u/Own-Act-9339

I still got that fucking scar on my leg. It never healed right. Jagged as fuck. I try not to look at it if I can help it.

It was a Thursday I think. Might’ve been Wednesday. These days they all seem to be blurring together. It was one of those bars that only stays open cos no fucker can be bothered going anywhere else. The place stank of beer and floor cleaner. And the speakers were totally fucked. The bass just sat on your chest like some fat bastard. I’d been drinking hard most of the week. And I still couldn’t get any sleep. I was on my third cheap cider that tasted of rocket fuel and regret.

I was just sat there arguing with myself about going home. Like I always do. But it is easier for me to stay than to admit when I have had enough to drink.

Then she sat next to me. A beautiful blonde. Not the sort who looks at blokes like me twice. And ordered the same cider. Asked if the music was always this crap and loud. I said yeah. Then she started talking about the pub across the road. Used to be better before it closed. We just sat there and talked about nothing important. Just the usual shit. After a bit she leaned in. The smell of cheap rose and vanilla. Like the ones in the little bottles by the till. Then she said this place is too loud. And asked if I wanted to come back to hers.

I said yeah. Thinking my luck has finally changed.

Her place was on the second floor. The stairwell was dimly lit and smelled of damp and urine. And when we got into her flat she locked the door. Said we didn’t want to be disturbed and gave me a cheeky wink. Then she kicked her heels off and was all over me. After a couple of minutes she pulled back and said she needed the bathroom.

I walked over and sat by a window and looked out. The room was half dark. It was only lit by a lamp. And there were clothes dumped on a chair. The place felt empty somehow. Like she hadn’t been living there long. Or she just didn’t give a shit. I don’t know. And I didn’t care.

Then she came back. And crooked her finger at me to come over. And while I was walking over to her. My heart was beating hard in my chest. Then something cracked under my foot. It was a phone. Screen smashed. I told her I was sorry and I felt like a total fuckwit.

She took it off me. And gave me a little smile. Said it belonged to some girl she’d had a bit of fun with. And she must’ve forgotten it and no need to worry. And then we started kissing again. My hand went down her dress and I felt something move. Heavy. Deep. Stomach turning. I flinched, nearly took the hand away, but I told myself it was the cider and lack of sleep. Whatever. It must be just gas. I left it there. It moved again. Slower this time. Like something turning over.

I almost pulled my hand away but I didn’t. I just kept it there. I felt stupid for even thinking about it. Probably was nothing. Just the way she was breathing, or her dress shifting under my fingers. I’d been awake far too long. And thought my mind had started playing tricks on me. It happens with lack of sleep and drinking too much. I pressed a bit firmer, trying to prove it to myself, and the movement stopped. I told myself it was nothing. Just me being a paranoid bastard. It was sort of a relief. She made a soft noise, almost a laugh, and pulled me closer. Kissed me like nothing was wrong. I kissed her back harder than I meant to, trying to bury the thought. And told myself to stop being soft. You’re in a flat with a woman who actually wants you. And is right there. Don’t ruin it by inventing shit.

A third shift, smaller than before, then nothing. I thought that was it. I even laughed under my breath. And thought, Idiot. Get a grip on yourself for fuck’s sake.

Then her heat under my palm changed. Tighter. Like the skin was drawing in on itself. I pressed a bit harder and felt a ridge push up against my fingers. Hard. Wrong shape. My mouth went dry.

Still tried. Told myself it was muscle. Or bone. Or the way she was arched. People have weird bodies. It doesn’t mean anything. I kept my hand there longer than I should have, waiting for it to make sense.

“You alright?” I asked her. Voice came out thin.

She didn’t answer. Just breathed out slow against my neck. Her hand was still on the back of my head, fingers loose. I tried to sit up. Her arm tightened. Not much. Just enough.

Another push. Bigger. The whole middle of her shifted, uneven, like something rolling from one side to the other. I jerked my hand back and got off the bed. Looked down and saw the front of her dress. It was moving on its own. Small at first, nearly nothing. Then a deeper stretch that held for a second before it settled.

I told myself to get up and leave. Just get out of there. But I just stood there like some kind of fucking idiot just looking at her.

She made another soft sound, lower this time. Head tipped back against the pillow. Eyes slowly pulling back in her head and the soft glint of drool on her lip. The movements got heavier. Less rolling, more pushing from inside. Her hips twitched. Legs bent and straightened on their own, slow, like she couldn’t find a better position to be in.

A dark stain spread from between her legs. Not much at first. Then more. Then a smell cut through the cheap perfume. Metal and wet. Wrong.

Her arms jerked. Sudden. And her dress rode up. Skin looked too tight, stretched shiny over something moving underneath.

She made a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a moan. More like air being forced out. Head rolled to the side. Her eyes milky white and half open, looking roughly in my direction, but not seeing me anymore.

The biggest shift yet. The whole middle of her rose and kept rising, fabric straining, then something wet and thick started forcing its way out from between her legs. Just the tip at first, greyish, then more, slow and more deliberate. Her head hung limp. The thing’s head came free after that, low to the bed, and looked straight at me. It made a sound like knuckles cracking and a growl through a mouth full of phlegm.

Then it started coming for me. Not fast. Just a slow, awkward scuttle on all fours, belly facing up, new head leading the way, limbs bending in places they shouldn’t.

I backed up. And nearly fell over the chair. Hands shaking so bad I couldn’t get the first lock. Heard the slap-slap getting closer. I got the top one open, then the middle one stuck. I kept turning it the wrong way. I felt something brush my ankle. I kicked out hard without looking. A pain tore through my leg. Hot. Deep. Then blood and something thicker running into my shoe, warm and sticky. I finally got the last lock and yanked the door open, slammed it behind me. Something hit the other side hard. Then just the clicking against the wood.

I half fell down the stairs and went arse over tit onto the street and landed hard. Leg felt like it was on fire. The burn kept going deeper, like it was still eating into me. I didn’t stop. The only thought in my head was please God. I just kept limping, trying not to look back. And when I finally stopped the shock and pain hit me hard, bringing up the cider I’d been drinking.

Shaking. Heaving. I saw her face for a second. That little calm smile. The disbelief was worse than the pain.

I thought about calling the police. But who’s going to believe the local drunk?

The scar’s still there. I still don’t look at it if I can help it.

She left on a Tuesday in late autumn.

After the dishes she said she needed a different life. I nodded. That weekend she packed two bags. I carried one to the car.

People mentioned her once or twice. She’d moved to Bath. She was working. She seemed fine. That last part stayed with me longer than it should have.

I lived alone after that. Same warehouse job, same early shift. Most nights I ate standing at the counter. Never dated. Starting over felt like asking for another ending I already knew I wouldn’t survive.

The rest of the family finished dying in the years that followed.

My father went first. I was thirteen. Lung cancer. I found him in the armchair with the racing pages still open and the ashtray full. The room smelled of the same cheap tobacco he’d always smoked. I stood there longer than I needed to before I called anyone.

My mother lasted until Christmas Eve. Heart. I came in from the late shift and found her half-turned on the settee, one hand still on the remote, the tree lights blinking like nothing was wrong. I sat with her until the ambulance came. The house was colder when they took her out.

Two years later, on Boxing Day, my sister just dropped. One minute she was arguing about the turkey leftovers, the next she was on the floor. The argument cut off mid-sentence. By the time the paramedics arrived she was already gone. Brain-dead. I stayed with her until they took her away. There was no one else left.

An uncle followed, then two cousins. Each funeral smaller. Each drive home quieter. By the end I’d stopped answering most calls. Still went to work. Still paid the bills. The fear sat in my chest and didn’t move.

I came home late one night after a twelve-hour shift. The silence felt heavier than usual. I walked into the front room without putting the big light on. The lamp in the corner was enough.

She was standing in the doorway to the passage.

Not glowing. Not see-through. Just standing the way she used to when she was deciding whether to come all the way in. Same height. Same forward tilt of the shoulders. The woman who left.

For a few seconds the fear was clean. Then it turned into relief that I wasn’t the only one in the house anymore.

I told myself I was seeing things. It felt ordinary enough to live with.

She didn’t speak that first night. She only stayed until I switched the lamp off. When I looked again the doorway was empty. In the dark I thought I heard the soft shift of weight on the floorboards.

She came back the next night. And the night after. Always at the edge of the room at first. Sometimes her shoulders looked a fraction too narrow, or the way she held her head sat slightly off. I’d blink and it would correct itself.

Then one evening she sat down beside me.

I felt the cushion move under her weight. When her shoulder touched mine it was solid and warm, but the warmth came a half-second late. I could feel her breathing.

She stayed longer each night. Sometimes she sat at the other end of the settee. Sometimes she followed me into the kitchen.

I started leaving a second mug out without thinking. Never filled it. Once I caught myself putting a second plate on the table and put it back.

A few nights later the glass I’d left in the sink was dry and put away. I told myself the house was old. Settling. Drafts.

Around the same time I reached for the exact sound of my sister’s laugh and found it slightly smoothed out. Blamed grief and being knackered.

Most of the time her face looked right. Only now and then, when the light from the passage caught her at a certain angle, it seemed to settle a second too late. I stopped looking at her straight when the light was like that.

One night she mentioned something my mother used to say when she was annoyed with me. Nothing private. Just a phrase. The words still landed wrong. I stared at her. Didn’t ask.

The next evening I tried to make her leave.

Told her, quiet, that she wasn’t real and she had to stop. She looked at me for a long time, then stood up and walked out. The silence that followed felt like someone else had died. My hands were shaking.

Within the hour she was just there again. The relief hit first. Then the understanding that I had already chosen.

Leaving the house was different.

I packed a bag in the middle of the night and drove until the sky lightened over the mountain. Parked in a lay-by with the engine off. The longer I stayed away the worse the empty space became. Going further felt like standing at another grave. When I unlocked the door the house was still warm. She was already sitting on the settee, hands folded, waiting.

After that the memory damage moved faster.

One evening she talked about my mother in a way that felt stitched together from things I had said without realising. The rhythm was right. The small observations were right. But when I tried to remember the actual conversations they were softer than they used to be. The Christmas Eve version of her — half-turned under the tree lights — started to blur first.

A few days later I reached for the way my sister used to say my name when she was pissed off and only got a general shape. I lay awake trying to hold on to my mother’s voice. It was still there, but thinner. My father’s voice had already gone years ago.

I stopped correcting her when she got small things wrong. Felt safer.

Once, late, I opened the browser and typed the first two letters of the real woman’s name. The one still alive in Bath. The suggestion came up exact — full name, Bath, the year she left. Underneath it: married name. Recent photograph. Husband’s arm around her shoulders.

Something cold moved through my chest, then something uglier. She had left and built a life. The version in the house had never left at all. The air changed. I could feel her on the other side of the wall like a held breath.

I closed the tab. The one in the house was already more present. The air eased.

The final understanding came on an ordinary morning. Sitting on the edge of the bed tying my boots when I reached for the memory of my mother saying my name.

Nothing came. Not the tone. Not the shape of it. Only the way she had been talking about my mother for weeks. The original sound was gone. The tree lights, the remote in her hand, the cold that came into the house after they took her away — all of it replaced by the smoother version the presence preferred.

I sat there with one boot in my hand. The silence in my head was so complete I could hear the fridge cycling. Something had been taken, quiet, without asking, and it was already too late. The worst part was that I didn’t try to get it back.

Didn’t say anything to her. There was nothing left that wouldn’t bring the silence back, and the silence was worse.

Sometimes late at night, when she’s in the other room or just gone for a few hours, I open the browser and type the first three letters of the real woman’s name. The married name comes up first now. The second the letters resolve, the air tightens, like the house is listening.

I close the tab before anything loads. Every time I tell myself the version in the house is the only one I can stand to keep. Every time that feels a little thinner. Every time the house feels a little more certain of me.

Still go to work. Still answer the bare minimum. People give you space when you make it clear you want it.

The house is never really empty now. Even when she’s not in the room I can feel the weight of her in the way the air sits. When I leave a room and come back, something has usually moved a fraction. Just enough that the space doesn’t feel like it’s only mine anymore.

Last week the second mug was already on the counter when I came down. The chip on the rim was the same. I left it where it was.

I used to think the worst thing that could happen was another loss.

I was wrong.

The worst thing is knowing you’ve already swapped the people you lost for something that won’t leave, and you’re the one who keeps choosing it.

The house no longer empties when I leave a room.

It waits.

She left on a Tuesday in late autumn.

After the dishes she said she needed a different life. I nodded. That weekend she packed two bags. I carried one to the car.

People mentioned her once or twice. She’d moved to Bath. She was working. She seemed fine. That last part stayed with me longer than it should have.

I lived alone after that. Same warehouse job, same early shift. Most nights I ate standing at the counter. Never dated. Starting over felt like asking for another ending I already knew I wouldn’t survive.

The rest of the family finished dying in the years that followed.

My father went first. I was thirteen. Lung cancer. I found him in the armchair with the racing pages still open and the ashtray full. The room smelled of the same cheap tobacco he’d always smoked. I stood there longer than I needed to before I called anyone.

My mother lasted until Christmas Eve. Heart. I came in from the late shift and found her half-turned on the settee, one hand still on the remote, the tree lights blinking like nothing was wrong. I sat with her until the ambulance came. The house was colder when they took her out.

Two years later, on Boxing Day, my sister just dropped. One minute she was arguing about the turkey leftovers, the next she was on the floor. The argument cut off mid-sentence. By the time the paramedics arrived she was already gone. Brain-dead. I stayed with her until they took her away. There was no one else left.

An uncle followed, then two cousins. Each funeral smaller. Each drive home quieter. By the end I’d stopped answering most calls. Still went to work. Still paid the bills. The fear sat in my chest and didn’t move.

I came home late one night after a twelve-hour shift. The silence felt heavier than usual. I walked into the front room without putting the big light on. The lamp in the corner was enough.

She was standing in the doorway to the passage.

Not glowing. Not see-through. Just standing the way she used to when she was deciding whether to come all the way in. Same height. Same forward tilt of the shoulders. The woman who left.

For a few seconds the fear was clean. Then it turned into relief that I wasn’t the only one in the house anymore.

I told myself I was seeing things. It felt ordinary enough to live with.

She didn’t speak that first night. She only stayed until I switched the lamp off. When I looked again the doorway was empty. In the dark I thought I heard the soft shift of weight on the floorboards.

She came back the next night. And the night after. Always at the edge of the room at first. Sometimes her shoulders looked a fraction too narrow, or the way she held her head sat slightly off. I’d blink and it would correct itself.

Then one evening she sat down beside me.

I felt the cushion move under her weight. When her shoulder touched mine it was solid and warm, but the warmth came a half-second late. I could feel her breathing.

She stayed longer each night. Sometimes she sat at the other end of the settee. Sometimes she followed me into the kitchen.

I started leaving a second mug out without thinking. Never filled it. Once I caught myself putting a second plate on the table and put it back.

A few nights later the glass I’d left in the sink was dry and put away. I told myself the house was old. Settling. Drafts.

Around the same time I reached for the exact sound of my sister’s laugh and found it slightly smoothed out. Blamed grief and being knackered.

Most of the time her face looked right. Only now and then, when the light from the passage caught her at a certain angle, it seemed to settle a second too late. I stopped looking at her straight when the light was like that.

One night she mentioned something my mother used to say when she was annoyed with me. Nothing private. Just a phrase. The words still landed wrong. I stared at her. Didn’t ask.

The next evening I tried to make her leave.

Told her, quiet, that she wasn’t real and she had to stop. She looked at me for a long time, then stood up and walked out. The silence that followed felt like someone else had died. My hands were shaking.

Within the hour she was just there again. The relief hit first. Then the understanding that I had already chosen.

Leaving the house was different.

I packed a bag in the middle of the night and drove until the sky lightened over the mountain. Parked in a lay-by with the engine off. The longer I stayed away the worse the empty space became. Going further felt like standing at another grave. When I unlocked the door the house was still warm. She was already sitting on the settee, hands folded, waiting.

After that the memory damage moved faster.

One evening she talked about my mother in a way that felt stitched together from things I had said without realising. The rhythm was right. The small observations were right. But when I tried to remember the actual conversations they were softer than they used to be. The Christmas Eve version of her — half-turned under the tree lights — started to blur first.

A few days later I reached for the way my sister used to say my name when she was pissed off and only got a general shape. I lay awake trying to hold on to my mother’s voice. It was still there, but thinner. My father’s voice had already gone years ago.

I stopped correcting her when she got small things wrong. Felt safer.

Once, late, I opened the browser and typed the first two letters of the real woman’s name. The one still alive in Bath. The suggestion came up exact — full name, Bath, the year she left. Underneath it: married name. Recent photograph. Husband’s arm around her shoulders.

Something cold moved through my chest, then something uglier. She had left and built a life. The version in the house had never left at all. The air changed. I could feel her on the other side of the wall like a held breath.

I closed the tab. The one in the house was already more present. The air eased.

The final understanding came on an ordinary morning. Sitting on the edge of the bed tying my boots when I reached for the memory of my mother saying my name.

Nothing came. Not the tone. Not the shape of it. Only the way she had been talking about my mother for weeks. The original sound was gone. The tree lights, the remote in her hand, the cold that came into the house after they took her away — all of it replaced by the smoother version the presence preferred.

I sat there with one boot in my hand. The silence in my head was so complete I could hear the fridge cycling. Something had been taken, quiet, without asking, and it was already too late. The worst part was that I didn’t try to get it back.

Didn’t say anything to her. There was nothing left that wouldn’t bring the silence back, and the silence was worse.

Sometimes late at night, when she’s in the other room or just gone for a few hours, I open the browser and type the first three letters of the real woman’s name. The married name comes up first now. The second the letters resolve, the air tightens, like the house is listening.

I close the tab before anything loads. Every time I tell myself the version in the house is the only one I can stand to keep. Every time that feels a little thinner. Every time the house feels a little more certain of me.

Still go to work. Still answer the bare minimum. People give you space when you make it clear you want it.

The house is never really empty now. Even when she’s not in the room I can feel the weight of her in the way the air sits. When I leave a room and come back, something has usually moved a fraction. Just enough that the space doesn’t feel like it’s only mine anymore.

Last week the second mug was already on the counter when I came down. The chip on the rim was the same. I left it where it was.

I used to think the worst thing that could happen was another loss.

I was wrong.

The worst thing is knowing you’ve already swapped the people you lost for something that won’t leave, and you’re the one who keeps choosing it.

The house no longer empties when I leave a room.

It waits.

I’m on the bedroom floor with my back to the wardrobe and the heavy golf club resting across my legs.

Can’t stop the shaking.

Mam and Dad have been down the club since early evening. It’s just me and my little brother in the house.

Everything outside has gone completely still. No cars. No dogs. Not even the usual night sounds.

It began with the roofs.

I kept catching this soft movement above me. Whenever I turned the telly right down to listen it vanished. When I put the sound back up it returned.

After a while the noise got heavier — proper flapping and scraping, shifting from the neighbours’ roof onto ours. Slow. Wet-sounding. Not wind.

I left it too long before I checked. Kept telling myself it was a bird or something caught in the gutter.

When I finally pulled the curtain back I saw something dragging itself along the road under the streetlight. Large dark shape, not moving like a person, pulling itself forward.

Then it raised its head and screamed. The windows vibrated. The sound went right through my chest.

It kept calling out for a child, high and wet. The street didn’t react at all. No lights. No doors opening. No voices. Just silence.

My brother’s in the back room. He’s four.

I closed the curtain and went straight to him. He was soaked through and crying in his sleep, face screwed up tight. I was only away a short time.

When I returned the scraping was directly over my head. Then it stopped dead.

A moment later something started tapping on the window glass. Slow and deliberate.

I can see her through the small gap now. I can hear her breathing — wet, rough, close enough that it feels like it’s inside the room.

The air has turned freezing. My breath is showing.

She’s saying my brother’s name. Quietly. Again and again. I don’t understand how she knows it.

Pieces of last weekend keep forcing their way in.

I took the river path home from the pub because I was short on money for a taxi. Full moon.

I heard movement by the water and switched my torch on. She was crouched on the bank washing a cloth that was heavy with blood.

She looked up and met my eyes before I could kill the light. I ran.

I could hear her coming after me the entire way back up the valley.

Nan used to talk about her when we were small. Said if you ever caught sight of the hag washing by the water she would follow your family until she took one of you. Old Gwrach. I never took it seriously.

She’s closer to the glass now. It’s starting to bend inward.

I can see her face more clearly. Eyes too large, too dark. The wooden frame is making small splitting sounds.

I’ve got the golf club ready. If the glass goes I’m swinging.

My hands keep sweating. I wipe them on my trousers but it makes no difference.

She’s still outside, still repeating his name in that same low wet voice.

I called my brother’s name a short while ago, keeping it low. No reply.

He went quiet some time back. No more crying. No sound of him shifting.

I can’t leave the window and I can’t leave him alone in the other room.

She’s still there, face near the glass, breathing, whispering.

I keep seeing the cloth under the torch beam — how dark the blood was, how little surprise was on her face when she saw me. Like she already knew which direction to go.

The glass is cracking properly now. Thin lines spreading from the point where she’s pressing.

I’m holding the club so hard my fingers are going numb.

She’s still saying his name.

And from the back bedroom there is still no sound at all. Just silence. Like he is waiting

This is her

This is what I see

Four winters back. January. Rain hammering since three, no sign of easing. I’d finished late; the dog was restless, pacing, scratching at the door. I took him out, thinking a quick walk on the higher ground above the trees would settle him. Light was already going by the time we reached the path. Still enough to make out shapes, but the dark was closing fast.

Path wet through—peat and dead bracken. Dog out front on the lead, pulling, sniffing. Ordinary. Then he locked solid. Legs stiff, ears flat, that thin continuous noise starting in his throat. Not a bark. Not a growl. Just stuck, like he couldn’t get air.

I looked across the open ground and saw the shape. Low. Broad. Keeping right with me. Same speed, same distance, the whole time. I tried to turn back toward the valley lights; it moved in and cut me off. Every time I stopped, it stopped. Every time I moved, it moved. No footsteps. Only the smell—heavy, river mud and something metallic.

It pushed me uphill, blocking the way down. Ground went soft, then proper spongy. Cold air rose from the dark opening ahead. The old workings. Sheep get found up that way after nights like this, along the tree line, stripped clean, flesh left next to the bones. You don’t go near the black water. Never have.

I put the headlamp on. Wet fur, thick and flat against a heavy low body, water running off in sheets. Eyes wide, set too far apart, catching the beam dead still. Head low between thick shoulders, no neck to speak of. No sound at all. Not even breath. Dog twisting on the lead, shaking hard, mud over my boots. One more step and I’d have gone in. He nipped my hand deep and I let go. He was gone down the hill, crying into the dark. I felt the warm run down my leg and bolted after him.

Crashed through the trees, fell twice, scrambled up and kept running. Didn’t look back until the first streetlamps. Mud up my legs, blood on my hands from brambles and the bite. The hillside behind me empty.

At the door the dog was already there, pressed hard against the wood, shaking and peeing. I opened up; he went straight under the table and stayed.

I don’t go on those high paths any more when the weather turns between November and March. Doors locked early. Dog stays in. He still won’t take the lead after dark if it’s raining. Sometimes in the night he wakes and stares at the door, making that same noise in his throat.

I know it let me go that night. It won’t do it again. It doesn’t feed in the open. Makes the kill and takes the meat back down into the flooded dark inside the hill.

I won’t say which mountain. Best leave it alone.

She left on a Tuesday in late autumn. After the dishes she said she needed a different life. I just nodded. That weekend she packed two bags. I carried one out to the car. People mentioned her once or twice over the years. She’d moved to Cardiff. She was working. She seemed fine. That last bit stuck with me. I lived on my own after that. Same warehouse job down by the industrial estate, same early shift. Most nights I ate standing at the counter. Never bothered dating. Starting over felt like asking for another ending I already knew I wouldn’t walk away from. Then the rest of my family started dying. My mother first — heart gave out in her sleep. Got the call at work and drove to the hospital even though they said there was nothing left to do. Six months later my sister came off the road on a wet night near Treorchy. I had to identify her. There was no one else left who could. An uncle followed, then two cousins. Each funeral smaller. Each drive home quieter. By the time the last of them was gone I’d stopped answering most calls. Still went to work. Still paid the bills. The fear just sat in my chest and didn’t shift. I came home late one night after a twelve-hour shift. The silence felt heavier than usual. Walked into the front room without putting the big light on. The lamp in the corner was enough. She was standing in the doorway that led to the passage. Not glowing. Not see-through. Just standing the way she used to when she was deciding whether to come all the way in. Same height. Same forward tilt of the shoulders. The woman who left. For a few seconds the fear was clean — that same cold drop I used to get when the phone rang after midnight. Then it turned into something else: relief that I wasn’t the only one in the house anymore. I told myself I was seeing things. It felt ordinary enough to live with. She didn’t speak that first night. She only stayed until I reached over and switched the lamp off. When I looked again the doorway was empty. In the dark I thought I heard the soft shift of weight on the floorboards, like someone had stepped back instead of vanishing. She came back the next night. And the night after that. Always at the edge of the room at first. Sometimes her shoulders looked a fraction too narrow, or the way she held her head sat a bit off from memory. I’d blink and it would correct itself. Then one evening she sat down on the settee beside me. I felt the cushion move under her weight. When her shoulder touched mine it was solid and warm, but the warmth came a half-second late, like the body was catching up to the idea of being there. I could feel her breathing. The “seeing things” story didn’t hold after that. She stayed longer each night. Sometimes she sat on the other end of the settee while I watched whatever was on. Sometimes she followed me into the kitchen when I got up for water. I started leaving the second mug out without thinking. Never filled it. Once I caught myself putting a second plate on the table and had to put it back. A few nights later I found a glass I’d left in the sink the night before dry and put away in the cupboard. Told myself the house was old. Settling. Drafts. Went to work. Around the same time I reached for the exact sound of my sister’s laugh when she was taking the piss out of me and found it slightly smoothed out. Blamed grief and being knackered and left it alone. Most of the time her face looked right. Only now and then, when the light from the passage caught her at a certain angle, it seemed to settle a second too late. I stopped looking at her straight when the light was like that. One night she brought up a private joke my mother used to tell only me. Something small and daft from when I was sixteen. The words landed wrong. I stared at her. For a second I wondered if I’d talked in my sleep. Didn’t ask. Asking felt dangerous. At work a bloke I barely speak to stopped me by the tea machine and said I’d been quieter than usual. That night when I unlocked the door the thought of anyone knowing what was going on in my house felt sharper than before. I started leaving earlier and staying later. I tried to make her leave. Told her, quiet, that she wasn’t real and she had to stop. She looked at me for a long time, then stood up and walked out of the room. The silence that came after was so complete it felt like someone else had died. Within the hour she was just there again, like the conversation never happened. I sat on the edge of the bed with my hands shaking, trying to decide if I was relieved or trapped. Couldn’t tell. The second time I packed a bag and left in the middle of the night. Drove with nowhere in mind until the sky started getting light over the mountain. Parked up in a lay-by and sat there with the engine off. Understood that going back was the only thing that didn’t feel like standing at another grave. When I unlocked the door the house was still warm. She was already sitting on the settee with her hands folded, waiting. After that the memory damage moved faster. One evening she talked about my mother in a way that felt more detailed than anything I’d ever told her. The rhythm was right. The small observations were right. But when I tried to remember the actual conversations with my mother they were softer than they used to be. A few days later I reached for the way my sister used to say my name when she was pissed off with me and only got a general shape. Lay awake that night trying to hold on to my mother’s voice. It was still there, but thinner. I stopped correcting her when she got small things wrong about the past. Felt safer. Once, late, I almost looked the real woman up. The one who was still alive somewhere. Typed the first two letters of her name. The suggestion that came up was exact — full name, Cardiff, even the year she left. My hand hovered. The air in the room changed the way it does before a storm rolls in over the valley. I could feel her on the other side of the wall like a held breath. Closed the tab. The one in the house was already more present than the one who’d left. The final understanding came on an ordinary morning. Sitting on the edge of the bed tying my boots for work when I reached for the memory of my mother saying my name the way she used to. Nothing came. Not the tone. Not the shape of it. Only the way she had been talking about my mother for weeks. The original sound was gone. Sat there with one boot in my hand and knew something had been taken, quiet, without asking, and it was already too late. Didn’t say anything to her. There was nothing left that wouldn’t bring the silence back. Sometimes late at night, when she’s in the other room or just gone for a few hours, I open the browser and type the first three letters of the real woman’s name. A suggestion comes up with her full name and Cardiff. The second the letters resolve, the air in the room tightens, like the house is listening. I close the tab before anything loads. Every time I tell myself the version in the house is the only one I can stand to keep. Every time that feels a little thinner. Still go to work. Still answer the bare minimum. People give you space when you make it clear you want it. The house is never really empty now. Even when she’s not in the room I can feel the weight of her in the way the air sits, in the way certain things seem to wait. When I leave a room and come back, something has usually moved a fraction — nothing I could point to if someone asked. Just enough that the space doesn’t feel like it’s only mine anymore. Once I found a photograph of my sister face-down on the shelf. When I turned it over the smile was the same, but the eyes were slightly wrong. Put it back face-down and never touched it again. Last week I noticed the second mug — the one I leave out by habit — had a small chip on the rim that wasn’t there before. Ran my thumb over it. The chip was smooth, almost polished, like it had always been part of the mug. Left it where it was. I used to think the worst thing that could happen was another loss. I was wrong. The worst thing is knowing you’ve already swapped the people you lost for something that won’t leave, and you’re the one who keeps choosing it. The house no longer empties when I leave a room. It waits.

He never believed a word of it.

Not the talk that his wife had run off down the valley, or that she had met someone else on the quiet. They had only been married a few hours when she vanished, but they had known each other longer than that. He still remembered the way she laughed when the old tractor refused to start, the way she pushed her hair back with the back of her wrist while she worked in the garden, and the quiet promise they had made under the oak on the high ground the week before the wedding.

Their ceremony had been a small affair—just the two of them, the minister, and a couple of witnesses from the next farm—held late in the afternoon with a storm already gathering over the mountains. After the minister left she walked up to the oak alone. It was their place. She said she wanted a few quiet minutes there before they started the rest of their life. By the time anyone realised she was missing the rain was coming down hard and the ridge paths were already running with mud. They searched the lower fields and the lane that night. No one thought to dig beneath the old oak until the weather cleared, and by then the earth had settled again.

Every day after that he walked the same paths, calling her name until his voice cracked, coming home long after dark with his clothes shredded by the briars.

Ten years.

That was how long it took. The grief wore him thin and quiet. He stopped going to the working men’s club and let the farm fall to pieces around him. The roof leaked. The fences sagged. The fields choked with scrub. Neighbours left food on the porch now and then; most of it stayed there until the crows finished it.

In the second winter he stopped calling her name aloud. By the fifth he no longer bothered to light the stove most evenings. At night he still climbed the ridge and sat with his back against the old oak, ear pressed to the bark as if something might still be moving underneath. Once or twice in the early years he thought he felt a faint, irregular thump through the wood—too slow for a heartbeat, too steady for the wind. He told himself it was only the sap, or the settling of old roots, or his own blood in his ears. He never dug. By the time the feeling faded he no longer had the strength or the will.

The valley changed while he wasn’t looking. The pits shut for good, the young ones left for Cardiff, and new families took the cheap terrace houses for the views. Most of them never heard the story. The ones who did kept away from the high ground after dark.

Then came the night of the big autumn gale.

It built all afternoon, the sky turning the colour of a bruised iron pot. By midnight the rain was horizontal and the thunder was shaking the floorboards down in the village. He was in his usual place when the bolt hit.

It didn’t split the tree clean. The current boiled the water inside the trunk, blew out a long ragged crack, and tore away a great slab of earth and roots that had been slowly settling for years. The force of it threw him clear. He landed hard among the bracken and felt his heart stutter and then stop.

When the search party went up the next morning the tree was still smoking and half-collapsed. The old man lay a few yards from the base of the crack, eyes open, fixed on the hole the lightning had torn open.

Down in the blackened hollow, under a thick plug of clay, lay what was left of her. The damp earth had slowed the worst of the decay. Her mouth was packed solid with mud. Shreds of the wedding dress still clung in places, stained dark as peat, and on one finger the cheap gold band he had bought her still caught the morning light. She had been curled on her side, knees drawn up, where the rain-softened ground—undermined by old rabbit workings—had given way beneath her. The roots had shifted, dropped her into a narrow pocket, and closed over her again before anyone thought to dig that deep.

They buried them together in the cemetery at the bottom of the hill. After that the valley mostly stopped saying she had run away. The few who still spoke of it did so quietly, and only among themselves.

The split oak is still up there, dead and blackened. New people take their dogs that way sometimes, but the locals notice the animals still skirt the roots, ears flat, refusing to pass too close. On foggy nights when the wind comes hard down from the mountains the timber creaks—a long, low sound that carries to the houses and sounds less like wood and more like something that has been waiting a very long time to let go.

The Glass Is Bending and He’s Gone Silent

I’m on the bedroom floor with my back to the wardrobe and the heavy golf club resting across my legs.

Can’t stop the shaking.

Mam and Dad have been down the club since early evening. It’s just me and my little brother in the house.

Everything outside has gone completely still. No cars. No dogs. Not even the usual night sounds.

It began with the roofs.

I kept catching this soft movement above me. Whenever I turned the telly right down to listen it vanished. When I put the sound back up it returned.

After a while the noise got heavier — proper flapping and scraping, shifting from the neighbours’ roof onto ours. Slow. Wet-sounding. Not wind.

I left it too long before I checked. Kept telling myself it was a bird or something caught in the gutter.

When I finally pulled the curtain back I saw something dragging itself along the road under the streetlight. Large dark shape, not moving like a person, pulling itself forward.

Then it raised its head and screamed. The windows vibrated. The sound went right through my chest.

It kept calling out for a child, high and wet. The street didn’t react at all. No lights. No doors opening. No voices. Just silence.

My brother’s in the back room. He’s four.

I closed the curtain and went straight to him. He was soaked through and crying in his sleep, face screwed up tight. I was only away a short time.

When I returned the scraping was directly over my head. Then it stopped dead.

A moment later something started tapping on the window glass. Slow and deliberate.

I can see her through the small gap now. I can hear her breathing — wet, rough, close enough that it feels like it’s inside the room.

The air has turned freezing. My breath is showing.

She’s saying my brother’s name. Quietly. Again and again. I don’t understand how she knows it.

Pieces of last weekend keep forcing their way in.

I took the river path home from the pub because I was short on money for a taxi. Full moon.

I heard movement by the water and switched my torch on. She was crouched on the bank washing a cloth that was heavy with blood.

She looked up and met my eyes before I could kill the light. I ran.

I could hear her coming after me the entire way back up the valley.

Nan used to talk about her when we were small. Said if you ever caught sight of the hag washing by the water she would follow your family until she took one of you. Old Gwrach. I never took it seriously.

She’s closer to the glass now. It’s starting to bend inward.

I can see her face more clearly. Eyes too large, too dark. The wooden frame is making small splitting sounds.

I’ve got the golf club ready. If the glass goes I’m swinging.

My hands keep sweating. I wipe them on my trousers but it makes no difference.

She’s still outside, still repeating his name in that same low wet voice.

I called my brother’s name a short while ago, keeping it low. No reply.

He went quiet some time back. No more crying. No sound of him shifting.

I can’t leave the window and I can’t leave him alone in the other room.

She’s still there, face near the glass, breathing, whispering.

I keep seeing the cloth under the torch beam — how dark the blood was, how little surprise was on her face when she saw me. Like she already knew which direction to go.

The glass is cracking properly now. Thin lines spreading from the point where she’s pressing.

I’m holding the club so hard my fingers are going numb.

She’s still saying his name.

And from the back bedroom there is still no sound at all. Just silence. Like he’s waiting.

The hag I see

Last summer I went down to stay with my nan in the valleys. One of them little places in South Wales, proper middle of nowhere. Steep hills, grey houses, old pit all rusted up. She’s lived there her whole life. Said when she was a kid the mountain was black with coal slag. Now it’s green again. Sheep and cows, trees coming back. Soft mist most mornings. Looked like a postcard. You’d never think anything bad could live there. I was only meant to stay a week. Third night this fog came in proper thick. Not the normal stuff that burns off by lunch. This one just sat there, heavy, like it had weight. Could barely see the end of the street. Nan went to bed early. I was sat watching rubbish on her old telly. Half eleven I heard slow footsteps on the wet gravel. Then this soft humming. Like a lullaby but all wrong, like whoever was doing it had forgotten the tune. I opened the curtain. Streetlights looked blurry. Something moved past the garden wall. Grey and solid, same colour as the fog, like the mist had just stood up. Didn’t walk proper. Drifted. Stopped opposite the front window and just stood there. Couldn’t see a face. Just the shape of a head, tilted a bit, like it was listening. I swear it was looking straight at me. Shut the curtain so fast I nearly pulled the rail down. Heart going mental while the humming carried on another minute then stopped dead. The quiet after was worse. Next morning I told her. She went quiet, just stirring her tea. Then said real quiet, don’t go out in the fog after dark. And don’t answer if it knows your name. That was all. But the way she said it, she knew exactly what it was. Something old. Something that was here long before the pits. I should’ve left. Stayed two more nights cos I didn’t want to look soft. Fifth night the fog came back thicker. I was in bed when the humming started again, right outside my window this time. Closer. Under it I could hear words. Welsh. I don’t speak it fully but I caught bits. Dere allan… mae’r tywyllwch yn gynnes… something about the mountain. Kept the light off. Didn’t move. Then this long slow scrape down the glass, like fingernails. A voice clear as anything said my name. Wasn’t nan’s. Wasn’t anyone I knew. Sounded wrong. I stayed frozen till it went quiet. Morning there were long thin marks down the outside of the window, like something had dragged its hands. She saw them too. Just nodded and started packing a bag for me. She drove me to the station herself. On the way she said one last thing. When she was a girl people used to go missing on nights like that. Not every year. Just when the fog came in heavy enough and stayed. Houses empty in the morning. Doors unlocked. Beds slept in. No one ever saw them leave. Said the old ones used to reckon the mountain takes what it wants when the mist is thick enough. Said the valleys don’t forget. They just wait. Haven’t been back. Nan moved in with my aunt in Cardiff a few months later. She won’t talk about the fog now. Just said the valleys are waking up again. I keep the window locked on a foggy night even though I’m on the fifth floor in London.

Last summer I went down to stay with my nan in the valleys. One of them little places in South Wales, proper middle of nowhere. Steep hills, grey houses, old pit all rusted up. She’s lived there her whole life. Said when she was a kid the mountain was black with coal slag. Now it’s green again. Sheep and cows, trees coming back. Soft mist most mornings. Looked like a postcard. You’d never think anything bad could live there. I was only meant to stay a week. Third night this fog came in proper thick. Not the normal stuff that burns off by lunch. This one just sat there, heavy, like it had weight. Could barely see the end of the street. Nan went to bed early. I was sat watching rubbish on her old telly. Half eleven I heard slow footsteps on the wet gravel. Then this soft humming. Like a lullaby but all wrong, like whoever was doing it had forgotten the tune. I opened the curtain. Streetlights looked blurry. Something moved past the garden wall. Grey and solid, same colour as the fog, like the mist had just stood up. Didn’t walk proper. Drifted. Stopped opposite the front window and just stood there. Couldn’t see a face. Just the shape of a head, tilted a bit, like it was listening. I swear it was looking straight at me. Shut the curtain so fast I nearly pulled the rail down. Heart going mental while the humming carried on another minute then stopped dead. The quiet after was worse. Next morning I told her. She went quiet, just stirring her tea. Then said real quiet, don’t go out in the fog after dark. And don’t answer if it knows your name. That was all. But the way she said it, she knew exactly what it was. Something old. Something that was here long before the pits. I should’ve left. Stayed two more nights cos I didn’t want to look soft. Fifth night the fog came back thicker. I was in bed when the humming started again, right outside my window this time. Closer. Under it I could hear words. Welsh. I don’t speak it fully but I caught bits. Dere allan… mae’r tywyllwch yn gynnes… something about the mountain. Kept the light off. Didn’t move. Then this long slow scrape down the glass, like fingernails. A voice clear as anything said my name. Wasn’t nan’s. Wasn’t anyone I knew. Sounded wrong. I stayed frozen till it went quiet. Morning there were long thin marks down the outside of the window, like something had dragged its hands. She saw them too. Just nodded and started packing a bag for me. She drove me to the station herself. On the way she said one last thing. When she was a girl people used to go missing on nights like that. Not every year. Just when the fog came in heavy enough and stayed. Houses empty in the morning. Doors unlocked. Beds slept in. No one ever saw them leave. Said the old ones used to reckon the mountain takes what it wants when the mist is thick enough. Said the valleys don’t forget. They just wait. Haven’t been back. Nan moved in with my aunt in Cardiff a few months later. She won’t talk about the fog now. Just said the valleys are waking up again. I keep the window locked on a foggy night even though I’m on the fifth floor in London.

I never thought I’d post this but it’s been stuck in my head for months.

Last summer I went down to stay with my nan in the valleys. One of them little places in South Wales, proper middle of nowhere. Steep hills, grey houses, old pit all rusted up. She’s lived there her whole life. Said when she was a kid the mountain was black with coal slag. Now it’s green again. Sheep and cows, trees coming back. Soft mist most mornings. Looked like a postcard. You’d never think anything bad could live there.

I was only meant to stay a week. Third night this fog came in proper thick. Not the normal stuff that burns off by lunch. This one just sat there, heavy, like it had weight. Could barely see the end of the street.

Nan went to bed early. I was sat watching rubbish on her old telly. Half eleven I heard slow footsteps on the wet gravel. Then this soft humming. Like a lullaby but all wrong, like whoever was doing it had forgotten the tune. I opened the curtain. Streetlights looked blurry. Something moved past the garden wall. Grey and solid, same colour as the fog, like the mist had just stood up. Didn’t walk proper. Drifted. Stopped opposite the front window and just stood there.

Couldn’t see a face. Just the shape of a head, tilted a bit, like it was listening. I swear it was looking straight at me. Shut the curtain so fast I nearly pulled the rail down. Heart going mental while the humming carried on another minute then stopped dead. The quiet after was worse.

Next morning I told her. She went quiet, just stirring her tea. Then said real quiet, don’t go out in the fog after dark. And don’t answer if it knows your name. That was all. But the way she said it, she knew exactly what it was. Something old. Something that was here long before the pits.

I should’ve left. Stayed two more nights cos I didn’t want to look soft. Fifth night the fog came back thicker. I was in bed when the humming started again, right outside my window this time. Closer. Under it I could hear words. Welsh. I don’t speak it fully but I caught bits. Dere allan… mae’r tywyllwch yn gynnes… something about the mountain.

Kept the light off. Didn’t move. Then this long slow scrape down the glass, like fingernails. A voice clear as anything said my name. Wasn’t nan’s. Wasn’t anyone I knew. Sounded wrong.

I stayed frozen till it went quiet. Morning there were long thin marks down the outside of the window, like something had dragged its hands. She saw them too. Just nodded and started packing a bag for me.

She drove me to the station herself. On the way she said one last thing. When she was a girl people used to go missing on nights like that. Not every year. Just when the fog came in heavy enough and stayed. Houses empty in the morning. Doors unlocked. Beds slept in. No one ever saw them leave. Said the old ones used to reckon the mountain takes what it wants when the mist is thick enough. Said the valleys don’t forget. They just wait.

Haven’t been back. Nan moved in with my aunt in Cardiff a few months later. She won’t talk about the fog now. Just said the valleys are waking up again.

I keep the window locked on a foggy night even though I’m on the fifth floor in London. "My Nan just sent me a message saying she heard it call her name and wanted to warn me to, 'Beware, the Grey King will always find you. Now the valleys are awake, they want payback for what has been done to them.' She made me a drawing of the Grey King's real form, and I wish I never saw it."

I still got that fucking scar on my leg. It never healed right. Jagged as fuck. I try not to look at it if I can help it.

It was a Thursday I think. Might’ve been Wednesday. These days they all seem to be blurring together. It was one of those bars that only stays open cos no fucker can be bothered going anywhere else. The place stank of beer and floor cleaner. And the speakers were totally fucked. The bass just sat on your chest like some fat bastard. I’d been drinking hard most of the week. And I still couldn’t get any sleep. I was on my third cheap cider that tasted of rocket fuel and regret.

I was just sat there arguing with myself about going home. Like I always do. But it is easier for me to stay than to admit when I have had enough to drink.

Then she sat next to me. A beautiful blonde. Not the sort who looks at blokes like me twice. And ordered the same cider. Asked if the music was always this crap and loud. I said yeah. Then she started talking about the pub across the road. Used to be better before it closed. We just sat there and talked about nothing important. Just the usual shit. After a bit she leaned in. The smell of cheap rose and vanilla. Like the ones in the little bottles by the till. Then she said this place is too loud. And asked if I wanted to come back to hers.

I said yeah. Thinking my luck has finally changed.

Her place was on the second floor. The stairwell was dimly lit and smelled of damp and urine. And when we got into her flat she locked the door. Said we didn’t want to be disturbed and gave me a cheeky wink. Then she kicked her heels off and was all over me. After a couple of minutes she pulled back and said she needed the bathroom.

I walked over and sat by a window and looked out. The room was half dark. It was only lit by a lamp. And there were clothes dumped on a chair. The place felt empty somehow. Like she hadn’t been living there long. Or she just didn’t give a shit. I don’t know. And I didn’t care.

Then she came back. And crooked her finger at me to come over. And while I was walking over to her. My heart was beating hard in my chest. Then something cracked under my foot. It was a phone. Screen smashed. I told her I was sorry and I felt like a total fuckwit.

She took it off me. And gave me a little smile. Said it belonged to some girl she’d had a bit of fun with. And she must’ve forgotten it and no need to worry. And then we started kissing again. My hand went down her dress and I felt something move. Heavy. Deep. Stomach turning. I flinched, nearly took the hand away, but I told myself it was the cider and lack of sleep. Whatever. It must be just gas. I left it there. It moved again. Slower this time. Like something turning over.

I almost pulled my hand away but I didn’t. I just kept it there. I felt stupid for even thinking about it. Probably was nothing. Just the way she was breathing, or her dress shifting under my fingers. I’d been awake far too long. And thought my mind had started playing tricks on me. It happens with lack of sleep and drinking too much. I pressed a bit firmer, trying to prove it to myself, and the movement stopped. I told myself it was nothing. Just me being a paranoid bastard. It was sort of a relief. She made a soft noise, almost a laugh, and pulled me closer. Kissed me like nothing was wrong. I kissed her back harder than I meant to, trying to bury the thought. And told myself to stop being soft. You’re in a flat with a woman who actually wants you. And is right there. Don’t ruin it by inventing shit.

A third shift, smaller than before, then nothing. I thought that was it. I even laughed under my breath. And thought, Idiot. Get a grip on yourself for fuck’s sake.

Then her heat under my palm changed. Tighter. Like the skin was drawing in on itself. I pressed a bit harder and felt a ridge push up against my fingers. Hard. Wrong shape. My mouth went dry.

Still tried. Told myself it was muscle. Or bone. Or the way she was arched. People have weird bodies. It doesn’t mean anything. I kept my hand there longer than I should have, waiting for it to make sense.

“You alright?” I asked her. Voice came out thin.

She didn’t answer. Just breathed out slow against my neck. Her hand was still on the back of my head, fingers loose. I tried to sit up. Her arm tightened. Not much. Just enough.

Another push. Bigger. The whole middle of her shifted, uneven, like something rolling from one side to the other. I jerked my hand back and got off the bed. Looked down and saw the front of her dress. It was moving on its own. Small at first, nearly nothing. Then a deeper stretch that held for a second before it settled.

I told myself to get up and leave. Just get out of there. But I just stood there like some kind of fucking idiot just looking at her.

She made another soft sound, lower this time. Head tipped back against the pillow. Eyes slowly pulling back in her head and the soft glint of drool on her lip. The movements got heavier. Less rolling, more pushing from inside. Her hips twitched. Legs bent and straightened on their own, slow, like she couldn’t find a better position to be in.

A dark stain spread from between her legs. Not much at first. Then more. Then a smell cut through the cheap perfume. Metal and wet. Wrong.

Her arms jerked. Sudden. And her dress rode up. Skin looked too tight, stretched shiny over something moving underneath.

She made a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a moan. More like air being forced out. Head rolled to the side. Her eyes milky white and half open, looking roughly in my direction, but not seeing me anymore.

The biggest shift yet. The whole middle of her rose and kept rising, fabric straining, then something wet and thick started forcing its way out from between her legs. Just the tip at first, greyish, then more, slow and more deliberate. Her head hung limp. The thing’s head came free after that, low to the bed, and looked straight at me. It made a sound like knuckles cracking and a growl through a mouth full of phlegm.

Then it started coming for me. Not fast. Just a slow, awkward scuttle on all fours, belly facing up, new head leading the way, limbs bending in places they shouldn’t.

I backed up. And nearly fell over the chair. Hands shaking so bad I couldn’t get the first lock. Heard the slap-slap getting closer. I got the top one open, then the middle one stuck. I kept turning it the wrong way. I felt something brush my ankle. I kicked out hard without looking. A pain tore through my leg. Hot. Deep. Then blood and something thicker running into my shoe, warm and sticky. I finally got the last lock and yanked the door open, slammed it behind me. Something hit the other side hard. Then just the clicking against the wood.

I half fell down the stairs and went arse over tit onto the street and landed hard. Leg felt like it was on fire. The burn kept going deeper, like it was still eating into me. I didn’t stop. The only thought in my head was please God. I just kept limping, trying not to look back. And when I finally stopped the shock and pain hit me hard, bringing up the cider I’d been drinking.

Shaking. Heaving. I saw her face for a second. That little calm smile. The disbelief was worse than the pain.

I thought about calling the police. But who’s going to believe the local drunk?

The scar’s still there. I still don’t look at it if I can help it.

I still got that fucking scar on my leg. It never healed right. Jagged as fuck. I try not to look at it if I can help it.

It was a Thursday I think. Might’ve been Wednesday. These days they all seem to be blurring together. It was one of those bars that only stays open cos no fucker can be bothered going anywhere else. The place stank of beer and floor cleaner. And the speakers were totally fucked. The bass just sat on your chest like some fat bastard. I’d been drinking hard most of the week. And I still couldn’t get any sleep. I was on my third cheap cider that tasted of rocket fuel and regret.

I was just sat there arguing with myself about going home. Like I always do. But it is easier for me to stay than to admit when I have had enough to drink.

Then she sat next to me. A beautiful blonde. Not the sort who looks at blokes like me twice. And ordered the same cider. Asked if the music was always this crap and loud. I said yeah. Then she started talking about the pub across the road. Used to be better before it closed. We just sat there and talked about nothing important. Just the usual shit. After a bit she leaned in. The smell of cheap rose and vanilla. Like the ones in the little bottles by the till. Then she said this place is too loud. And asked if I wanted to come back to hers.

I said yeah. Thinking my luck has finally changed.

Her place was on the second floor. The stairwell was dimly lit and smelled of damp and urine. And when we got into her flat she locked the door. Said we didn’t want to be disturbed and gave me a cheeky wink. Then she kicked her heels off and was all over me. After a couple of minutes she pulled back and said she needed the bathroom.

I walked over and sat by a window and looked out. The room was half dark. It was only lit by a lamp. And there were clothes dumped on a chair. The place felt empty somehow. Like she hadn’t been living there long. Or she just didn’t give a shit. I don’t know. And I didn’t care.

Then she came back. And crooked her finger at me to come over. And while I was walking over to her. My heart was beating hard in my chest. Then something cracked under my foot. It was a phone. Screen smashed. I told her I was sorry and I felt like a total fuckwit.

She took it off me. And gave me a little smile. Said it belonged to some girl she’d had a bit of fun with. And she must’ve forgotten it and no need to worry. And then we started kissing again. My hand went down her dress and I felt something move. Heavy. Deep. Stomach turning. I flinched, nearly took the hand away, but I told myself it was the cider and lack of sleep. Whatever. It must be just gas. I left it there. It moved again. Slower this time. Like something turning over.

I almost pulled my hand away but I didn’t. I just kept it there. I felt stupid for even thinking about it. Probably was nothing. Just the way she was breathing, or her dress shifting under my fingers. I’d been awake far too long. And thought my mind had started playing tricks on me. It happens with lack of sleep and drinking too much. I pressed a bit firmer, trying to prove it to myself, and the movement stopped. I told myself it was nothing. Just me being a paranoid bastard. It was sort of a relief. She made a soft noise, almost a laugh, and pulled me closer. Kissed me like nothing was wrong. I kissed her back harder than I meant to, trying to bury the thought. And told myself to stop being soft. You’re in a flat with a woman who actually wants you. And is right there. Don’t ruin it by inventing shit.

A third shift, smaller than before, then nothing. I thought that was it. I even laughed under my breath. And thought, Idiot. Get a grip on yourself for fuck’s sake.

Then her heat under my palm changed. Tighter. Like the skin was drawing in on itself. I pressed a bit harder and felt a ridge push up against my fingers. Hard. Wrong shape. My mouth went dry.

Still tried. Told myself it was muscle. Or bone. Or the way she was arched. People have weird bodies. It doesn’t mean anything. I kept my hand there longer than I should have, waiting for it to make sense.

“You alright?” I asked her. Voice came out thin.

She didn’t answer. Just breathed out slow against my neck. Her hand was still on the back of my head, fingers loose. I tried to sit up. Her arm tightened. Not much. Just enough.

Another push. Bigger. The whole middle of her shifted, uneven, like something rolling from one side to the other. I jerked my hand back and got off the bed. Looked down and saw the front of her dress. It was moving on its own. Small at first, nearly nothing. Then a deeper stretch that held for a second before it settled.

I told myself to get up and leave. Just get out of there. But I just stood there like some kind of fucking idiot just looking at her.

She made another soft sound, lower this time. Head tipped back against the pillow. Eyes slowly pulling back in her head and the soft glint of drool on her lip. The movements got heavier. Less rolling, more pushing from inside. Her hips twitched. Legs bent and straightened on their own, slow, like she couldn’t find a better position to be in.

A dark stain spread from between her legs. Not much at first. Then more. Then a smell cut through the cheap perfume. Metal and wet. Wrong.

Her arms jerked. Sudden. And her dress rode up. Skin looked too tight, stretched shiny over something moving underneath.

She made a noise that wasn’t a laugh or a moan. More like air being forced out. Head rolled to the side. Her eyes milky white and half open, looking roughly in my direction, but not seeing me anymore.

The biggest shift yet. The whole middle of her rose and kept rising, fabric straining, then something wet and thick started forcing its way out from between her legs. Just the tip at first, greyish, then more, slow and more deliberate. Her head hung limp. The thing’s head came free after that, low to the bed, and looked straight at me. It made a sound like knuckles cracking and a growl through a mouth full of phlegm.

Then it started coming for me. Not fast. Just a slow, awkward scuttle on all fours, belly facing up, new head leading the way, limbs bending in places they shouldn’t.

I backed up. And nearly fell over the chair. Hands shaking so bad I couldn’t get the first lock. Heard the slap-slap getting closer. I got the top one open, then the middle one stuck. I kept turning it the wrong way. I felt something brush my ankle. I kicked out hard without looking. A pain tore through my leg. Hot. Deep. Then blood and something thicker running into my shoe, warm and sticky. I finally got the last lock and yanked the door open, slammed it behind me. Something hit the other side hard. Then just the clicking against the wood.

I half fell down the stairs and went arse over tit onto the street and landed hard. Leg felt like it was on fire. The burn kept going deeper, like it was still eating into me. I didn’t stop. The only thought in my head was please God. I just kept limping, trying not to look back. And when I finally stopped the shock and pain hit me hard, bringing up the cider I’d been drinking.

Shaking. Heaving. I saw her face for a second. That little calm smile. The disbelief was worse than the pain.

I thought about calling the police. But who’s going to believe the local drunk?

The scar’s still there. I still don’t look at it if I can help it.

I still remember the night I met her. Thursday. That shitty little bar near the station with the sticky floors and music so loud you could barely hear yourself think. She was blonde, red dress, heels. Proper fit. Not the sort of girl who usually looks twice at someone like me, but she came straight over and sat next to me like we already knew each other. Just talking. Nothing important. Background noise, really.

About half an hour later she leaned in and said, “It’s too loud in here. Want to come back to mine? It’s quiet.”

I said yes.

Her place wasn’t far. Second floor. The second we got inside she locked the door and said we didn’t want to be disturbed. Then she kissed me, already pulling at my shirt, kicking her heels off into the dark. Clothes ended up everywhere pretty quick. She told me to sit down, said she was just going to the bathroom for a second.

So I sat there waiting.

When she came back she sat on the edge of the bed and told me to come over. I stood up and started walking across the room. Something cracked under my shoe. I moved a bra out of the way and picked up a phone. Screen was completely smashed.

“Sorry,” I said.

She barely looked at it. Just pushed it aside and said it was an old one left by some previous guest who’d moved on. The way she said it… something about it felt off. Like she didn’t care at all.

We sat there in the quiet. Then I heard something. Not breathing. Something heavier. Like something dense shifting under the sheets next to me.

I looked at her.

Her face had changed. Eyes wide. Not blinking.

Then she started moving wrong. Jerky. Like her body wasn’t fitting together properly anymore. Shadows on the wall didn’t match what a person should look like. It looked like she was coming apart, or unfolding, or something. Limbs going in directions they shouldn’t.

I didn’t wait. I scrambled back, heart going mental, and ran for the door. Behind me there was this rapid clicking sound. I didn’t look. Fumbled with the lock for a second that felt forever, then threw myself into the hallway and slammed the door. Something heavy hit it from the other side.

I ran down the stairs and out into the street and didn’t stop until I was streets away under the lights.

I still think about that smashed phone and the way she talked about the girl who owned it. Like people were just things you used and left behind. I don’t know how many others walked into that flat. I don’t want to know.

I still remember the night I met her. Thursday. That shitty little bar near the station with the sticky floors and music so loud you could barely hear yourself think. She was blonde, red dress, heels. Proper fit. Not the sort of girl who usually looks twice at someone like me, but she came straight over and sat next to me like we already knew each other. Just talking. Nothing important. Background noise, really.

About half an hour later she leaned in and said, “It’s too loud in here. Want to come back to mine? It’s quiet.”

I said yes.

Her place wasn’t far. Second floor. The second we got inside she locked the door and said we didn’t want to be disturbed. Then she kissed me, already pulling at my shirt, kicking her heels off into the dark. Clothes ended up everywhere pretty quick. She told me to sit down, said she was just going to the bathroom for a second.

So I sat there waiting.

When she came back she sat on the edge of the bed and told me to come over. I stood up and started walking across the room. Something cracked under my shoe. I moved a bra out of the way and picked up a phone. Screen was completely smashed.

“Sorry,” I said.

She barely looked at it. Just pushed it aside and said it was an old one left by some previous guest who’d moved on. The way she said it… something about it felt off. Like she didn’t care at all.

We sat there in the quiet. Then I heard something. Not breathing. Something heavier. Like something dense shifting under the sheets next to me.

I looked at her.

Her face had changed. Eyes wide. Not blinking.

Then she started moving wrong. Jerky. Like her body wasn’t fitting together properly anymore. Shadows on the wall didn’t match what a person should look like. It looked like she was coming apart, or unfolding, or something. Limbs going in directions they shouldn’t.

I didn’t wait. I scrambled back, heart going mental, and ran for the door. Behind me there was this rapid clicking sound. I didn’t look. Fumbled with the lock for a second that felt forever, then threw myself into the hallway and slammed the door. Something heavy hit it from the other side.

I ran down the stairs and out into the street and didn’t stop until I was streets away under the lights.

I still think about that smashed phone and the way she talked about the girl who owned it. Like people were just things you used and left behind. I don’t know how many others walked into that flat. I don’t want to know.