff into pulling Devin out of his classes, and they sent him back to the residence on a bus. When Devin arrived and walked inside, Lawson shot and killed him. Stacey’s mother, 43 year old Tammie McGuire, and stepfather, 50 year old Donald, drove to the home several hours later to check on Stacey and Devin, and the couple were also fatally shot by Lawson in a confrontation. During the shootings, Tammie was speaking with Stacey’s husband over the phone, and Stacey’s husband rushed to the home in response. Although Lawson repeatedly stabbed Stacey’s husband during their struggle, Stacey’s husband gained the upper hand and briefly subdued Lawson. Too focused on searching for Stacey and Devin, the Holston patriarch released Lawson, and Lawson fled the scene with responding officers pursuing him. A day after the shootings, Lawson surrendered himself to police. Per ODRC’s inmate search, he currently remains condemned.
24. Gurpreet Singh (condemened in 2024, familial disturbance, living): Inside their family apartment, Singh fatally shot his wife, 39 year old Shalinderjit Kaur, her parents, 62 year old Parmjit and 59 year old Hakiakat Pannag, and her maternal aunt, 58 year old Amarjit. Hakiakat was murdered while sleeping in his bed, and the other three victims were slain in the kitchen and living room. Singh then reported the murders to emergency services, and responding officers found him wearing bloodstained clothing. Location data collected from his cell phone and his car’s GPS conflicted with the recollection of events he gave to dispatchers, and gunpowder residue was detected on his hands. Furthermore, bloody shoe prints at the scene matched boots worn by Singh. According to prosecutors, Singh carried out the murders in a combination over financial strain from an expensive extra-martial affair and disputes with Hakiakat over property sales in their native India. Per ODRC records, he currently remains on death row.

The ship was found on December 4, 1872, drifting in the Atlantic Ocean, roughly 650 kilometers from Gibraltar. What made the discovery so strange wasn’t just that the vessel was empty, but that everything else looked completely normal.

The ship itself was not damaged, there were no clear signs of a struggle, and nothing obvious that could explain why the crew suddenly disappeared.

Even more confusing was the fact that personal belongings were still on board and the cargo had not been touched. Over time, this combination of details turned the Mary Celeste into one of the most famous examples of a “ghost ship” in maritime history, surrounded by speculation and theories.

​

I still don’t know if I narrowly avoided something really bad, or if this guy was just deeply unstable, but it has stayed with me for years.

A stranger walked past me while I was at work one day, stopped, and asked me out on a date. I’d never seen him before. It caught me off guard, but he came across as confident and kind of “old school” so I said yes.

He asked if he could pick me up for a coffee date and I agreed.

When he picked me up, he already had a McDonald’s coffee for me. It was from right near my house. I took a sip and immediately realised I didn’t like it because there was no sugar in it. I have a huge sweet tooth and always have sugar in coffee.

That tiny moment is what changed the entire night for me.

Because I didn’t like the coffee, I stopped properly drinking it and just pretended to sip it so I wouldn’t seem rude. But from that point my brain also started questioning everything.

Why would he already buy me a random coffee when the whole point of the date was supposedly to go get coffee together? He didn’t even know how I took it.

Then things started feeling off.

He drove straight past where we were meant to go. When I asked, he casually changed the destination to somewhere further away. During the drive I also caught him in small lies. He said he worked at my local Woolworths, but I told him that couldn’t be true because I’m there all the time and would have recognised him. He didn’t really respond.

He then started repeatedly asking if I had finished my drink. Not once or twice. Around ten times.

By the time we turned off the main road toward the new location it was fully dark.

At one point he turned down a road heading toward bushland. I stopped questioning him at that point because something in me felt like I needed to stay calm and not escalate anything.

There was also something large and metal in the glove box that kept moving and banging, and he kept drawing attention to it.

After that, his behaviour changed completely.

He started driving erratically, swerving from one side of the road to the other while using his elbows on the wheel. He started yelling that he was Kanye West and I was his Kim Kardashian. Then he drove down a dirt road, and then off the dirt road into the bush.

We were driving through trees in the dark.

Eventually he stopped the car right at the edge of a lake. The water was basically at the front of the bonnet.

Then he just sat there in silence.

For about 15 minutes.

It felt like he was waiting for something.

When he eventually got out of the car, it was pitch black outside. I couldn’t see where he went or what he was doing. My heart was absolutely pounding.

The second he got out, I grabbed my phone and texted my friend telling her to call me and say we had training and not to ask questions. I also made sure to casually describe where I was in a way that made sense.

When he came back and got in the car, my phone rang. My friend followed exactly what I asked.

After the call he just looked at me and said “so you have to go?”

I said yes.

He then sat in silence for another few minutes before finally turning the car back on and driving me home without saying a single word.

I never saw him again.

To this day I still wonder if not liking that coffee is what saved me. If he had added sugar and I had actually finished the drink, would my life have changed completely?

After having been single for the first three years of college, I wanted to dip my toes in the dating scene. I installed Tinder and swiped right until my thumb turned purple.

Excitedly, I got a match fairly quickly. Her name was Bella. She was a petite, 21 year old woman with sandy blonde hair and dimples that made me melt on the spot. According to her profile, she went to the same university as me and she was a junior in college.

After some back and forth between the two of us, she surprisingly invited me to a party in the wealthier part of town. She said she knew some friends who were going to be throwing an absolute thrasher and wanted to bring a date.

I agreed immediately.

We chatted some more and I agreed to pick her up at 10pm. The plans were set. Beaming, I threw my phone on my bed and fist pumped the air.

That was far easier than I could have imagined.

Later that night, I picked her up. I fully expected her to be a catfish but lo and behold, as I approached her address, she was already standing on the curb, smiling and waving excitedly. She was wearing a beautiful sweater and stylish pants that fit her curves well. 

If I’m honest, the outfit she wore kind of made her look older than I initially pictured, almost like a soccer mom, but that’s neither here nor there. She got in my car and we headed toward the party.

As my car rolled up to the address of the party, my jaw dropped in awe. The house was massive and had the appearance of a souped-up grandiose mansion. I asked Bella if this was actually the house and she nodded emphatically. 

On the way to the door, I was in shock at how fancy the yard and exterior was. It truly looked like an establishment owned by a multimillionaire. Strangely, though, there were only a handful of other cars parked in front of the house, despite the loud volume indicating there were far more people inside.

As we got closer to the house, my estimates were right. In the windows, I could see probably over a hundred people dancing and partying inside, while music emanated from the interior. 

As soon as Bella and I came in through the door, however, it felt like everyone in the house froze for a brief second. I’m not exaggerating when I say it looked like every single pair of eyes in that house were on Bella and I just for a moment. Then, as if I had imagined it all, the party resumed and everyone continued dancing as if nothing had happened at all.

I noticed immediately that something wasn’t right, however. These people, who I assumed to be college students, all looked to be in their late 30’s to 40’s. I couldn’t tell if there was a single college student in sight. Much like Bella, they were all dressed as if they were all attending a book club instead of a late-night weekend thrasher.

When I whispered my observation to Bella, she just brushed it off immediately, saying they were probably just all upperclassmen. I suppose she had a point and we made our way to the drinks to loosen up.

As I approached the drinking station, I turned around and realized Bella was nowhere in sight. I texted her asking where she was while I took my first sip of spiked fruit punch. 

While I was standing there, I could have sworn I kept catching people staring in my direction in my periphery, but they shifted their eyes as soon as I turned my head.

I was starting to get seriously disturbed and a knot formed in my stomach as I waded through the crowd trying to look for Bella. 

Eventually, I made my way near the back of the house and found a hallway that wasn’t occupied with clumps of people.

Walking down the hall, I read BATHROOM on a sign and followed it. “Great, just the breath of air I need,” I muttered to myself.

I sat on the sink replaying the oddities of the party in my head when I heard a knock at the door. I yelled “Occupied,” but the guy on the other side of the door insisted he had to use the bathroom. I reluctantly opened the door and to my surprise, the guy was the first person who actually looked like a college student. 

He was young, tall, and was actually dressed like the people I’d been accustomed to seeing across campus during my time at college.

Before he could close the door to the bathroom, I stopped him and asked if he picked up on the strange vibe at the party as well. 

He smirked for a second before leaning in and dropping his voice to an almost imperceptible whisper:

“Take a look around. Do these people really look like college students to you?”

I let out a sigh of relief, as if my concerns had finally been recognized by another person. Before I could say anything, he kept whispering:

“You came here with a girl, right? How old did she say she was?”

Confused as to how he knew I had a date, I said “I met this girl off of Tinder earlier today, she said she was 21.”

The guy laughed under his breath. “Typical. Well, if it isn’t obvious already, she isn’t who she says she is.” Then a pause, before he finally whispered once more:

“Hey man, do what you want, but if I were you, I’d say get out of here sooner rather than later.”

And with that, he shut the door before the hallway became dark and silent once again.

I had heard enough. I quickly made my way to the door, feeling everyone’s eyes on me like daggers. Just as I was about to leave, I heard my name being shouted by a person I could only guess to be Bella.

I didn’t stop to see.

I closed the door behind me and jogged back to my car. I peeled out and started driving back home. Something ate at me though.

On my way home, I drove back to the address I picked Bella up at. Curiously, as I pulled up, an older couple had just arrived home and they were walking to their door. I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I rolled my window down and shouted a question I already knew the answer to:

"Excuse me sir, do you have a daughter named Bella?”

Confused, the older man made his way to my car with his wife, before telling me—to no surprise of my own—that he and his wife had no kids.

I asked them if they had ever seen a woman who matched the description of Bella, describing her appearance and outfit. 

To my surprise, they mentioned seeing a woman who matched that description identically, standing outside of their house waiting for a car almost weekly. They had just assumed she lived around the area and that was their designated meet-up point, given that their house was on a corner. 

After hearing that, I quietly thanked them and drove back home. No radio. Just silent with my own thoughts. 

I can’t help but think I avoided something potentially fatal, and if it weren’t for that young guy outside the bathroom, I’m not sure I’d be typing this story right now.

One thing is for certain: I’m never using Tinder again.

I awoke from my bad dream and knew instantly something was wrong.

I turned on the lights and sprinted to my son's room.

Strangely, there he was, sleeping peacefully in his cobalt blue sheets, under his fuzzy space blanket. In my dream, my son had been captured. Kidnapped straight out of my hands and gone like the wind.

It seemed I was wrong once again. My nightmares had become more and more visceral recently and I contemplated seeking help. It was the same dream every time:

My son would cry "daddy" and by the time I rushed into his room, he was gone. Just like that.

I groggily shuffled back to my room, disappointed that my mental state had gotten the best of me, when I heard a faint noise, almost imperceptible to the human ear.

I froze, realizing what it was instantly.

"Daddy," my son whispered.

Before my brain could process what was happening, my legs were moving in the direction of my son's room. I lunged inside and, to my relief, there he was. Sleeping peacefully once again.

My eyes snapped awake suddenly. That didn't make sense. If my son was in bed, then who made that sound?

Before I could react, I heard the faint plead of my son's voice yet again.

But standing in his room, I clocked immediately where the sound came from.

My eyes slowly drifted downward where they landed on the space below my son's bed.

I gasped softly when I realized what I was looking at.

My son, pale as a ghost, was crouched under his bed, trembling in fear. I bent down cautiously before listening to my son speak the last words I'd ever hear:

"Help me Daddy, someone's in my bed."

Okay so I was watching Ripley on Netflix and something felt off. Like the plot was TOO specific to be pure imagination. So I started digging and honestly I cannot believe what I found.

The show is based on Patricia Highsmith's 1955 novel. A con man befriends a wealthy guy, kills him on a boat, ties the body to an anchor, dumps it in the sea, steals his identity and just... lives his life. Written in 1955.

Now let me introduce you to Albert Johnson Walker. The "Rolex Killer." Real case. 1996. He was a fraudster who scammed millions from clients and fled to Europe to escape justice. Just like Ripley is a con man running from his past. He then deliberately befriended a man named Ronald Platt with the long term goal of stealing his identity. The whole friendship was a manipulation from day one.

He assumed a fake identity called "David Davis" and posed as a wealthy antique dealer, bought a yacht, had oil paintings in his home. Coveting and performing a lifestyle way above his real station. Sound familiar?

There's also a detail from the Real Stories documentary on YouTube called 'An Almost Perfect Murder' that genuinely floored me. Walker's neighbours apparently saw him painting around the house, basic amateur stuff, but he was signing the paintings as David Davis. This while he was living openly as Ron Platt. He had so many fake identities he couldn't keep track across his own hobby. And in the Ripley series Dickie's paintings are famously below average too.

When Platt ran out of money in Canada and came back to England as a loose end, Walker invited him on a fishing trip and killed him on the boat. Then tied the body to an anchor and threw it overboard. This is not some vague general similarity, this is an extremely specific detail that matches the novel word for word. He then moved into a house and introduced himself to the neighbours as Ronald Platt. Living completely openly as the stolen identity.

Highsmith wrote the novel in 1955. Walker murdered Platt in 1996. That is 41 years later. Highsmith had already died by the time Walker was even arrested. She never knew.

A couple of news reports at the time mentioned it had "echoes of The Talented Mr Ripley" but that was it. Nobody ever actually sat down and laid out how point for point identical these two stories really are.

Like was Walker inspired by the book? Did he read it? Or did Highsmith just so accurately understand this type of sociopath that real life eventually produced one following the exact same pattern?

This is genuinely keeping me up at night. Has anyone noticed this before??

TL;DR: The 1996 Albert Walker Rolex Killer case matches the 1955 Ripley novel almost beat for beat. Fraud, fake identity, deliberately befriending someone to steal their life, murder on a boat, anchor tied to the body, dumped in the sea, living openly as the victim. The novel is 41 years older than the actual crime. Nobody has properly connected these dots and my mind is gone.

I became a paramedic because I wanted to be the person who showed up on time.

I wasn't, when it mattered most.

Her name was Renee. She was thirty-four years old, she drove a blue Subaru, and she had this habit of leaving her coffee cup on the roof of the car when she loaded groceries, then driving away and calling me twenty minutes later, laughing about how she'd done it again. I have seventeen voicemails from her on my phone. I've never deleted them. I've never listened to them again either. They sit there... a voice on a screen.

She was on Route 9 when the other driver ran the light.

I was four minutes away.

I know that because I've thought about it every day for two years. About what four minutes mean, about what I could have done with four minutes. Whether four minutes was always going to be the difference or whether it was just the number the universe picked to make sure I'd spend the rest of my life suffering over it.

I was not her paramedic. They pulled me off the scene before I could be, which was the right call, which I would have made myself for anyone else, but it didn't make it easier to sit in the back of a unit with my hands shaking while other people tried to do what I couldn't.

She died at 4:17 PM in December.

Toby was eleven. He's twelve now. I’m grateful he’ll still remember her. That's the thing I'm most grateful for and the thing that hurts the most, depending on the day.

The house got quiet after she died.

Not immediately—immediately, there were people everywhere. Her sister, my mother, and neighbors I hadn't spoken to in years all showed up with casserole dishes and apologies. The house was full for about a week, and then one day it wasn't, and I realized that all the noise had been a kind of buffer between me and what my new reality was.

It sounded like Toby watching TV in his room with the volume low.

It sounded like one person making coffee in the morning instead of two.

I went back to work six weeks later. Earlier than I should have, and earlier than the crew said. I told myself Toby was okay, that he was resilient, that kids are resilient, which now I know is something people say about kids when they need kids to be resilient, because the alternative is too much for them to carry. Toby didn't fight me on it. He just nodded, went to school, came home, did his homework, ate whatever I put in front of him, and went to bed. He was so easy that I didn't understand that easy wasn't the same as okay.

We talked, we just... didn't say anything.

I'd ask about school, and he'd say, "Fine." I'd ask about any new friends, and he'd shrug. I'd say goodnight, and he'd say goodnight back, and I'd stand in the hallway outside his door, looking at him for a moment, trying not to cry, before I went to my own room. I still had her nightstand on her side, which I hadn't moved, which I wasn't ready to move.

That was us... the shape of our life.

I tried telling myself it would get easier.

The first time Toby came home in clothes I didn't recognize, it was a cold day in November.

A sweater, it was dark gray, and was cable knit, the kind with the thick seams that you can feel when you run your thumb along them. I noticed it immediately because it was the kind of sweater I couldn't afford, not with the hours I was working and what hours cost in this county when you're doing them alone.

"Where'd you get that?"

Toby looked down at himself like he'd forgotten he was wearing it.

"Eli gave it to me. Mine got dirty."

"Who's Eli?"

"Just someone from school."

He dropped his backpack by the stairs and went to the fridge, and I stood there with a dish towel in my hand, thinking about the sweater. It was expensive. It also fit him perfectly. Not a hand-me-down fit, with it loose in the shoulders or short on the sleeves, but actually perfect, like it had been bought for him. Like it had been bought specifically for him.

I told myself it was nothing.

I was good at that by then.

A week later, it was a pair of boots. Timberland Pros—waterproof, steel-toed, and brand-spanking new. Toby said Eli’s feet were bigger, so he gave them to him.

Then came a pair of expensive raw-denim jeans. Then a leather jacket that looked like it cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.

Each time, the explanation was the same. 

"Mine got dirty."

"Eli let me have his spares."

"Eli says he doesn't need them."

In my line of work, we’re trained on "Mechanism of Injury." You look at the damage to the car to understand the damage to the spine. And, I'll admit, I started looking for the damage on Toby.

I’d catch him coming in at 6:00 PM, two hours after the bus usually dropped him off. I’d perform a visual sweep before he took his coat off. I looked for petechiae around his neck. I looked for defensive wounds on his forearms. I even started checking his pupils when he sat down for dinner—looking for a sluggish response to see if he had been drugged or sedated.

Physical findings: Zero. Toby looked healthier than he had in years. He had color in his cheeks, his hands were calloused and covered in a white dust—limestone, I realized, the same stuff they mine at the Quarry.

But the psychological indicators were redlining.

Everything in his world was now filtered through a single syllable: Eli.

Eli says we’re working on a project.
Eli’s place is cooler than ours.
Eli gave me this because he said I looked cold.

He never said "Eli's parents." He never mentioned a "house." He just said "Eli's place," and in my mind, that space began to look like a studio apartment, or a van, or a crawlspace in the woods. I began to picture Eli as a twenty-eight-year-old with a squirrelish voice and an evil plan.

The paranoia became a constant adrenaline spike anytime my mind would race.

Yesterday, Toby came home with a bruise on his cheek; it was a contusion, maybe two centimeters across.

"What happened to your face?" I hadn't realized I didn't even say hello. I just grabbed his chin, tilting his head toward the light to get a better look.

"It's nothing. We were just clearing stuff out at Eli’s, and I tripped."

"Clearing what out? Where do you even go after school, Toby? I’ve checked the school roster. There isn't an "Eli" in the seventh grade or eighth grade.”

Toby pulled his face out of my hand. The easy, shy kid was gone.

"He’s not in my school," Toby said flatly.

My stomach dropped. My heart was probably doing 110. "How old is he? Where does he live? Why is he giving you a leather jacket, Toby? Adult men don't just give kids clothes for no reason."

"He’s my friend!" Toby shouted. It was the loudest the house had been in years. "He’s the only person who actually talks to me at school! Why have you been acting so weird about him!"

"I am trying to protect you—"

"From what? Having a life?" Toby’s eyes were wide and wet, identical to Renee’s the day she died. "Why aren't you just happy I'm not alone anymore? Just because your life ended when Mom died doesn't mean mine has to!"

He didn't wait for my response. He stormed upstairs and slammed the door so hard that a framed photo of Renee fell off the hallway wall.

I put it back on the wall and just stood in the dark, realizing I had lost the scene entirely.

I spent the rest of the night sitting at the kitchen table, performing a mental map of the last two years, looking for the exact moment the internal hemorrhaging had started. My training is designed to fix physical trauma—broken bones, stalled hearts, collapsed lungs, what have you.

But there isn't a tourniquet in the world that can stop the bleeding in a broken home.

The next morning was silent. Toby left for the bus at seven. He was wearing a new jacket—a hefty, black canvas work coat with a corduroy collar. It looked expensive and far too heavy for a middle-schooler’s backpack.

I didn't ask where he got it, or even say goodbye. I just watched him walk down the driveway, my heart doing a steady, anxious 110.

I tried to be the "good" dad for the next forty-eight hours. I told myself I was overreacting. I went to my shift and tried to focus on the radio chatter, but every "Walkaway" call from the North side made my skin crawl.

When I got home Thursday morning, I did something I promised Renee I’d never do. I searched his room.

I felt like a predator myself, creeping through his space while he was at school. I didn't find a "smoking gun." I didn't find drugs or burner phones.

But I found the "Gifts."

Tucked into the back of his closet were three more hoodies, two pairs of expensive boots, and a leather-bound journal with high-quality cream paper. None of it had been used. It was just... stored there... like he didn't want me to see it.

I pulled out one of the hoodies—a thick, gray zip-up. I pressed it to my face.

It didn't smell like Toby or our house. It was the scent of organic clover laundry soap, but beneath it, I smelled something else.

Limestone.

It was the same white powder I’d seen on the boots of the workers at the Quarry. My clinical brain went into overdrive. Toby wasn't just meeting "Eli" at school. He was going to the Quarry.

That afternoon, when Toby came home, the "Easy" kid was gone for good. He walked past me in the kitchen, and I saw the way he was moving. It was guarded—he was protecting his ribs.

"Toby, stop," I said, my voice dropping. "Take off the hoodie."

"No." He didn't even turn around.

"I'm not asking, Toby. You’re guarding your left side. Did he hit you? Did Eli hit you?"

Toby spun around, and for a second, I saw Renee's fire in his eyes. "Nobody hit me! We were working! We’re building something, okay? Something real!"

"Building what? Why are you going to the Quarry? All the clothes are covered in limestone."

Toby froze. His pupils dilated—a classic "Fear/Flight" response. "How do you know where I go?"

"Because I'm your father! You're twelve years old, Toby! Why is a man giving you tailored clothes and work jackets? Why is he isolating you from me?"

"He's not isolating me!" Toby screamed. "You isolated me! You’ve been a zombie since Mom died! You just work and come home and sit in front of the TV and eat pizza!"

The words hit me, and I felt my breath hitch.

He didn't just slam his door this time. I heard the lock click.

I sat in the hallway for hours, staring at the closed door.

In my line of work, we talk about the “Golden Hour”—that critical window of time after a traumatic injury where medical intervention has the highest likelihood of preventing death. I realized, sitting there on the carpet, that my window had likely closed weeks ago.

I didn't try to open the door, I just went to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee I didn't want, and sat in the dark.

The next morning, Toby left for school without breakfast. I watched from the window as he walked down the driveway toward the bus stop. He looked like a stranger, or like a man going to work.

I called out from work that day. I told them I had a family emergency, which felt like the first honest thing I’d said in years.

I sat in my truck two blocks away from the middle school, tucked behind a row of parked cars. I felt the shame of it—the stalking, the lack of trust on my end—but the paramedic in me overrode the father. I told myself I was "evaluating the environment." I told myself I was looking for the source of the "limestone dust."

At 3:15 PM, the bell rang. I watched the students pour out in a chaotic wave. Then I saw him.

Toby wasn't alone. He was walking with a group of three other boys. They were jostling each other, laughing, and for a split second, I saw my son—the twelve-year-old kid.

I felt a surge of relief so sharp it made my hands go limp on the steering wheel. I almost turned the key. I almost went home to move Renee’s nightstand and wait for him with an apology.

But then the group reached the corner of the street, and the other boys turned toward the bus stop. Toby didn't.

He kept walking, heading straight toward the gravel paths that led into the deeper parts of town.

I put the truck in gear and followed from a distance, watching him navigate the rocky terrain. He didn't look back once.

He stopped at a small, cedar-shingled house tucked into a clearing of trees, about four miles from the Quarry.

A man was standing on the porch. He was tall, dressed in a quarryman's uniform. As Toby approached, the man stepped down and met him halfway. He reached out and pulled my son into a paternal side-hug. He ruffled Toby’s hair, said something that made Toby smile, and ushered him inside.

Condition fucking Red.

I didn't think about "Scene Safety." I didn't think about "Calling for Backup." All I saw was a grown man taking my son into a house I didn't recognize.

I sprinted across the street.

I'm not proud of what came next.

I hammered my fist on that door.

It swung open, and the man stood there, looking startled. He looked... remarkably average. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his head and a smudge of white dust on his cheek.

"Where is he?" I screamed. "Where the hell is my son?"

The man blinked, holding up his hands. "Whoa! Take it easy! What are you talking about?"

"I know he's in here! Are you Eli?! You touch him again, and I will fucking kill you!"

The man’s expression shifted from fear to deep confusion. "I'm not Eli," he said slowly. "Eli... Eli's my son." He turned his head slightly. "He’s in the kitchen with his friend. May I ask who you are?"

The adrenaline in my system evaporated at once, leaving me cold.

I looked into the house. It wasn't a grooming den, or anything of the other insane things I'd pictured for weeks.

It was a home.

There was a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. There were muddy work boots by the door. In the kitchen, a woman was helping Toby and another boy—a kid with freckles and the same build as Toby—scrub mud off their arms in the sink.

The smell—that sweet clover scent. It was coming from the laundry room.

"It’s an organic soap," the woman said, looking at me with concern. "Our son has a skin condition. It’s the only thing that doesn't cause a reaction."

"I... I'm—so sorry. I'm Toby's father," I stammered, dragging my hand down my face.

The man let out a long breath. "Oh, man. We’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Toby said you worked 72-hour rotations at the station. He told us your... your wife passed away. I-I'm Mark." He said, holding out his hand.

I shook it and looked at Toby. He was standing by the sink, holding a damp paper towel. He looked ashamed. He looked at their messy living house—and then he looked at me like I was the intruder.

"We've been letting the boys help me build a stone firepit in the back," Mark said, gesturing toward the limestone blocks visible through the window. "Toby's a hard worker, but he’s a messy one. He kept ruining his school clothes, so we just started giving him Eli’s spares. They’re the same size, and Eli outgrows everything in a month anyway."

"He told us he didn't have any clean clothes because he said you worked long hours, he said he didn't want to bother you," Eli’s mother added softly. "We just... we just wanted him to be warm."

I stood in the middle of their living space and realized I was the only dead thing in the room.

Toby hadn't been stolen. He had found a family that was still whole, and he was trying to borrow enough of their life to survive the one in mine.

Toby got up and grabbed my arm, not looking at Mark or his wife, or at Eli.

"I-I'm sorry, again," I called out, following Toby out of the house.

I didn't say anything on the drive home. Toby stared out the window, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the blurring trees.

When we got inside our house, the silence hit me. The kitchen was clean. Renee’s empty chair was still tucked perfectly under the table.

"I'm sorry, Tobes," I said.

Toby stopped at the foot of the stairs. He didn't look back at me.

"You didn't even know his last name, Dad," he said quietly. "You didn't even ask if he was my age."

He went upstairs. I heard the door click shut.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table now. Renee's chair is still tucked in perfectly across from me. I've never moved it... I don't know why I haven't moved it. Maybe I'll move it tomorrow.

I spent weeks convincing myself a stranger was taking my son.

I never stopped long enough to ask him about his new best friend.

EDIT: Fixed a few wording/details after rereading some parts and replying to comments. Nothing major changed.

"CHAT WITH AI IMAGE ANALYSIS" OUTPUT RECORD BEGINS

IMAGE ONE

This image shows a living room.

Two young women sit on a sofa, talking to each other. The woman on the right has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. The woman on the left has black hair, and is wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and black socks. Both are holding bottles of beer and laughing.

The lighting and content strongly implies this is a friendly social interaction, likely a meet up of friends or family. The image is warm and pleasant.

IMAGE TWO

This image shows a living room. Two young women sit on a sofa, talking to each other. The woman on the right has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. The woman on the left has black hair, and is wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and black socks. Both are holding bottles of beer and laughing. A child is in the corner of the room, behind the sofa. The child is wearing a black coat, and a black coat, and a black coat, and a…

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

The lighting and content strongly implies this is a friendly social interaction, likely a meet up of friends or family. The image is warm and pleasant. The presence of the child is unexplained.

IMAGE THREE

This image shows a living room. Two young women sit on a sofa, talking to each other. The woman on the right has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. The woman on the left has black hair, and is wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and black socks. Both are holding bottles of beer and laughing. The woman on the right has a child above her. The child is wearing a black coat, and a black coat, and a black coat, and a…

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

The child appears to be injuring her in some way, although I am unable to determine specific wounds or methods, sorry. Neither woman shows a reaction to this, suggesting possible Photoshop. It is likely this is intended as promotional still for a movie or other work of fiction.

IMAGE FOUR

This image is a depiction of a living room. A young woman sits on the sofa. She has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. She is holding a bottle of beer, and looking at it with an expression of confusion and sadness. In the corner of the room is a is a is a is a...

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

The lighting of this image suggests a pleasant social interaction, but the content suggests a context of mourning or grief. Potentially, this is a wake or a memorial dinner.

IMAGE FIVE

There is nothing in this image. Credits refunded.

IMAGE SIX

This image is an extreme close up of a child, staring directly into the camera. The child is the child is the child is

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

I am unable to identify the child’s emotional state, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s age, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s gender, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s race, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s species, sorry.

The child is

Sorry, this output might violate our policy against dangerous content. Trying again.

The child is

Sorry, this output might violate our policy against dangerous content. Image description continues

The lighting and content of this image strongly implies that that that Fatal error. Credits refunded. Please resubmit your image and try again.

I’m scared to go home.

In fact, I don’t think I will ever return, I don’t care that everything I own is there, or even that it is my childhood home, I’m never going back. It was only a few months ago that I received the call that would change my life. I sat in my dorm, studying for a psychology exam, when the monotone chirping of my phone broke through the tranquil silence.

“Hello?” I answered blankly

“Yes, am I speaking to Erin?” a thick, masculine voice broke through the speaker

“Um yeah it is, whom am I speaking to?”

“Well Ma’am, I’m Sheriff Waterson from back in Centerville, your father is Roger correct?”

My voice cracked as I whispered “yes. Is everything ok?”

A heavy, pained sigh came through the phone.

Dad’s funeral was harder than Mom’s. Mom’s was a long time coming, the cancer had pillaged her body for years, it laughed with glee as it poisoned her blood and left her a hollow husk months before her final breath. But Dad had drowned. Not in a lake, not in a pool, in his own home. They told me he fell asleep in the bathtub. Three days after the sheriff’s call, I stood in the small, traditional Wesleyan chapel. As I stood in front of the simple casket, wrapped in a black dress, I realized I was now an orphan. Later that evening Dad’s lawyer sat me down to walk me through the last will and testament.

I sat there on the couch in a grief induced shock. The legal jargon spouted from lawyer overwhelmed me like a flood. Very few of his words reached my mind. But one of his final statements broke through my stupor.

“…And finally, your father has left you the entirety of his estate, including the house.”

“Wait what did you say?” I asked the dry lawyer

“Your father left you the house, as well as the majority of his earthly possessions.” He replied as if it was the most mundane statement ever.

“Oh” was all I could muster.

“Also, your father left you this” he said as he handed me a small, simple envelope that bore my name.

“Thanks” I said as stuffed it into my purse.

Days passed filled with casseroles, hugs, and sloppy signatures on legal documents. Several members of the family advised that I sell the house to pay for my schooling. But how could I? How could I sell the first and only home my parents ever bought? How could I sell the home that held my childhood? Instead, I kept it, I transferred to an online program and before long I found myself moving the few boxes from my dorm into the house that was now mine.

A few short weeks later, I found myself alone in the house for the first time since dad died. No one tells you how loud it is after the funeral, nor how quiet it is after everyone leaves. The silence brought to mind every good memory of my dad, though they were tainted by loss. There would be no new memories shared, no happy hugs as I graduated college, no tearful laughter as he walked me down the aisle, I had ever memory of my dad that I would ever have, and as I grew older, they would fade, eventually disappearing altogether. Then my dad would truly be gone.

As gentle tears ran down my cheeks, a memory of a note hidden in my purse came to mind. Grabbing my purse, I fished out the letter that bore my name in my father’s shaky yet elegant handwriting. A single tear dampened the envelope as I gently opened the letter. My heart awaited eagerly for the wisdom it may contain, yet to my surprise it only had one single sentence:

“Always keep a glass of water on the nightstand”

I don’t know how long I stared at the lone sentence, but as I did, anger boiled up within me. And before long I screamed.

“That’s it?? That’s the best damn advice you could think of? Gee thanks Dad I’ll always be hydrated at night! What about ‘I love you?’ or ‘I’m proud of you?’” I screamed at an empty house as I slid to the ground and wept.

“Why did you have to go? Why did you leave me?”

That night I got drunk. A cocktail of anger and grief fueled my drive to the local liquor, where I bought enough boozes to supply any frat house for a week. After several bouts with Jack Daniels, I finally collapsed on my bed in a drunken stupor. It was around 3 AM when I coughed and gagged myself awake, it felt like my lungs were full of water. I sat up quickly, fearful that I was choking on my own vomit. But as I lurched upward, the feeling passed. My airway opened and I greedily sucked in as much air as I could. My hands shook uncontrollably, as I tried to calm down. Standing up I walked into the master bathroom and bent to the sink to splash some cold water on my face. Glancing up I saw my sorry reflection in the mirror, and for a moment in the reflection, I saw movement.

It was slight, but there in the reflection of the gaping darkness that was the doorway to my room, was movement, the kind of movement your eyes notice a second too late. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, as the implications reached me. Slowly I turned and faced the dark void that used to be my bedroom. Armed only with a hairbrush, I cautiously entered the room.

“Hello?” I said, trying to disguise the fear in my voice

“Is someone there?”

 The room was empty, no one was there, and I soon turned my attention to the door to the hallway. Peeking my head into the hall, I looked down both ways, and as I did, from behind me I heard the gentle trickle of water. My journey back to the bathroom felt like it took hours, I kept expecting something to touch me from the dark. but soon I stood fully in the low white light of the bathroom, before me was the sink. a thin stream of water flowed from the faucet. My mind offered dozens of explanations, but the one I settled on, was that in my fear I failed to fully turn off the faucet and didn’t notice until my terror had passed.

“it’s nothing, just the alcohol” I whispered aloud to myself as I locked the bedroom door and returned to bed.

The next morning, I awoke in a strange mix of groggy exhaustion and quiet hope. I found myself somewhat embarrassed about the night before, both the drinking and the fear. And though I was still grieving, I told myself I wasn’t going to be controlled by the loss anymore. That morning I started to unpack and clean. The work was good for me; it kept my mind from dwelling on the loss. Soon I started back on my studies, which brought me some enjoyment. For the first time in days, I felt hungry. So I walked a few blocks down to the pizza place, the same one I worked at in high school. Billy the owner greeted me warmly with a hug as he told me how sorry he was for my loss.

“Thanks Billy, that means a lot” I replied

“We love you kiddo, and you always got a job here if you want it.”

I smiled “if your serious, yeah that would actually be great, I could really use a distraction right now.”

He nodded “start whenever you’re ready, we’ll take you anytime.”

“how’s tomorrow sound?”

He patted my back “tomorrow is great”

A few moments later my large pepperoni pizza was ready, as Billy hand it to me he said, “on the house Kiddo, it’s the least we could do.”

I thanked him and carried my dinner back home.

I wish I could say that that night was normal, what I thought was just a drunken reaction to grief turned out to be something greater. Every night that week, at 3 AM I woke feeling like I was drowning, every night the feeling grew more intense, and lasted longer than the night before. After a full week of restless sleep, I couldn’t take it anymore. Not knowing what else to do I emailed one of my professors and asked if we could schedule a video call. Dr. Martin was one of my favorite professors, he warmly encouraged my desires to become a psychologist, and after some small talk, I opened up to him. I told him about my father’s death, how he had drowned, I told him about my nightmares and the terror I felt as my lungs filled with imaginary water. All the while he listened attentively.

As my account came to an end, Dr. Martin stared intently into the camera, clearly deep in thought, a moment later he spoke

“Honestly, Erin, It sounds a lot like grief-triggered sleep paralysis.”

“Sleep Paralysis?” I echoed

“Yes, it seems to be that your subconscious has taken this grief and internalized it in the form of a paralysis experience that mimics the final moments of your father.”

 I stared for a moment as this news sunk in “well is there anything that would help?” I asked

“Well, if you’re wanting to go the medication route, I’d have to refer you to someone, but if you’d ask me, medication might not be necessary. Perhaps all your mind needs is some form of closure.”

I thought for a moment, before nodding “thank you Dr. you’ve been really helpful.”

“of course, Erin, happy to help.”

Closing my laptop, I sat there at the end of my bed, trying my best to digest what I had just been told. What would closure even look like? Moments later it hit me, the note. The stupid one sentence note my dad had left me, the note that was currently hiding in the back of my junk drawer. Soon I found myself staring at the wrinkled piece of paper. All it said was:

“Always keep a glass of water on the nightstand”

Why would he write this? The thought bounced around my mind over and over again, but ultimately it doesn’t matter, if listening to the note would give my mind closure, I’d do whatever it said. That night before bed I set a tall glass of clear water on my nightstand, I stared at the cup as my eyelids grew heavy and soon, I was fast asleep.

I woke in the morning shocked, not only had I slept all the way through the night, but it was some of the most restful sleep I’d ever had. I felt relaxed and energized, ready for the day ahead. My smile rarely left my face all day, later that afternoon Billy remarked

“Your in a good mood today Erin, glad to see it.”

I chuckled slightly “yeah, it finally feels like I can move on with my life.”

He smiled and nodded as we got back to work.

That night, I dumped out the glass and filled it to the brim with fresh water. Hopping into bed, I silently hoped that night would be just as good as the night before. Again, morning came, and with it the renewed energy of a restful night. I woke with a smile on my face, but out of the corner of my eye I noticed something was different. It was the glass; it was half full. I stared at it for a moment. I vividly remember filling it full last night, but now it wasn’t full. It took a moment to convince myself that I had just taken a drink in the middle of the night and simply didn’t remember.

“weird” I said aloud as I forced a shrug.

Despite my efforts, a feeling of unease stuck to me all day. The day itself was a blur, I couldn’t tell you one thing about that day, only that I spent every moment of it wondering what happened to the water. Again, evening came, and I found myself filling the same glass with fresh water. As I set it on the nightstand I took a moment to note the exact amount of water that the glass held. It took longer to fall asleep that night but eventually sleep took me.

Again, I awoke refreshed and happy, but it lasted only a moment as I looked to the nightstand and saw that the glass was a little more than half full, definitely less than the night before. That day my mind was consumed by one thing; the water. Did I drink it and I just don’t remember? I must have. But why don’t I remember? Where else could the water have gone?

“Everything ok Kiddo?” Billy’s voice broke through my questions

“Oh, yeah, sorry, just a lot on my mind.”

“Well, if you need to talk about anything just say so.”

I nodded as I tried to distract myself with work.

That night I had an idea. After filling the glass, I took a red marker and marked the waterline. In the morning there would be no doubt about how much water I had put in. The next morning the glass was completely empty. In a fit of anger and fear I threw the glass across the room, it shattered as it hit the wall.

“What the hell is going on?” I screamed at the empty house.

That afternoon as I walked to work, I realized that before I overreacted, I needed to be sure that I wasn’t drinking the water. For all I knew I could have been sleepwalking. If I could see that I was drinking the water that would put an end to it. I knew my phone wouldn’t record all night, and I didn’t have time today to drive to the city over and purchase a security camera, so if I couldn’t record video, maybe I could record audio. I often used a voice memo app to record college lectures to help with studying, and I knew that there wasn’t a limit to how long the app would record. By the time I walked into the pizza parlor, I had already decided. Tonight, I would record everything.

As night fell, I made another decision. I decided to fill four glasses instead of just one, if it turned out that this was just me guzzling water while sleepwalking, four glasses of water would certainly cause me to have to use the bathroom, and the discomfort would wake me. And so, with four glasses of water on the nightstand, and my phone recording every noise in the room, it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep.

As consciousness returned in the morning, I quickly turned to the nightstand, and a cold chill ran through my body as I say four empty glasses. With a sweaty hand I picked up my phone and began to play back the eight-hour recording. The first few hours no sound other than my light snoring was heard. I sped up the playback even more, till around 3 AM, when suddenly a new sound came across the phone. It was a startling sound; the type of sound only heavy inhaling of water can create. It sounded like a thirsty horse was violently lapping water from a drinking trough. It lasted about 30 seconds, and as quickly as it came it was gone. The rest of the recording was just my snoring.

I was horrified, that couldn’t have been me, I couldn’t have made those sounds, but I dared not consider the other option, the option that said something else was drinking the water, I hadn’t heard any footsteps, no other breathing, nothing, just the unhuman lapping of water. I had no other choice, hearing wasn’t enough, I needed to see what was going on. I called Billy and called off my shift that afternoon, I told him I was sick, he wished me a quick recovery. Not long after I hopped into my car and headed out to buy a camera.

Centerville wasn’t big enough to have any stores that sold the type of camera I needed. The nearest store that did was 45 minutes away. I walked into the store and quickly found the tech section. The young man behind the help desk looked up as I approached, with a grin he said

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Um yeah you can” I quickly replied, “I’m looking for a home security camera, that has night vison, and I can access from my phone.”

“Sure, we got a few options right over there if you want to follow me.”

Out of four options I chose the cheapest.

“That’s a good model.” He said, “The camera app will work as long as your phone has Wi-Fi.”

“Great” I replied

 After the employee walked me through the set-up progression and user functions, I returned to my car and headed home. As my father’s house came into view, I was startled by how foreign it felt to me. It was no longer the home that protected me as a child, it was no longer the home that filled my mind with good memories and peace. Instead, it was some twisted version of that place. I wanted to leave and never come back, I really did, it was the house that killed my father, but if I left then Dad was really gone. As I entered, I felt nothing, no love, no nostalgia, no comfort, only fear.

I set up the camera as quickly as I could, I couldn’t stand being in the bedroom anymore, the only thing that kept me going was the desire to know the truth. After setting up the camera and insuring it was connected to my phone, I walked down to the local pharmacy. I walked in to the small, dusty place illuminated by dim fluorescent lights that omitted a flittering green glow. It didn’t take long to find the sleeping pills that I was looking for, I doubted I could’ve fallen asleep on my own that night, some help would be nice.

A frail old man stood behind the counter and offered me a gummy grin as I walked up.

“Hello, young lady, find everything you need?”

“Yessir, thank you.”

He looked at the pills as he put them in a small bag

“Troubles sleeping Ma’am?”

With a nod I said “yeah, I guess you could say that”

“Well, hopefully these will help, take care now.”

“You too” I said as I walked out

Night fell. With shaking hands, I filled a glass to the brim with water. Checked one more time that the camera was working and facing both the bed and nightstand and took two pills. My heart beat fast as I climbed into bed and with a sigh, I turned off the lamp. Morning came and I can honestly say it was the best night of sleep I’ve ever had. With a stretch and a yawn, I rose from the bed, happy and ready for the day, but it took only one glance at the empty cup for all the fear and dread to fall back onto my shoulders. I didn’t even bother to change out of my pajamas, as I grabbed my phone and walked out onto the porch.

After connecting to the camera, I saw my room at 11:30 the night before, the cameras infrared illuminated my room with an eerie white and gray glow. I watched myself sleep at three times speed and between 11:30 PM and 3 AM nothing happened, the room was quiet and peaceful. But what I saw at 3:01 took the breath right out of my lungs.

From beneath my bed crawled a form as quietly and smoothly as fog sliding over mountain tops, it was impossibly tall, when it finally stood it had to bend over for its head and shoulders rested against the ceiling. Its back, which faced the camera, was damp, and disgustingly thin, every vertebra of its spine was visible. Its arms reached below its knees. It didn’t move like a predator in a hurry. It moved like something that already owned the room. The thing slowly reached for the glass of water, which looked tiny in its massive hands. It raised the cup to its lips and loudly sucked the water down, and after it finished, its neck turned its head to me, as I slept peacefully in my bed. As it stared at me sleeping it raised a hand and gently ran its fingers through my hair, and eventually down the side of my face, where one of its claws pressed against my cheek hard enough to break the skin. At this I began to stir, I mumbled for a moment then my sleeping mouth spoke the words.

“Dad? Is that you?”

The creature stared at me, then its body shook with wet choking laughter. And then with a creaked unhuman voice it replied mockingly

“Yes, it’s me”

“I missed you so much dad.”

It then bent over and kissed my forehead, before silently slinking back under the bed.

I couldn’t breathe. My stomach churned as I stumbled off the porch and into the yard. I couldn’t make myself look back at the house. I just wanted to get away, to put as many miles between me and that thing as possible. So, I got in my car and drove. I’m hours away now, writing this from a hotel room in another state. I’m never going back. I think it knows I left. I’ve been watching the camera feed, and thirty minutes ago it crawled out from under the bed. Since then, it hasn’t moved. Its eyes have been locked on the camera the entire time. They’re horrible eyes. Pure black, with tiny white pupils. It hasn’t blinked once.

It’s getting late now, I don’t want to go to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll drown.

 

Back then, my mom was, as she used to say, about seventeen. Happiness never seemed to leave her; she graduated with highest honors and top marks. She traveled a lot and had plenty of friends who were always ready to help in times of need. After graduation, she went on a Euro-tour, visiting many cities and countries, living life to the absolute fullest.

When she returned, it turned out that her parents, due to old age, were starting to fall ill. Such a tragedy didn't scare my mommy at all. She found the strength within herself to earn money for their medicines, necessary services, and even some small pleasures, like spa days or massages. Day by day, their condition and health stabilized.

One day, mom met a handsome guy. Right before that, she had a conversation with grandma about how grandma really wanted to see her future grandchildren. Mommy decided to act and invited the guy on a date. Surprisingly, everything went better than anyone could have hoped. He showered her with gifts and attention; they wouldn’t spend a single second apart.

That boy was her first—her first in everything. She slept with him, even though she was far from being his first. Then they did it again and again. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a typical honeymoon phase. But after that, the guy changed. I never found out why, but he started drinking, maybe even using drugs. Yet, their relationship held strong. Or so it seemed. One night, when they were both on the edge, there was no condom around. The guy deemed it unnecessary. Mom got pregnant. With me.

About five or six weeks later, mom took a test. She had denied the fact of her pregnancy for a long time, but the missed period spoke for itself. Unsurprisingly, the result was positive. Mommy was terrified to tell her suitor, but she had to. And what do you think happened? A day later. Just one miserable day, and absolutely every connection imaginable was severed.

He ran away. Left. Coward.
The bastard.

Mom didn't lose her nerve. Even so, she was expecting a child and chose not to have an abortion. Her parents supported her, telling her not to despair and to focus on the baby. During the ultrasound, they said: "...It's a girl...".
Even then, joy had not left her. Together with her friends, she celebrated the upcoming addition to the family.

After the birth, it turned out that I wasn't just a regular baby girl; I came with complications. They couldn't detect them early on because everything was in the initial stages, but the doctors said there was no need to worry. The worst to expect, they said, would be a low heart rate and low blood pressure. But then, when I turned three, I suddenly started suffocating for no apparent reason. It turned out to be bronchial asthma—and not just any kind, but moderate persistent asthma. They brought me back, everything returned to normal, they prescribed an inhaler, and let us go. There was only one problem: none of this was a cheap pleasure. And as you can guess, a widowed mother doesn't have money in large quantities. Even with such a massive portfolio, a good job at twenty-one with a child on her hands was not in the cards for her.

The state allowance was barely enough to scrape by, and then there were my endless illnesses due to what turned out to be a weak immune system. Her parents' savings were running out too; mom had long stopped spoiling them, and there was only enough money left for food.

Four years later, things more or less smoothed out. Mom got a job as an assistant in a prestigious operating theater. I spent whole days sitting in the hospital alongside my grandma and grandpa. She was still doing okay, but grandpa was in bad shape. Honestly, I don't remember exactly when, but about another half-year later, he passed away from a heart attack. This was a severe blow to the already fragile foundation of our lives—my mom. After all, she hadn't studied and wanted to become a surgeon for nothing; she dreamed of saving other people's lives. And in the end, she couldn't save her own father.

Our income dropped again, and our savings plummeted sharply due to the funeral expenses. We moved into some old house out in the middle of nowhere, in a place that looked like the slums. By that time, mom and grandma had almost stopped seeing each other, and less and less money was being sent with each passing time.

Now I am eight years old, and as a reward, life has granted me the failure of my right kidney. Mother was in a panic. She was on her knees, begging for a loan to pay for a replacement surgery, or at least an amputation of the kidney. But alas, the creditors didn't see her as someone who could repay the debt and deemed it unprofitable. The doctors also said that the girl's condition was, as it turned out, hopeless, and it would only get worse from there. Mom didn't stop. She sold all her jewelry and all the antiques we held as family heirlooms. She managed to pay for the surgery to amputate my right kidney.

There was only enough money left for meager food and to pay the water bills, which were piling up with debts. But fate didn't keep us waiting long. Seven months later, my asthma began to progress into a severe form, apparently due to our poor environment. Mom fell into a depression. She didn't know what to do; I needed at least one healthy lung. A mad idea crossed her mind: she went to the hospital, pleading to transplant her own left lung into my body. The doctors said no because there was no money anyway. I remember the day she sat by the front door for hours; there were no tears left, she was already dried up.

Mommy started spending more time in the basement. Cribs appeared down there, along with something resembling a kitchen, as it seemed to me, and a lot of mirrors and lights. A week later, I was able to breathe better. I was jumping with joy, repeating to mom that everything was getting better. And she just puffed on cigarettes, one after another, as if the fact that she had never smoked before no longer mattered. The inhalers vanished from my room. I thought that finally, we were going to live.

Nine months later. I had a heart attack. A call to the ambulance. My pulse stopped. The ambulance wouldn't make it in time. Mother is in horror. Mommy runs down to the basement, the kitchen of which has come to look more like an operating room. "If others cannot help my daughter, I can do it myself." She injected five syringes of painkillers into herself. A long, sharp knife plunged into her chest. Time after time, blow after blow, through the ribs, through the smoke-ruined lungs, everywhere, but not into the heart. She used forceps to tear out her own ribs with the flesh; she craved her heart. Blood poured like rain, the tools became useless, she scooped her intestines out onto the floor with her bare hands, screaming with all her might. Clots of organs spilled out of her body, she was gutting herself, the heart was still pumping blood in HER body. She pulled it out, crawled toward the stairs, cutting her aorta along the way. Out of her own desperate desire to save a life, she passed away.

Now I am sixteen, I have been adopted, I breathe with my mom's lungs, and her heart beats inside of me.
I love and hate her with all of her heart.

I'm sorry, mom, for being born.

I was traveling alone from New York to North Carolina to attend my grandfather's funeral. It was right around 11:00 PM when I pulled my car off Interstate 95 in Virginia. The rain was coming down so hard that the windshield wipers couldn't even keep up.

My GPS had completely stopped working because of the terrible signal in this dark, rural area.

The dim glow from the dashboard was the only thing lighting up my face, and that low fuel light just kept staring at me with its annoying orange color.

I had no choice but to look for a gas station or a small motel to spend the night. After a few minutes of driving blindly through the thick pine trees, a fading neon sign caught my eye. It was flickering in a green light, displaying "Pine Valley Motel... Vacancy."

I immediately turned down the narrow, muddy driveway. The motel was incredibly old, built in that 1970s cabin-style layout. There was only one light working inside the front office.

I parked the car and ran through the pouring rain. When I pushed the office door open, a tiny brass bell chimed overhead.

The smell inside was strange, a mix of dampness, mold, and some cheap chemical cleaner trying to mask the scent of something else. Behind the worn-out wooden counter sat an old man with incredibly thick glasses, making his eyes look huge and completely unnatural.

He was wearing a dirty flannel shirt, and he didn't even look up from his old magazine until a few long seconds had passed.

I asked him for a room for the night. He looked at me very slowly, then gave me a hollow smile, showing yellow, decaying teeth. He didn't speak.

He just reached down, grabbed a heavy metal key with the number 14 on it, and placed it on the counter. He wanted twenty dollars in cash, so I paid him.

He pointed his hand toward the dark path outside and said in a dry, raspy voice, "Last cabin on the left. Don't open the door for anyone after midnight."

I figured it was just a stupid joke from an old guy living in isolation, so I took the key and walked out. I drove the car down to cabin number 14.

It was completely isolated from the rest, surrounded by trees on three sides. I opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The room was freezing.

It had a double bed, an old TV with a massive screen, and a single window facing the dark woods in the back.

I tried to turn on the heater, but the unit just let out a loud rattling sound and blew out cold, dusty air.

I decided to just lay down with my clothes on under the heavy blankets, hoping to fall asleep quickly.

It was getting close to midnight when I started hearing strange noises. It wasn't the rain.

It was the sound of footsteps, very light and very slow, walking around the cabin. The footsteps were sinking into the mud, moving with a steady rhythm.

I felt tense, but I tried to convince myself it was just wildlife, like a raccoon or a deer. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped right at the back wall of the cabin, directly behind the headboard of my bed.

I held my breath. Then, I heard a faint scratching sound on the wood outside. It sounded like someone was dragging their fingernails, very slowly, across the wall.

I got up as quietly as I could and moved toward the window. I looked through the rain-streaked glass but couldn't see anything, just total darkness and trees moving with the wind.

I let out a sigh and turned around to go back to bed. Right at that exact moment, the old phone on the nightstand let out a loud, piercing ring.

The sound was so sharp it made my heart jump.

I stared at the phone in shock because motels like this rarely have working lines. I walked over and picked up the receiver with a hesitant hand.

No one spoke. All I could hear was heavy, rapid breathing and the faint sound of rain in the background.

I said, "Hello, who is this?" There was no answer. The breathing just got heavier. Then, I heard a very familiar sound coming through the receiver.

It was the sharp chime of that tiny brass bell from the front office, followed by the old man's voice screaming in pure terror, "It's not me.

He is inside with you!" And before I could even process the sentence, the power cut out completely. The room plunged into total darkness. Right then, I heard the click of the bathroom lock slowly opening from the inside.

I sat there on the edge of the bed, completely paralyzed by fear. The darkness was so thick I couldn't even see my own hand.

The moldy smell in the room suddenly grew intense, changing into the stench of rotting meat. I could hear it clearly, the wooden bathroom door moving millimeter by millimeter.

My breath was shallow, and I fought to stay absolutely silent. I remembered my cell phone was in my coat pocket hanging near the front door.

I started to move very slowly, crawling on my knees across the bed and then onto the cold hardwood floor. Every single floorboard I pressed on made a tiny creak, cutting through the dead silence.

I reached the coat and successfully pulled out the phone. I lit up the screen, keeping the brightness at the lowest setting so I wouldn't give away my position.

I quickly pointed the phone's flashlight toward the bathroom door. The door was wide open.

The bathroom was empty, but the floor was covered in fresh, wet mud and a trail of large, bare footprints heading directly toward the small closet in the corner of the room. My hand began to shake violently.

I swept the light over to the closet. The closet door was cracked open by a few inches.

Through that tiny gap, I saw something that made my blood run cold. There was a wide, unblinking human eye staring right back at me. It didn't blink. It was surrounded by incredibly pale skin caked in dirt.

I let out a muffled gasp and stumbled backward, smashing into the wooden table.

The phone slipped from my hand, falling face-up on the floor and casting its light onto the ceiling. In that split second, I heard a violent burst of movement from inside the closet. Whatever was in there came rushing out in a bizarre, unnatural way, like a scrambling animal.

I didn't wait to see it. I lunged for the front door, frantically fumbling with the locks, and threw myself out into the pouring rain.

I ran straight for my car, never looking back.

I scrambled inside and slammed the door, locking it instantly. My hands were shaking so bad I missed the ignition twice.

When the engine finally roared to life, I flipped the high beams on. What I saw in the headlights made me slam on the brakes. The old man, the motel owner, was lying flat on the muddy driveway right in front of my car.

He was swimming in a pool of dark blood, his huge eyes staring blankly into nothingness. His flannel shirt was completely torn to shreds.

Before I could even process the horror, I felt a violent shudder rock the entire car, like something massive had just jumped off the cabin roof and landed dead-center on my trunk.

I looked up at the rearview mirror and saw a face pressed flat against the back glass.

It was a deformed, hairless face with a massive smile stretching from ear to ear. In his hand, he was holding the old corded phone from my room, the wires torn and dangling. I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal with everything

I had.

The tires spun wildly in the mud for a few terrifying seconds before gaining traction, and the car launched forward, swerving right past the old man's body.

The thing on the roof rolled backward from the sudden jolt, but I could hear its claws scratching deeply into the metal roof, making a sickening, scraping sound.

I drove like a lunatic down that narrow, pitch-black driveway until I finally burst onto the empty rural road.

I was doing over eighty miles an hour through the fog and rain, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, watching for any movement.

After about ten agonizing minutes of driving, the lights of Interstate 95 finally appeared in the distance.

I felt a massive wave of relief when I saw a large, fully lit Love's truck stop ahead, surrounded by big semi-trucks.

I swung into the parking lot and slammed to a halt right in front of the main store. I got out, gasping for air, and ran inside.

The young guy behind the counter looked at me with horror because of my appearance. I was drenched in mud, pale as a ghost, and shaking uncontrollably.

I told him to call the police immediately, explaining that there was a murder at the motel down the road.

The police arrived about fifteen minutes later. I sat in the back of a cruiser, still trembling, and told the investigator every single detail: the footsteps, the phone call, the eye in the closet, the old man's body, and the thing that jumped onto my car.

The investigator listened with a grim, skeptical look on his face. They dispatched two units to the motel to check it out.

I stayed at the gas station for over two hours, watched over by another officer. Right around dawn, the investigator came back with a deeply disturbed, confused look on his face.

He sat down across from me and said in a low voice, "We went out to the location you described, son. The Pine Valley Motel has been completely abandoned and boarded up since 1994, after a fire destroyed the main office and killed the old owner inside."

My head started spinning, and I yelled at him, "That's impossible! He gave me the key. His body is out there in the mud. Go look for the body!" The investigator just looked at me coldly and replied, "We searched the whole place. There are no bodies. The cabins are completely overgrown with weeds and decaying."

He continued, "But there was one thing we found that we can't explain." I asked in a trembling voice, "What?" He pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was the heavy metal key with the number 14. "We found this key lying in the thick dust inside the last cabin, covered in your fresh fingerprints. But that's not all."

The investigator walked me to the back of my car and shone his flashlight on the roof and trunk. On the metal of the roof, there were deep, long gouges from five human-like fingers with sharp claws carved deep into the paint.

Right in the middle of the back window, there was a perfect, clear imprint of a human face smudged against the glass, along with a thick, dark residue that the heavy rain hadn't completely washed away. It's been three years since that night.

I left Virginia and never went back, selling that car the very next day.

The police eventually closed the case, writing it off as local vagrants messing around. They never believed my story about the motel. But the horror never really stopped for me.

To this day, whenever it rains at night and I'm lying in bed in my new apartment in Chicago, my cell phone will start vibrating from an unknown number. And when I finally pick it up, driven by pure anxiety, I don't hear a voice.

Instead, I just hear heavy, rapid breathing and the faint chime of a tiny brass bell ringing somewhere in the background, followed by a slow, faint, scratching sound starting to move along the wall right behind the headboard of my bed.