u/POP0915

Let me start out by saying that I'm a twenty-six year-old man. So I guess I haven't been kidnapped, as much as man-napped. I'm a little below average height. Well, that's what I put on my dating profiles at least. I'm “technically” five foot flat. 

I promise these details are relevant to my situation. Bear with me as I lay down the foundation of circumstances that have led to my current predicament. 

On top of being short, I'm also sickly thin. I consistently get confused for a lost child, until they get close enough to see my stubble. This is rarely a benefit to me, in fact it makes going out for drinks and dating nearly impossible. 

Can you imagine having the face of a thirty year-old but the physique of a twelve year-old? Don't bother with imagining, I'll just tell ya, it's a living hell. I have to use a damn booster seat to drive! Shit, I even strapped blocks onto the pedals after my fourth accident. The reaction speed of my tippy toes is subpar when getting cut off going sixty in a forty-five apparently. 

Okay, so now I can get into my current situation. The one and ONLY time my physical, uh let's call them quirks, come in handy is on Halloween. I buy a preteen costume, make the rounds, and enjoy a free bounty of sweet treats. I've grown accustomed to the odd looks I receive at the end of the night. Each year ends the same way, with me taking off whatever newest superhero costume is popular, flipping bystanders the bird, and driving away. 

Now, this year started out pretty normal. I ran out last week and grabbed a Dr. Dread… Er uh, Mr. Doom… I don't know who it is, but it has a damn mask! The mask is vital, given my mature-looking face. Anyway, I drove out to a new neighborhood this year. There was an incident at my usual spot last year that's keeping me away. 

Apparently, drinking a tall can of beer while dressed as everybody's favorite red shirt-wearing plumber, and jumping into the wrong car is “frowned upon”. Even if it's an honest mistake, the cops won't sympathize. Then, it's just up to how fast information can travel by word of mouth to get you unofficially banned from a neighborhood. 

My damn car didn't want to connect to my phone, so I had to listen to good ol’ FM radio B.S. for the drive. A standout amidst the generic pop was a rather peculiar broadcast. The half-assed electronica beat was interrupted with a loud siren sound. After a second, a deep radio broadcaster's voice breached the silence. 

“Good evening and Happy Halloween to everybody. In light of last year's events, we've been asked to remind all parents to not let their children trick or treat alone. The tragic number of children that went missing last year can easily be prevented. Stay within sight, stay in constant contact, and know where your children are. Please have a great night of ghoulish fun and stay safe Canterville!” 

I didn't recall the exact details but did remember something about kids missing last year. Something like ten kids just vanished I think. I didn't give two shits then but am kind of wishing I had now. I just kept driving out to one of the poorer parts of town though. 

The trick or treating was going as okay as it ever did. As usual, I was able to outpace and muscle past most of those annoying bastards. Most of the trailers had lights on and were welcoming. They only grew dark and closed off looking, as the road crept up a hill to a massive old house. I would have been able to get even more than my usual haul, if it weren't for that little crying punk. 

Some little brat with a bowl cut came fumbling around the corner. His frowning face was profusely leaking streaks of tears and thick green strings of snot. I noticed his stupid turtle costume had dark stains on its knees as he stopped to wail and point at me.

I had ducked into an alley between two trailers to kick back a beer and smoke a cigarette. According to the ball of blubber that heaved from side to side around the corner after the kid, they were looking for me. The baby beluga of a woman spat out accusations of me shoving the snot-nosed brat down. 

Now, I'm clearly no saint, but I also don't go around hurting kids. And I would have told exactly that that to the woman with the voice of a chain smoker, if I wasn't two-thirds in the bag already. Drinking makes the affair feel tolerable but also means I don't have a leg to stand on with accusations. 

Well, I forfeited half of the candy I had amassed, the rest of my pack of cigarettes, and fifty bucks to reclaim my peace and quiet. I should have known the extorting witch would go blabbering anyway though. With the word spreading of a fully grown man out trick or treating, I had to put some distance between me and the gossip. I made for that huge house perched on top of the hill. 

I had hoped to get a score from the only place that looked like it had money before leaving. How stupid of a greedy decision that was. 

The old yard was heavily overgrown, patches of thick weeds stood like spires amongst the tall grass. One of the two lights above the front door was out, and the plate around the doorbell was well rusted over. Desperate to get some of my labored efforts back, I rang it anyway. 

The sound of heavy footsteps approached the door. For several seconds, I could hear deep raspy breathing before the door slowly creaked open. I'm a bit of a judgmental asshole, I know it, but even still this fella was odd. 

He had to be at least seven feet tall, bald as an alopecia patient, and pale as snow. The damn guy's skin might as well have been translucent against his long black robes. He held his head at an odd crooked angle as he raised a gangly hand to wave at me. His big bulging eyes stared down, seemingly lost at what to do. 

I just assumed the weirdo didn't get many trick or treaters with the state of the property. As rehearsed as it always was, I gave my best impression of a prepubescent boy saying “trick or treat!” Now, I know some people file their teeth, or even buy custom molded fangs, but this didn't seem like that. His mouth curled into a sharp shark-like yellowed toothy smile as he responded. 

“Ah, yes. It is the bastardization of Samhain tonight. You must not be one of the inhabitants of the park. They haven't come this year. They've taken to spreading vile hearsay in lieu of consorting with me.” 

I didn't know what the hell he was on about, I only heard him say that nobody had come by this year. I just knew he was sitting on a gold mine of candy. I nodded excitedly at him, hoping I wouldn't have to use that stupid child voice again. To my pleasure, the skinny bald sumbitch reached just out of sight. 

His hand returned with a full-sized candy bar. Only when he dropped it into my container, did I notice how bulbous his knuckles were. Not to mention, his fingernails were thick and grown out several inches. I could only imagine just how nasty the underside of those things must have been. 

He stretched his long, veiny neck outside of the door. Looking left then right, he surveyed the entirety of the yard. He returned his gaze to me with an even larger smile. Stepping to the side, he gestured with his arm as he spoke again. 

“I have several boxes of confectioneries such as that one, at the end of a short themed spectacle. Would you be interested in testing it for me? You can have the entire box after?” 

I did grow up in the era of jokes about vans with candy painted on the side. I'm rational enough to say no to something so odd. Especially coming from such an obvious creep. Or rather, I would have been, if that beast of a mother hadn't taken half of my hard work. Well, maybe part of the blame belongs with the polished off six-pack of beer too... At that point, full-sized bars at the end of some cheesy haunted house was all I understood. 

You can call me stupid if you'd like, I wouldn't blame you. But just as you might expect, I didn't make it more than five steps into the house before blacking out. I don't know how much time passed after that, but I did wake up somewhere new. 

I finally came to in the same place that I currently remain in. I've been crammed into some kind of handmade metal cage. The damn thing is barely tall enough for me to sit up in, and not quite long enough to lie flat. The surrounding room is a rather dingy basement. Dark stone walls run to each corner and up a set of curved stairs. There are a few dim yellow lights that hang from the ceiling. The entire space looks damp. All of the walls glisten slightly and the floors appear slick with moisture. 

The worst part is that there are about twelve other cages lining those stone walls. I can see a bright red sneaker sitting discarded in one of the empty ones. If it wasn't shit enough luck to have gotten man-napped, I'm being held with some crybaby kids. There are six whiny, annoying brats scattered through the other cages. According to them, the “Long Man” as they call him, comes down every few hours or so. Sometimes he comes with food, and other times he takes a child back up with him. 

Kids make shit up, that's a given, but they swear he's eating them. The Long Man isn't always so gangly and stretched out looking apparently. I don't really believe them, but it's at least helpful to know he takes people upstairs. Maybe if I tell him the truth, and he's just a sick bastard, he'll let me go when he knows I'm an adult. I guess he could also kill me, but I like to give the benefit of the doubt where I can. 

The rude-ass kids have got to be the worst thing about all of this. Well, if you don't include the “bathroom” I've been given but refuse to use. An already half-full bucket sits in the corner just to my right. I don't need to wind up on some list if I do get saved. But man, is that six-pack starting to weigh on my bladder. Oh, but let me elaborate on how these gremlins are being mean. Each one's asking questions on top of the other, in such a rapid fire pace I can't even think. 

I manage to answer two, and regret the hell out of it. The first one I caught and answered was a simple “How old are you?” The room filled with a torturous laughter when I said twenty-six. There were several remarks about me being a “lil guy” and “as tall as they are” between the chorus of laughs. I should have cut my losses, but for whatever reason I answered another one. 

I was just barely able to make out the words through the uproar, “how'd he catch you?” I hate kids, I really hate kids, especially when their parents aren't around. When I said the haunted house bit, every single one started screaming with laughter. Their pale emaciated faces turned bright red as tears streaked their cheeks. Apparently, the Long Man had to chase all of them down. Not a single one fell for his enticements, only me. 

They've since come up with a nickname for me, and as I said they're mean as shit. I've now been dubbed the “Dumbass Man Baby”. When ten year-olds cuss it's funny, unless it's when they’re talking about you and you’re locked in a cage next to them. 

The only saving grace to all of this comes in the form of a loud squeak from the stairs. The same loud and slow footsteps I heard outside of the house, ring out into the room. For the first time since they've decided they're comedians, all of the children go quiet. 

As soon as the freakishly tall bastard is in the room I yell out to him. 

“Hey, hey, jackass! I'm not a kid you know? I'm twenty-six and a whole-ass adult!” 

A wave of fear washes over the children at the sound of my voice. Their gaunt faces shift their focus from me to the man, who stops in the middle of the room to face me. 

“Oh, pity, your blood will be sour with fermentation. But as your generation of youths says, ‘beggars can't be choosers’ and such.” 

“Fermented?! The hell do you mean by that, bald bitch?!” 

Now, that freak doesn't have eyebrows; but by his expression I imagine if he did, they would be touching his nonexistent hairline. A dark tongue flicks out from behind his lips to quickly lick them. Glaring at me, he speaks in an even raspier voice than before. 

“This is why I prefer the juveniles, they talk back less. I haven't managed to exist for millennia to be regarded in such a way by some freak!”

“Whoa, are you calling me a freak, you stretched-out lump of glue?!” 

“Your ill-intended banter has missed its mark. I know not what you mean, but do understand the intentions. I assure you, I am normal for my age. Unlike you, you miniature poltroon!” 

What the hell is this guy even trying to say to me? All I can tell by the smug look on his stupid pale face, and giggles from the children, is that he's making fun of me. I'm not dumb but I'm also not the brightest. You mix that with a bruised ego and booze and you get me willing to fight. I don't know why, but I shout back at him in the most threatening way I can. 

“Okay you walking pile of noodles, I'll kick your ghostly ass up and down those stairs if you let me out! Just try me bitch!” 

With me being built like a sixth grader, I rarely do anything like this. There's just something about this asshat that rubs me the wrong way! I'm not afraid to bite a crotch or gouge an eye if I need to. 

Seeming to doubt my vicious capabilities, the Long Man (Bitch if you ask me) actually unlocks my gate. The moment the door swings open, I'm clambering up a leg. I grab a fistful of what I assume is dick and jump back to the ground. I don't know what that monster is made of, but he just laughs and swings me into another cage. 

The harsh impact forces the meaty mass out of my hand. A bony hand shoots for my throat, but not before I can turn my head. I manage to get two fingertips in my mouth and bite with all my might. A warm, thick, gooey substance fills my mouth and runs down my chest. As I spit out the stick-like fingertips, I finally get a reaction out of the freak beast. 

“Aaaagh, you menacing vermin! It will take decades to regain what you have taken!” 

I don't want to hear anything else from this dillweed, so I make a grab at his other swinging hand. I miss it just barely and am instead grabbed. Being held in place, I see that shiny hairless face approach my own. 

I knew it, he’s a sicko! He's trying to fucking kiss me in the middle of a fight? I did tell him I'm not a kid, didn't I? 

Sticking my arms out, I push my right middle finger into his eye. The resistance I feel gives way in a squelching pop. Another thick spurt of gooey black fluid sprays over my face. Some more of the warm viscous fluid makes its way into my mouth, as I feel a pressure on my forearm. Before I can react, the pressure turns into a sharp stabbing of several spikes. 

I look over to see this sick bastard taking a page out of my book. He's got a mouthful of my arm as I kick just hard enough to free myself from his grip. His jaw must be made of titanium or something, cause I'm stuck hanging in the air for at least ten seconds. Finally, the Long Man (Bitch) flings me with just his mouth into the wall by the stairs. 

I hear a loud crack and just know I broke something in the fall. Looking myself over, I see a big hole in my arm where I've been bit but nothing else. The loud crack seems to be a mop I landed on, breaking the handle with my impact. I fumble to grab the broken tip as I watch the freak turn to face me again. 

He's chewing on the chunk of my arm while grinning at me. The bastard thinks this is funny. I don't have insurance, how the hell am I going to pay for this?

“It's not funny, asshole! This is gonna financially ruin me!” 

I scream at him as I charge forward. Again this asshole underestimates me and dives forward too. His cocky attitude is finally gonna get the better of him though. 

I plunge the broken mop handle deep into the bastard's chest. He looks like he's trying to kiss me again before he stops. Looking down, he seems to realize that I finally got the upper hand on him. He stumbles back, screaming like a little baby and falls into the cage I woke up in. I chuckle pretty heavily as I approach the massive writhing pile of black robes and pale appendages. 

“What'd I tell ya, asshat?! I'd kick your ass up and down–” 

I wake up on the floor with the tall freak lying on top of my legs. A streak of thick black goo trails from the cage to the body's resting place. 

My first movement awakens a burst of whispers that fill the room. I can just make out a couple “he's alive?” and “he actually did it” remarks. Looking to my right arm, I see that at least the gaping hole isn't pouring blood anymore. I figure the bleeding having stopped is the only reason why I'm still alive. 

Thankfully, the key is still in my cage door. I retrieve it and make my way around the room, letting everyone out. Each time I do though, I regret it slightly, since each gremlin says “Thanks Dumbass Man Baby” before running up the stairs. Even when you do something nice for them, kids are still gonna be assholes. 

I find my phone in a basket at the top of the stairs. The damn basement door is maybe ten feet from the entrance of the house. You can see all the way through the place. How did I think there was a haunted house in here? Eh, it doesn't matter, I still outsmarted him in the end. 

I dial for the cops as I make my way to the front door. I might not like kids, and they may be mean as shit to me, but it still feels good to save someone's life. I can only assume that's why I have this weird tingling feeling all over as I walk outside. 

The one night I actually get to enjoy my afflictions seems to be over, as the sunrise is just starting to crest the horizon. I really hope that jackass didn't give me something though. The longer I stand on the phone with the cops, the more that tingling is turning into a burning. Fuck, is that a symptom of rabies or something? 

Let me start out by saying that I'm a twenty-six year-old man. So I guess I haven't been kidnapped, as much as man-napped. I'm a little below average height. Well, that's what I put on my dating profiles at least. I'm “technically” five foot flat. 

I promise these details are relevant to my situation. Bear with me as I lay down the foundation of circumstances that have led to my current predicament. 

On top of being short, I'm also sickly thin. I consistently get confused for a lost child, until they get close enough to see my stubble. This is rarely a benefit to me, in fact it makes going out for drinks and dating nearly impossible. 

Can you imagine having the face of a thirty year-old but the physique of a twelve year-old? Don't bother with imagining, I'll just tell ya, it's a living hell. I have to use a damn booster seat to drive! Shit, I even strapped blocks onto the pedals after my fourth accident. The reaction speed of my tippy toes is subpar when getting cut off going sixty in a forty-five apparently. 

Okay, so now I can get into my current situation. The one and ONLY time my physical, uh let's call them quirks, come in handy is on Halloween. I buy a preteen costume, make the rounds, and enjoy a free bounty of sweet treats. I've grown accustomed to the odd looks I receive at the end of the night. Each year ends the same way, with me taking off whatever newest superhero costume is popular, flipping bystanders the bird, and driving away. 

Now, this year started out pretty normal. I ran out last week and grabbed a Dr. Dread… Er uh, Mr. Doom… I don't know who it is, but it has a damn mask! The mask is vital, given my mature-looking face. Anyway, I drove out to a new neighborhood this year. There was an incident at my usual spot last year that's keeping me away. 

Apparently, drinking a tall can of beer while dressed as everybody's favorite red shirt-wearing plumber, and jumping into the wrong car is “frowned upon”. Even if it's an honest mistake, the cops won't sympathize. Then, it's just up to how fast information can travel by word of mouth to get you unofficially banned from a neighborhood. 

My damn car didn't want to connect to my phone, so I had to listen to good ol’ FM radio B.S. for the drive. A standout amidst the generic pop was a rather peculiar broadcast. The half-assed electronica beat was interrupted with a loud siren sound. After a second, a deep radio broadcaster's voice breached the silence. 

“Good evening and Happy Halloween to everybody. In light of last year's events, we've been asked to remind all parents to not let their children trick or treat alone. The tragic number of children that went missing last year can easily be prevented. Stay within sight, stay in constant contact, and know where your children are. Please have a great night of ghoulish fun and stay safe Canterville!” 

I didn't recall the exact details but did remember something about kids missing last year. Something like ten kids just vanished I think. I didn't give two shits then but am kind of wishing I had now. I just kept driving out to one of the poorer parts of town though. 

The trick or treating was going as okay as it ever did. As usual, I was able to outpace and muscle past most of those annoying bastards. Most of the trailers had lights on and were welcoming. They only grew dark and closed off looking, as the road crept up a hill to a massive old house. I would have been able to get even more than my usual haul, if it weren't for that little crying punk. 

Some little brat with a bowl cut came fumbling around the corner. His frowning face was profusely leaking streaks of tears and thick green strings of snot. I noticed his stupid turtle costume had dark stains on its knees as he stopped to wail and point at me.

I had ducked into an alley between two trailers to kick back a beer and smoke a cigarette. According to the ball of blubber that heaved from side to side around the corner after the kid, they were looking for me. The baby beluga of a woman spat out accusations of me shoving the snot-nosed brat down. 

Now, I'm clearly no saint, but I also don't go around hurting kids. And I would have told exactly that that to the woman with the voice of a chain smoker, if I wasn't two-thirds in the bag already. Drinking makes the affair feel tolerable but also means I don't have a leg to stand on with accusations. 

Well, I forfeited half of the candy I had amassed, the rest of my pack of cigarettes, and fifty bucks to reclaim my peace and quiet. I should have known the extorting witch would go blabbering anyway though. With the word spreading of a fully grown man out trick or treating, I had to put some distance between me and the gossip. I made for that huge house perched on top of the hill. 

I had hoped to get a score from the only place that looked like it had money before leaving. How stupid of a greedy decision that was. 

The old yard was heavily overgrown, patches of thick weeds stood like spires amongst the tall grass. One of the two lights above the front door was out, and the plate around the doorbell was well rusted over. Desperate to get some of my labored efforts back, I rang it anyway. 

The sound of heavy footsteps approached the door. For several seconds, I could hear deep raspy breathing before the door slowly creaked open. I'm a bit of a judgmental asshole, I know it, but even still this fella was odd. 

He had to be at least seven feet tall, bald as an alopecia patient, and pale as snow. The damn guy's skin might as well have been translucent against his long black robes. He held his head at an odd crooked angle as he raised a gangly hand to wave at me. His big bulging eyes stared down, seemingly lost at what to do. 

I just assumed the weirdo didn't get many trick or treaters with the state of the property. As rehearsed as it always was, I gave my best impression of a prepubescent boy saying “trick or treat!” Now, I know some people file their teeth, or even buy custom molded fangs, but this didn't seem like that. His mouth curled into a sharp shark-like yellowed toothy smile as he responded. 

“Ah, yes. It is the bastardization of Samhain tonight. You must not be one of the inhabitants of the park. They haven't come this year. They've taken to spreading vile hearsay in lieu of consorting with me.” 

I didn't know what the hell he was on about, I only heard him say that nobody had come by this year. I just knew he was sitting on a gold mine of candy. I nodded excitedly at him, hoping I wouldn't have to use that stupid child voice again. To my pleasure, the skinny bald sumbitch reached just out of sight. 

His hand returned with a full-sized candy bar. Only when he dropped it into my container, did I notice how bulbous his knuckles were. Not to mention, his fingernails were thick and grown out several inches. I could only imagine just how nasty the underside of those things must have been. 

He stretched his long, veiny neck outside of the door. Looking left then right, he surveyed the entirety of the yard. He returned his gaze to me with an even larger smile. Stepping to the side, he gestured with his arm as he spoke again. 

“I have several boxes of confectioneries such as that one, at the end of a short themed spectacle. Would you be interested in testing it for me? You can have the entire box after?” 

I did grow up in the era of jokes about vans with candy painted on the side. I'm rational enough to say no to something so odd. Especially coming from such an obvious creep. Or rather, I would have been, if that beast of a mother hadn't taken half of my hard work. Well, maybe part of the blame belongs with the polished off six-pack of beer too... At that point, full-sized bars at the end of some cheesy haunted house was all I understood. 

You can call me stupid if you'd like, I wouldn't blame you. But just as you might expect, I didn't make it more than five steps into the house before blacking out. I don't know how much time passed after that, but I did wake up somewhere new. 

I finally came to in the same place that I currently remain in. I've been crammed into some kind of handmade metal cage. The damn thing is barely tall enough for me to sit up in, and not quite long enough to lie flat. The surrounding room is a rather dingy basement. Dark stone walls run to each corner and up a set of curved stairs. There are a few dim yellow lights that hang from the ceiling. The entire space looks damp. All of the walls glisten slightly and the floors appear slick with moisture. 

The worst part is that there are about twelve other cages lining those stone walls. I can see a bright red sneaker sitting discarded in one of the empty ones. If it wasn't shit enough luck to have gotten man-napped, I'm being held with some crybaby kids. There are six whiny, annoying brats scattered through the other cages. According to them, the “Long Man” as they call him, comes down every few hours or so. Sometimes he comes with food, and other times he takes a child back up with him. 

Kids make shit up, that's a given, but they swear he's eating them. The Long Man isn't always so gangly and stretched out looking apparently. I don't really believe them, but it's at least helpful to know he takes people upstairs. Maybe if I tell him the truth, and he's just a sick bastard, he'll let me go when he knows I'm an adult. I guess he could also kill me, but I like to give the benefit of the doubt where I can. 

The rude-ass kids have got to be the worst thing about all of this. Well, if you don't include the “bathroom” I've been given but refuse to use. An already half-full bucket sits in the corner just to my right. I don't need to wind up on some list if I do get saved. But man, is that six-pack starting to weigh on my bladder. Oh, but let me elaborate on how these gremlins are being mean. Each one's asking questions on top of the other, in such a rapid fire pace I can't even think. 

I manage to answer two, and regret the hell out of it. The first one I caught and answered was a simple “How old are you?” The room filled with a torturous laughter when I said twenty-six. There were several remarks about me being a “lil guy” and “as tall as they are” between the chorus of laughs. I should have cut my losses, but for whatever reason I answered another one. 

I was just barely able to make out the words through the uproar, “how'd he catch you?” I hate kids, I really hate kids, especially when their parents aren't around. When I said the haunted house bit, every single one started screaming with laughter. Their pale emaciated faces turned bright red as tears streaked their cheeks. Apparently, the Long Man had to chase all of them down. Not a single one fell for his enticements, only me. 

They've since come up with a nickname for me, and as I said they're mean as shit. I've now been dubbed the “Dumbass Man Baby”. When ten year-olds cuss it's funny, unless it's when they’re talking about you and you’re locked in a cage next to them. 

The only saving grace to all of this comes in the form of a loud squeak from the stairs. The same loud and slow footsteps I heard outside of the house, ring out into the room. For the first time since they've decided they're comedians, all of the children go quiet. 

As soon as the freakishly tall bastard is in the room I yell out to him. 

“Hey, hey, jackass! I'm not a kid you know? I'm twenty-six and a whole-ass adult!” 

A wave of fear washes over the children at the sound of my voice. Their gaunt faces shift their focus from me to the man, who stops in the middle of the room to face me. 

“Oh, pity, your blood will be sour with fermentation. But as your generation of youths says, ‘beggars can't be choosers’ and such.” 

“Fermented?! The hell do you mean by that, bald bitch?!” 

Now, that freak doesn't have eyebrows; but by his expression I imagine if he did, they would be touching his nonexistent hairline. A dark tongue flicks out from behind his lips to quickly lick them. Glaring at me, he speaks in an even raspier voice than before. 

“This is why I prefer the juveniles, they talk back less. I haven't managed to exist for millennia to be regarded in such a way by some freak!”

“Whoa, are you calling me a freak, you stretched-out lump of glue?!” 

“Your ill-intended banter has missed its mark. I know not what you mean, but do understand the intentions. I assure you, I am normal for my age. Unlike you, you miniature poltroon!” 

What the hell is this guy even trying to say to me? All I can tell by the smug look on his stupid pale face, and giggles from the children, is that he's making fun of me. I'm not dumb but I'm also not the brightest. You mix that with a bruised ego and booze and you get me willing to fight. I don't know why, but I shout back at him in the most threatening way I can. 

“Okay you walking pile of noodles, I'll kick your ghostly ass up and down those stairs if you let me out! Just try me bitch!” 

With me being built like a sixth grader, I rarely do anything like this. There's just something about this asshat that rubs me the wrong way! I'm not afraid to bite a crotch or gouge an eye if I need to. 

Seeming to doubt my vicious capabilities, the Long Man (Bitch if you ask me) actually unlocks my gate. The moment the door swings open, I'm clambering up a leg. I grab a fistful of what I assume is dick and jump back to the ground. I don't know what that monster is made of, but he just laughs and swings me into another cage. 

The harsh impact forces the meaty mass out of my hand. A bony hand shoots for my throat, but not before I can turn my head. I manage to get two fingertips in my mouth and bite with all my might. A warm, thick, gooey substance fills my mouth and runs down my chest. As I spit out the stick-like fingertips, I finally get a reaction out of the freak beast. 

“Aaaagh, you menacing vermin! It will take decades to regain what you have taken!” 

I don't want to hear anything else from this dillweed, so I make a grab at his other swinging hand. I miss it just barely and am instead grabbed. Being held in place, I see that shiny hairless face approach my own. 

I knew it, he’s a sicko! He's trying to fucking kiss me in the middle of a fight? I did tell him I'm not a kid, didn't I? 

Sticking my arms out, I push my right middle finger into his eye. The resistance I feel gives way in a squelching pop. Another thick spurt of gooey black fluid sprays over my face. Some more of the warm viscous fluid makes its way into my mouth, as I feel a pressure on my forearm. Before I can react, the pressure turns into a sharp stabbing of several spikes. 

I look over to see this sick bastard taking a page out of my book. He's got a mouthful of my arm as I kick just hard enough to free myself from his grip. His jaw must be made of titanium or something, cause I'm stuck hanging in the air for at least ten seconds. Finally, the Long Man (Bitch) flings me with just his mouth into the wall by the stairs. 

I hear a loud crack and just know I broke something in the fall. Looking myself over, I see a big hole in my arm where I've been bit but nothing else. The loud crack seems to be a mop I landed on, breaking the handle with my impact. I fumble to grab the broken tip as I watch the freak turn to face me again. 

He's chewing on the chunk of my arm while grinning at me. The bastard thinks this is funny. I don't have insurance, how the hell am I going to pay for this?

“It's not funny, asshole! This is gonna financially ruin me!” 

I scream at him as I charge forward. Again this asshole underestimates me and dives forward too. His cocky attitude is finally gonna get the better of him though. 

I plunge the broken mop handle deep into the bastard's chest. He looks like he's trying to kiss me again before he stops. Looking down, he seems to realize that I finally got the upper hand on him. He stumbles back, screaming like a little baby and falls into the cage I woke up in. I chuckle pretty heavily as I approach the massive writhing pile of black robes and pale appendages. 

“What'd I tell ya, asshat?! I'd kick your ass up and down–” 

I wake up on the floor with the tall freak lying on top of my legs. A streak of thick black goo trails from the cage to the body's resting place. 

My first movement awakens a burst of whispers that fill the room. I can just make out a couple “he's alive?” and “he actually did it” remarks. Looking to my right arm, I see that at least the gaping hole isn't pouring blood anymore. I figure the bleeding having stopped is the only reason why I'm still alive. 

Thankfully, the key is still in my cage door. I retrieve it and make my way around the room, letting everyone out. Each time I do though, I regret it slightly, since each gremlin says “Thanks Dumbass Man Baby” before running up the stairs. Even when you do something nice for them, kids are still gonna be assholes. 

I find my phone in a basket at the top of the stairs. The damn basement door is maybe ten feet from the entrance of the house. You can see all the way through the place. How did I think there was a haunted house in here? Eh, it doesn't matter, I still outsmarted him in the end. 

I dial for the cops as I make my way to the front door. I might not like kids, and they may be mean as shit to me, but it still feels good to save someone's life. I can only assume that's why I have this weird tingling feeling all over as I walk outside. 

The one night I actually get to enjoy my afflictions seems to be over, as the sunrise is just starting to crest the horizon. I really hope that jackass didn't give me something though. The longer I stand on the phone with the cops, the more that tingling is turning into a burning. Fuck, is that a symptom of rabies or something? 

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left hand. My heart races, each thumping beat like it will burst from my chest, as I inspect the transition of a  slightly bruised and moderately hairy forearm to the baby smooth wrist. 

Blinking heavily I try to recall what I was dreaming about that has me so worked up but only find a blank void of nothingness. Hell I can't even place a single thing I did the entire day, week, or anytime before this moment. The vague elements of my life are there but I can't place a single specific detail. I start up my usual routine with a warm shower. My body aches as though the whole thing has been crushed as I pull myself into the water. 

Getting dressed continues my struggles — aches so intense I can't raise my hands over my head and have to pull my shirt over one arm at a time. I'm forced to sit on my bed to be able to heave each leg of my shorts up. Struggling to find the will to stand I finally manage to hoist myself up and push forward to my bedroom door. Each step feels like it's pushing my muscles to the brink of cramping as I traverse this dusty apartment. 

A bowl slips and clangs to the countertop, knocking over an empty whisky bottle. The sounds and my scramble to catch them force my jaw to clench as I struggle to control my breathing and steady my hand. Without my telling it to, my left hand works to correct the mess. Somehow, I know I have to do so even if it hurts.

My shoulders slump and my back hunches forward to be able to lift the spoon to my mouth. Just get through this, just as you do every day, a small voice in the distant regions of my consciousness tells me. The only thing I can comprehend at the moment is that the trek to the elevator is next. 

The ding rings through the barren hallway as the creaky doors open to a dimly lit rusty box. The first-floor button sticks and flickers like the rest of the lights in the car. Just before the doors close a thin pale hand shoots in and forces them back open. In that moment my eyes catch the glint of a ring displaying an odd double cross atop an infinity symbol just before the hand retracts. A thin man in a tightly tailored suit looks at me from behind his dark green eyes. Stepping forward he flashes a thin curled grin before pulling his slicked back hair tight against his skull. 

“Ah, not going up this time?”

“Sorry what?” 

“Oh nothing, I'm just sorry to hold you up but I'm sure you're in no rush yeah? Saw you limping your way down the hall earlier after all.” 

His voice feels like silk that wraps itself through my ears and around my mind as he gently nudges my elbow. Maybe it's embarrassment or maybe I just needed to work the stiffness out, but my body relaxes and the pressure begins to release from my joints. With a deep exhale I look over to the man and nod as I respond. 

“Oh uh, well yeah I'm definitely not in a rush. I actually don't even know where I'm going or… Or what I'm going to be doing.” 

“Hmm, well sounds like you have plenty of idle time on your hands then. If I can recommend anything, I'd say stop by my bar ‘The Ash and Ember.’ Just tell them you know Vassago and they'll take care of you.” 

A subtle wink accompanies his final words at the same time the doors to the elevator begin to squeak open. Before I can respond, the gentleman steps in front of me, calling over his shoulder just as he crosses the threshold of the car. 

“Although, you might want to get that leg checked out first.” 

The stranger's left hand uses his index and middle finger to point down while he continues to the exit. I look down at my left leg in confusion and find a bright red rash beginning to form on the outside of my calf. Oh great, I finally stop hurting all over and now this?

The previous widespread pain is now isolated to my left leg, but I'm at least able to actually get around. Now if I can only recall what I need to do today. I've just been following the pattern my body has told me to thus far, but I still don't know why I've done any of it. Why did I even bother getting out of bed? If I was hurting that bad I could have just as easily laid there. Hell, why did I bother leaving my apartment if I'm feeling this bad? Before I can take in my surroundings I hear a voice call out over the hustle and bustle of a coffee shop. 

“Hello, sir? Did you want to order? It's your turn now if you do.” 

Startled slightly, I whip my head around to see a sterile, brightly lit coffee shop. The cashier squints at me and turns her head slightly before I step forward to the register. 

“I don't really know what to get, or honestly what you all have. I don't see a menu or–” 

“I mean, we can just make your usual order yeah? Like I don't know if you wanted something different today, but you usually get the same thing sooo?” 

My eyes bulge as they dart around the room. A fresh swell of sweat breaks across my forehead as my chest tightens and my breathing goes shallow. Scrambling through my mind, I can't recall a single memory of being here much less ordering the same thing day after day. 

“Sir, I do need an order if you could–” 

“Erm, well yeah, I guess my usual would be fine?” 

“That wasn't so hard was it? It'll be at the pickup window when it's ready.” 

What the hell is going on right now? My mind's frantic race to put things together is halted as soon as I put weight on my left leg. A grunt escapes me as I look down. The dark red rash has spread across the entire lower half of my leg. Worse yet, there are thick yellow blisters now forming all over it. Each of the twelve or so blisters is at least one inch across and swells more with each flex of the muscle beneath. With a shaking hand I slowly reach forward and poke one of them. The bright yellow bubble of liquid-filled flesh is taut but depresses slightly at my touch. Pulling my finger back, the contents of the bubbled skin almost appear to swirl. 

“Hey, here's your coffee!” 

The same shrill voice of the cashier breaks my fixation and prompts me to hobble to the window. She pushes the coffee forward but I pause before taking it. 

“This might be weird, but uh, does my leg… does it look okay to you?”

She leans over the counter and peers down, tilting her head left and right a few times before returning her attention to me. 

“Looks like a skinny ass leg, is there supposed to be something there?” 

My mouth drops slightly open as I shift my stance and raise my left pant leg before responding. 

“Yeah, the entire lower half is red and covered in blisters isn't it?”

She again leans forward but only for a second this time. 

“Nah man, just a normal skinny guy leg down there to me. Are you feeling okay?” 

Aggressively nodding I grab the coffee cup and stumble towards the door. Reaching for the handle, I take a sip to distract myself from the pain but instantly spit it out. A burning sensation runs down my throat as I gasp for air. Did that chick really just spike my drink, and if not how the hell is this my usual order? The temporary distraction is broken up by the pain that surges with each step. The moment the warm sunlight reaches my face there's a stab of pain and feeling of fluid trickling down my leg. 

I bend down and a foul scent of infection and rot meets me before my eyes can see which one has burst. The thick yellow and pink seepage from a quarter-sized hole in the upper portion of my calf is the culprit. As I sit and pull my leg into my lap, a shot of pain fires through my shin as another blister bursts open, spraying my chin with thick clumps of whatever is inside these things. The offensive odor blurs my vision and forces me to fight with everything in me not to vomit. I wipe the viscous yellow clumps from my face. Another quarter-sized wound sits open in my shin. This one is leaking dark red blood alongside the yellow and pink stream of pus. 

Clambering back to my feet I look in all directions to make out where I should go. I know I need a hospital but don't even recognize the tall buildings that surround me. Choosing to go left, I stumble to the nearest intersection and firmly grasp the light pole to hold myself up.  A massive, involuntary exhale escapes me when I see the sign across the street. I never thought the words “Urgent Care” could bring tears to my eyes, but here I am, bawling while dragging my leaking leg across the street.

Confused, I hear the stern voice of someone speaking to me. I look around at a plain white room with grey cabinets lining the walls. A round man with rimmed glasses stares back at me. His ill-fitting scrubs and stethoscope rise and fall with each heavy breath. 

“I need you to answer my questions sir. I can't help you if you're going to ignore me.” 

His impatient and stern tone shakes me out of my confused silence. 

“I'm sorry, how did I get here? I don't rem–” 

“You walked in like everyone else does. The nurses said you're here for your leg, is that right?” 

“Yeah, my uh leg is in pretty bad shape. There's this rash and these blisters started popping just–” 

The doctor huffs slightly as he leans down towards my leg. 

“Rash and blisters eh? Have we had a few too many drinks today maybe?” 

Baffled, I pick up my leg and am horrified at what I see. The entire area from my knee down is a dark reddish-brown with black circles where each blister was. The skin has turned flaky with a dark yellow center in each black circle. The reddish-brown areas between the black spots have begun to crack, oozing a sticky brown seepage. The entire thing smells like a dead body, and every twitch and subtle movement wafts the scent up to my face. 

The doctor reaches out and pulls my leg forward to examine it. Even his light touches send surges of pain so severe my vision narrows and blurs. He presses his hand in and slides it down the back of my calf making me scream and recoil. In my flailing, a large section of what used to be my skin peels away and hangs down. The area looks like a stained sleeve of flesh that’s been stretched out and dropped. The exposed musculature twitches with each movement as my screams fill the room. I can just barely make out the doctor yelling for assistance as he rushes out the door. Pushing through the piercing pain, I manage to hobble out of the examination room and down the hall. I look back; a trail of thick pus and nearly black blood traces my steps, ending at the flap of still attached calf skin I've dragged with me. Panicking as the sunlight hits my face, I know there's one place left to go, the only place where someone can see what's happening. 

Stumbling back, I fall hard onto the concrete floor. Looking down at me is a hulking man in a black polo. The fine details of his face are hidden in shadow as he scowls at me. A neon sign that reads “The Ash and Ember” lights the backdrop of the massive man as he picks me up off the floor. 

“I told you, you're not on the list bud. Even if you were, there's a dress code here!” 

Fumbling through my sparse memories, I fight to find the name I need. I scream out as the mountain of a man turns me around. 

“I know Vassago! I know Vassago, please just stop!” 

“Did somebody say my name?” 

That silky voice calls out from behind the brute as his fists unclench from my shirt. A stiff pat on my shoulder turns me to face the sleek man from the elevator with slicked back hair and piercing dark green eyes. The thin curled grin he's wearing opens to a wide toothy smile as he waves me forward.  

The interior of the bar is a dimly lit smoke-filled lounge with circular red suede booths scattered throughout. The actual bar is at least fifteen feet long and fully stocked with no-name and blank bottles. Vassago makes his way behind the bar, pours a drink, and returns to sit next to me. Pushing the glass forward, he nods at me and kicks one leg over the other. 

“Tsk tsk. It looks like the leg’s no good. What a shame, after all this time I really thought this one would be your last.” 

His voice grows heavier with each word spoken. Not wanting to wait for me, he picks up the glass and pushes it into my hands and up towards my mouth. 

“Go ahead. A double scotch on the rocks, it's your usual after all.” 

I take a hesitant sip; the ice-cold whisky glides down my throat. For a moment the relief even blocks out the pain from my leg. I look down at it anyway. Any remaining skin is long gone. I'm now left with stringy patches of fibrous muscle that loosely cling to the bones. My shoe has followed the path of my skin, leaving me with a bare foot in a similar state to my calf. 

“Can you see it, can you see my–” 

“Yes, the answer is always yes. For fuck’s sake it's always ‘but my arm’ or ‘but my leg’ with you! When will you finally start to remember huh?” 

“I don't understand, I haven't been here–” 

“No, not this, not our talks. When will you remember what you did?” 

I clench my jaw as my heart begins to race; my mind is even more of a mess now than when I first spoke to this man. 

“Think, damn it! Think about Nathan Collins, about the packing plant! Do you remember any of it?!” 

I shake my head as a pounding builds behind my eyes and a memory starts to come into focus. My breath smelled of the fifth of scotch that I had polished off in my car. A man with long greasy  hair climbed into one of my heat-sealing press machines. He was supposed to troubleshoot something in it and I needed to make sure it stayed turned off. The feelings of drowsiness swept over me in waves until everything went black. I awoke to guttural screams mixed with the industrial whir I knew all too well. The greasy man was kicking and pulling with his right arm as the press slammed down onto him. I looked down to see the switch and button kicked back on at my control station. In a drunken panic I ran for him, never thinking to shut the machine off. The blood-soaked nametag on the man's chest read “Nathan.” The press bashed down three more times before I got him fully clear of the mechanism. Each crushing stroke took another piece of both Nathan's left leg and arm, leaving puddles of blood with chunks of mangled flesh and splintered bone across the belt. By the time paramedics arrived, Nathan had already gone quiet in the puddle of blood large enough to surround us both. I blink hard as Vassago narrows his eyes at me. 

“Hmm, well better late than never as they say. Except in this case I guess it's too little too late. But at least you made progress this time.” 

Vassago stands up and I reach forward to grab him but am stopped by a surge of pain following a loud crack. I look down to the brittle exposed bone that gives way under my weight as I lean forward. The stringy bits of muscle hang freely as what's left of my now decomposing leg crashes to the floor. Vassago looks down and back up, his eyes now black as he speaks again. 

“One last question for you this time, what do you think made you jump from that shitty apartment building roof at the end? Do you remember that at all?... Do you think it was when you received the wrongful-death lawsuit from Nathan's family, or was it you finally feeling remorseful for what you did?...” 

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left calf.

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left hand. My heart races, each thumping beat like it will burst from my chest, as I inspect the transition of a  slightly bruised and moderately hairy forearm to the baby smooth wrist. 

Blinking heavily I try to recall what I was dreaming about that has me so worked up but only find a blank void of nothingness. Hell I can't even place a single thing I did the entire day, week, or anytime before this moment. The vague elements of my life are there but I can't place a single specific detail. I start up my usual routine with a warm shower. My body aches as though the whole thing has been crushed as I pull myself into the water. 

Getting dressed continues my struggles — aches so intense I can't raise my hands over my head and have to pull my shirt over one arm at a time. I'm forced to sit on my bed to be able to heave each leg of my shorts up. Struggling to find the will to stand I finally manage to hoist myself up and push forward to my bedroom door. Each step feels like it's pushing my muscles to the brink of cramping as I traverse this dusty apartment. 

A bowl slips and clangs to the countertop, knocking over an empty whisky bottle. The sounds and my scramble to catch them force my jaw to clench as I struggle to control my breathing and steady my hand. Without my telling it to, my left hand works to correct the mess. Somehow, I know I have to do so even if it hurts.

My shoulders slump and my back hunches forward to be able to lift the spoon to my mouth. Just get through this, just as you do every day, a small voice in the distant regions of my consciousness tells me. The only thing I can comprehend at the moment is that the trek to the elevator is next. 

The ding rings through the barren hallway as the creaky doors open to a dimly lit rusty box. The first-floor button sticks and flickers like the rest of the lights in the car. Just before the doors close a thin pale hand shoots in and forces them back open. In that moment my eyes catch the glint of a ring displaying an odd double cross atop an infinity symbol just before the hand retracts. A thin man in a tightly tailored suit looks at me from behind his dark green eyes. Stepping forward he flashes a thin curled grin before pulling his slicked back hair tight against his skull. 

“Ah, not going up this time?”

“Sorry what?” 

“Oh nothing, I'm just sorry to hold you up but I'm sure you're in no rush yeah? Saw you limping your way down the hall earlier after all.” 

His voice feels like silk that wraps itself through my ears and around my mind as he gently nudges my elbow. Maybe it's embarrassment or maybe I just needed to work the stiffness out, but my body relaxes and the pressure begins to release from my joints. With a deep exhale I look over to the man and nod as I respond. 

“Oh uh, well yeah I'm definitely not in a rush. I actually don't even know where I'm going or… Or what I'm going to be doing.” 

“Hmm, well sounds like you have plenty of idle time on your hands then. If I can recommend anything, I'd say stop by my bar ‘The Ash and Ember.’ Just tell them you know Vassago and they'll take care of you.” 

A subtle wink accompanies his final words at the same time the doors to the elevator begin to squeak open. Before I can respond, the gentleman steps in front of me, calling over his shoulder just as he crosses the threshold of the car. 

“Although, you might want to get that leg checked out first.” 

The stranger's left hand uses his index and middle finger to point down while he continues to the exit. I look down at my left leg in confusion and find a bright red rash beginning to form on the outside of my calf. Oh great, I finally stop hurting all over and now this?

The previous widespread pain is now isolated to my left leg, but I'm at least able to actually get around. Now if I can only recall what I need to do today. I've just been following the pattern my body has told me to thus far, but I still don't know why I've done any of it. Why did I even bother getting out of bed? If I was hurting that bad I could have just as easily laid there. Hell, why did I bother leaving my apartment if I'm feeling this bad? Before I can take in my surroundings I hear a voice call out over the hustle and bustle of a coffee shop. 

“Hello, sir? Did you want to order? It's your turn now if you do.” 

Startled slightly, I whip my head around to see a sterile, brightly lit coffee shop. The cashier squints at me and turns her head slightly before I step forward to the register. 

“I don't really know what to get, or honestly what you all have. I don't see a menu or–” 

“I mean, we can just make your usual order yeah? Like I don't know if you wanted something different today, but you usually get the same thing sooo?” 

My eyes bulge as they dart around the room. A fresh swell of sweat breaks across my forehead as my chest tightens and my breathing goes shallow. Scrambling through my mind, I can't recall a single memory of being here much less ordering the same thing day after day. 

“Sir, I do need an order if you could–” 

“Erm, well yeah, I guess my usual would be fine?” 

“That wasn't so hard was it? It'll be at the pickup window when it's ready.” 

What the hell is going on right now? My mind's frantic race to put things together is halted as soon as I put weight on my left leg. A grunt escapes me as I look down. The dark red rash has spread across the entire lower half of my leg. Worse yet, there are thick yellow blisters now forming all over it. Each of the twelve or so blisters is at least one inch across and swells more with each flex of the muscle beneath. With a shaking hand I slowly reach forward and poke one of them. The bright yellow bubble of liquid-filled flesh is taut but depresses slightly at my touch. Pulling my finger back, the contents of the bubbled skin almost appear to swirl. 

“Hey, here's your coffee!” 

The same shrill voice of the cashier breaks my fixation and prompts me to hobble to the window. She pushes the coffee forward but I pause before taking it. 

“This might be weird, but uh, does my leg… does it look okay to you?”

She leans over the counter and peers down, tilting her head left and right a few times before returning her attention to me. 

“Looks like a skinny ass leg, is there supposed to be something there?” 

My mouth drops slightly open as I shift my stance and raise my left pant leg before responding. 

“Yeah, the entire lower half is red and covered in blisters isn't it?”

She again leans forward but only for a second this time. 

“Nah man, just a normal skinny guy leg down there to me. Are you feeling okay?” 

Aggressively nodding I grab the coffee cup and stumble towards the door. Reaching for the handle, I take a sip to distract myself from the pain but instantly spit it out. A burning sensation runs down my throat as I gasp for air. Did that chick really just spike my drink, and if not how the hell is this my usual order? The temporary distraction is broken up by the pain that surges with each step. The moment the warm sunlight reaches my face there's a stab of pain and feeling of fluid trickling down my leg. 

I bend down and a foul scent of infection and rot meets me before my eyes can see which one has burst. The thick yellow and pink seepage from a quarter-sized hole in the upper portion of my calf is the culprit. As I sit and pull my leg into my lap, a shot of pain fires through my shin as another blister bursts open, spraying my chin with thick clumps of whatever is inside these things. The offensive odor blurs my vision and forces me to fight with everything in me not to vomit. I wipe the viscous yellow clumps from my face. Another quarter-sized wound sits open in my shin. This one is leaking dark red blood alongside the yellow and pink stream of pus. 

Clambering back to my feet I look in all directions to make out where I should go. I know I need a hospital but don't even recognize the tall buildings that surround me. Choosing to go left, I stumble to the nearest intersection and firmly grasp the light pole to hold myself up.  A massive, involuntary exhale escapes me when I see the sign across the street. I never thought the words “Urgent Care” could bring tears to my eyes, but here I am, bawling while dragging my leaking leg across the street.

Confused, I hear the stern voice of someone speaking to me. I look around at a plain white room with grey cabinets lining the walls. A round man with rimmed glasses stares back at me. His ill-fitting scrubs and stethoscope rise and fall with each heavy breath. 

“I need you to answer my questions sir. I can't help you if you're going to ignore me.” 

His impatient and stern tone shakes me out of my confused silence. 

“I'm sorry, how did I get here? I don't rem–” 

“You walked in like everyone else does. The nurses said you're here for your leg, is that right?” 

“Yeah, my uh leg is in pretty bad shape. There's this rash and these blisters started popping just–” 

The doctor huffs slightly as he leans down towards my leg. 

“Rash and blisters eh? Have we had a few too many drinks today maybe?” 

Baffled, I pick up my leg and am horrified at what I see. The entire area from my knee down is a dark reddish-brown with black circles where each blister was. The skin has turned flaky with a dark yellow center in each black circle. The reddish-brown areas between the black spots have begun to crack, oozing a sticky brown seepage. The entire thing smells like a dead body, and every twitch and subtle movement wafts the scent up to my face. 

The doctor reaches out and pulls my leg forward to examine it. Even his light touches send surges of pain so severe my vision narrows and blurs. He presses his hand in and slides it down the back of my calf making me scream and recoil. In my flailing, a large section of what used to be my skin peels away and hangs down. The area looks like a stained sleeve of flesh that’s been stretched out and dropped. The exposed musculature twitches with each movement as my screams fill the room. I can just barely make out the doctor yelling for assistance as he rushes out the door. Pushing through the piercing pain, I manage to hobble out of the examination room and down the hall. I look back; a trail of thick pus and nearly black blood traces my steps, ending at the flap of still attached calf skin I've dragged with me. Panicking as the sunlight hits my face, I know there's one place left to go, the only place where someone can see what's happening. 

Stumbling back, I fall hard onto the concrete floor. Looking down at me is a hulking man in a black polo. The fine details of his face are hidden in shadow as he scowls at me. A neon sign that reads “The Ash and Ember” lights the backdrop of the massive man as he picks me up off the floor. 

“I told you, you're not on the list bud. Even if you were, there's a dress code here!” 

Fumbling through my sparse memories, I fight to find the name I need. I scream out as the mountain of a man turns me around. 

“I know Vassago! I know Vassago, please just stop!” 

“Did somebody say my name?” 

That silky voice calls out from behind the brute as his fists unclench from my shirt. A stiff pat on my shoulder turns me to face the sleek man from the elevator with slicked back hair and piercing dark green eyes. The thin curled grin he's wearing opens to a wide toothy smile as he waves me forward.  

The interior of the bar is a dimly lit smoke-filled lounge with circular red suede booths scattered throughout. The actual bar is at least fifteen feet long and fully stocked with no-name and blank bottles. Vassago makes his way behind the bar, pours a drink, and returns to sit next to me. Pushing the glass forward, he nods at me and kicks one leg over the other. 

“Tsk tsk. It looks like the leg’s no good. What a shame, after all this time I really thought this one would be your last.” 

His voice grows heavier with each word spoken. Not wanting to wait for me, he picks up the glass and pushes it into my hands and up towards my mouth. 

“Go ahead. A double scotch on the rocks, it's your usual after all.” 

I take a hesitant sip; the ice-cold whisky glides down my throat. For a moment the relief even blocks out the pain from my leg. I look down at it anyway. Any remaining skin is long gone. I'm now left with stringy patches of fibrous muscle that loosely cling to the bones. My shoe has followed the path of my skin, leaving me with a bare foot in a similar state to my calf. 

“Can you see it, can you see my–” 

“Yes, the answer is always yes. For fuck’s sake it's always ‘but my arm’ or ‘but my leg’ with you! When will you finally start to remember huh?” 

“I don't understand, I haven't been here–” 

“No, not this, not our talks. When will you remember what you did?” 

I clench my jaw as my heart begins to race; my mind is even more of a mess now than when I first spoke to this man. 

“Think, damn it! Think about Nathan Collins, about the packing plant! Do you remember any of it?!” 

I shake my head as a pounding builds behind my eyes and a memory starts to come into focus. My breath smelled of the fifth of scotch that I had polished off in my car. A man with long greasy  hair climbed into one of my heat-sealing press machines. He was supposed to troubleshoot something in it and I needed to make sure it stayed turned off. The feelings of drowsiness swept over me in waves until everything went black. I awoke to guttural screams mixed with the industrial whir I knew all too well. The greasy man was kicking and pulling with his right arm as the press slammed down onto him. I looked down to see the switch and button kicked back on at my control station. In a drunken panic I ran for him, never thinking to shut the machine off. The blood-soaked nametag on the man's chest read “Nathan.” The press bashed down three more times before I got him fully clear of the mechanism. Each crushing stroke took another piece of both Nathan's left leg and arm, leaving puddles of blood with chunks of mangled flesh and splintered bone across the belt. By the time paramedics arrived, Nathan had already gone quiet in the puddle of blood large enough to surround us both. I blink hard as Vassago narrows his eyes at me. 

“Hmm, well better late than never as they say. Except in this case I guess it's too little too late. But at least you made progress this time.” 

Vassago stands up and I reach forward to grab him but am stopped by a surge of pain following a loud crack. I look down to the brittle exposed bone that gives way under my weight as I lean forward. The stringy bits of muscle hang freely as what's left of my now decomposing leg crashes to the floor. Vassago looks down and back up, his eyes now black as he speaks again. 

“One last question for you this time, what do you think made you jump from that shitty apartment building roof at the end? Do you remember that at all?... Do you think it was when you received the wrongful-death lawsuit from Nathan's family, or was it you finally feeling remorseful for what you did?...” 

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left calf.

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left hand. My heart races, each thumping beat like it will burst from my chest, as I inspect the transition of a  slightly bruised and moderately hairy forearm to the baby smooth wrist. 

Blinking heavily I try to recall what I was dreaming about that has me so worked up but only find a blank void of nothingness. Hell I can't even place a single thing I did the entire day, week, or anytime before this moment. The vague elements of my life are there but I can't place a single specific detail. I start up my usual routine with a warm shower. My body aches as though the whole thing has been crushed as I pull myself into the water. 

Getting dressed continues my struggles — aches so intense I can't raise my hands over my head and have to pull my shirt over one arm at a time. I'm forced to sit on my bed to be able to heave each leg of my shorts up. Struggling to find the will to stand I finally manage to hoist myself up and push forward to my bedroom door. Each step feels like it's pushing my muscles to the brink of cramping as I traverse this dusty apartment. 

A bowl slips and clangs to the countertop, knocking over an empty whisky bottle. The sounds and my scramble to catch them force my jaw to clench as I struggle to control my breathing and steady my hand. Without my telling it to, my left hand works to correct the mess. Somehow, I know I have to do so even if it hurts.

My shoulders slump and my back hunches forward to be able to lift the spoon to my mouth. Just get through this, just as you do every day, a small voice in the distant regions of my consciousness tells me. The only thing I can comprehend at the moment is that the trek to the elevator is next. 

The ding rings through the barren hallway as the creaky doors open to a dimly lit rusty box. The first-floor button sticks and flickers like the rest of the lights in the car. Just before the doors close a thin pale hand shoots in and forces them back open. In that moment my eyes catch the glint of a ring displaying an odd double cross atop an infinity symbol just before the hand retracts. A thin man in a tightly tailored suit looks at me from behind his dark green eyes. Stepping forward he flashes a thin curled grin before pulling his slicked back hair tight against his skull. 

“Ah, not going up this time?”

“Sorry what?” 

“Oh nothing, I'm just sorry to hold you up but I'm sure you're in no rush yeah? Saw you limping your way down the hall earlier after all.” 

His voice feels like silk that wraps itself through my ears and around my mind as he gently nudges my elbow. Maybe it's embarrassment or maybe I just needed to work the stiffness out, but my body relaxes and the pressure begins to release from my joints. With a deep exhale I look over to the man and nod as I respond. 

“Oh uh, well yeah I'm definitely not in a rush. I actually don't even know where I'm going or… Or what I'm going to be doing.” 

“Hmm, well sounds like you have plenty of idle time on your hands then. If I can recommend anything, I'd say stop by my bar ‘The Ash and Ember.’ Just tell them you know Vassago and they'll take care of you.” 

A subtle wink accompanies his final words at the same time the doors to the elevator begin to squeak open. Before I can respond, the gentleman steps in front of me, calling over his shoulder just as he crosses the threshold of the car. 

“Although, you might want to get that leg checked out first.” 

The stranger's left hand uses his index and middle finger to point down while he continues to the exit. I look down at my left leg in confusion and find a bright red rash beginning to form on the outside of my calf. Oh great, I finally stop hurting all over and now this?

The previous widespread pain is now isolated to my left leg, but I'm at least able to actually get around. Now if I can only recall what I need to do today. I've just been following the pattern my body has told me to thus far, but I still don't know why I've done any of it. Why did I even bother getting out of bed? If I was hurting that bad I could have just as easily laid there. Hell, why did I bother leaving my apartment if I'm feeling this bad? Before I can take in my surroundings I hear a voice call out over the hustle and bustle of a coffee shop. 

“Hello, sir? Did you want to order? It's your turn now if you do.” 

Startled slightly, I whip my head around to see a sterile, brightly lit coffee shop. The cashier squints at me and turns her head slightly before I step forward to the register. 

“I don't really know what to get, or honestly what you all have. I don't see a menu or–” 

“I mean, we can just make your usual order yeah? Like I don't know if you wanted something different today, but you usually get the same thing sooo?” 

My eyes bulge as they dart around the room. A fresh swell of sweat breaks across my forehead as my chest tightens and my breathing goes shallow. Scrambling through my mind, I can't recall a single memory of being here much less ordering the same thing day after day. 

“Sir, I do need an order if you could–” 

“Erm, well yeah, I guess my usual would be fine?” 

“That wasn't so hard was it? It'll be at the pickup window when it's ready.” 

What the hell is going on right now? My mind's frantic race to put things together is halted as soon as I put weight on my left leg. A grunt escapes me as I look down. The dark red rash has spread across the entire lower half of my leg. Worse yet, there are thick yellow blisters now forming all over it. Each of the twelve or so blisters is at least one inch across and swells more with each flex of the muscle beneath. With a shaking hand I slowly reach forward and poke one of them. The bright yellow bubble of liquid-filled flesh is taut but depresses slightly at my touch. Pulling my finger back, the contents of the bubbled skin almost appear to swirl. 

“Hey, here's your coffee!” 

The same shrill voice of the cashier breaks my fixation and prompts me to hobble to the window. She pushes the coffee forward but I pause before taking it. 

“This might be weird, but uh, does my leg… does it look okay to you?”

She leans over the counter and peers down, tilting her head left and right a few times before returning her attention to me. 

“Looks like a skinny ass leg, is there supposed to be something there?” 

My mouth drops slightly open as I shift my stance and raise my left pant leg before responding. 

“Yeah, the entire lower half is red and covered in blisters isn't it?”

She again leans forward but only for a second this time. 

“Nah man, just a normal skinny guy leg down there to me. Are you feeling okay?” 

Aggressively nodding I grab the coffee cup and stumble towards the door. Reaching for the handle, I take a sip to distract myself from the pain but instantly spit it out. A burning sensation runs down my throat as I gasp for air. Did that chick really just spike my drink, and if not how the hell is this my usual order? The temporary distraction is broken up by the pain that surges with each step. The moment the warm sunlight reaches my face there's a stab of pain and feeling of fluid trickling down my leg. 

I bend down and a foul scent of infection and rot meets me before my eyes can see which one has burst. The thick yellow and pink seepage from a quarter-sized hole in the upper portion of my calf is the culprit. As I sit and pull my leg into my lap, a shot of pain fires through my shin as another blister bursts open, spraying my chin with thick clumps of whatever is inside these things. The offensive odor blurs my vision and forces me to fight with everything in me not to vomit. I wipe the viscous yellow clumps from my face. Another quarter-sized wound sits open in my shin. This one is leaking dark red blood alongside the yellow and pink stream of pus. 

Clambering back to my feet I look in all directions to make out where I should go. I know I need a hospital but don't even recognize the tall buildings that surround me. Choosing to go left, I stumble to the nearest intersection and firmly grasp the light pole to hold myself up.  A massive, involuntary exhale escapes me when I see the sign across the street. I never thought the words “Urgent Care” could bring tears to my eyes, but here I am, bawling while dragging my leaking leg across the street.

Confused, I hear the stern voice of someone speaking to me. I look around at a plain white room with grey cabinets lining the walls. A round man with rimmed glasses stares back at me. His ill-fitting scrubs and stethoscope rise and fall with each heavy breath. 

“I need you to answer my questions sir. I can't help you if you're going to ignore me.” 

His impatient and stern tone shakes me out of my confused silence. 

“I'm sorry, how did I get here? I don't rem–” 

“You walked in like everyone else does. The nurses said you're here for your leg, is that right?” 

“Yeah, my uh leg is in pretty bad shape. There's this rash and these blisters started popping just–” 

The doctor huffs slightly as he leans down towards my leg. 

“Rash and blisters eh? Have we had a few too many drinks today maybe?” 

Baffled, I pick up my leg and am horrified at what I see. The entire area from my knee down is a dark reddish-brown with black circles where each blister was. The skin has turned flaky with a dark yellow center in each black circle. The reddish-brown areas between the black spots have begun to crack, oozing a sticky brown seepage. The entire thing smells like a dead body, and every twitch and subtle movement wafts the scent up to my face. 

The doctor reaches out and pulls my leg forward to examine it. Even his light touches send surges of pain so severe my vision narrows and blurs. He presses his hand in and slides it down the back of my calf making me scream and recoil. In my flailing, a large section of what used to be my skin peels away and hangs down. The area looks like a stained sleeve of flesh that’s been stretched out and dropped. The exposed musculature twitches with each movement as my screams fill the room. I can just barely make out the doctor yelling for assistance as he rushes out the door. Pushing through the piercing pain, I manage to hobble out of the examination room and down the hall. I look back; a trail of thick pus and nearly black blood traces my steps, ending at the flap of still attached calf skin I've dragged with me. Panicking as the sunlight hits my face, I know there's one place left to go, the only place where someone can see what's happening. 

Stumbling back, I fall hard onto the concrete floor. Looking down at me is a hulking man in a black polo. The fine details of his face are hidden in shadow as he scowls at me. A neon sign that reads “The Ash and Ember” lights the backdrop of the massive man as he picks me up off the floor. 

“I told you, you're not on the list bud. Even if you were, there's a dress code here!” 

Fumbling through my sparse memories, I fight to find the name I need. I scream out as the mountain of a man turns me around. 

“I know Vassago! I know Vassago, please just stop!” 

“Did somebody say my name?” 

That silky voice calls out from behind the brute as his fists unclench from my shirt. A stiff pat on my shoulder turns me to face the sleek man from the elevator with slicked back hair and piercing dark green eyes. The thin curled grin he's wearing opens to a wide toothy smile as he waves me forward.  

The interior of the bar is a dimly lit smoke-filled lounge with circular red suede booths scattered throughout. The actual bar is at least fifteen feet long and fully stocked with no-name and blank bottles. Vassago makes his way behind the bar, pours a drink, and returns to sit next to me. Pushing the glass forward, he nods at me and kicks one leg over the other. 

“Tsk tsk. It looks like the leg’s no good. What a shame, after all this time I really thought this one would be your last.” 

His voice grows heavier with each word spoken. Not wanting to wait for me, he picks up the glass and pushes it into my hands and up towards my mouth. 

“Go ahead. A double scotch on the rocks, it's your usual after all.” 

I take a hesitant sip; the ice-cold whisky glides down my throat. For a moment the relief even blocks out the pain from my leg. I look down at it anyway. Any remaining skin is long gone. I'm now left with stringy patches of fibrous muscle that loosely cling to the bones. My shoe has followed the path of my skin, leaving me with a bare foot in a similar state to my calf. 

“Can you see it, can you see my–” 

“Yes, the answer is always yes. For fuck’s sake it's always ‘but my arm’ or ‘but my leg’ with you! When will you finally start to remember huh?” 

“I don't understand, I haven't been here–” 

“No, not this, not our talks. When will you remember what you did?” 

I clench my jaw as my heart begins to race; my mind is even more of a mess now than when I first spoke to this man. 

“Think, damn it! Think about Nathan Collins, about the packing plant! Do you remember any of it?!” 

I shake my head as a pounding builds behind my eyes and a memory starts to come into focus. My breath smelled of the fifth of scotch that I had polished off in my car. A man with long greasy  hair climbed into one of my heat-sealing press machines. He was supposed to troubleshoot something in it and I needed to make sure it stayed turned off. The feelings of drowsiness swept over me in waves until everything went black. I awoke to guttural screams mixed with the industrial whir I knew all too well. The greasy man was kicking and pulling with his right arm as the press slammed down onto him. I looked down to see the switch and button kicked back on at my control station. In a drunken panic I ran for him, never thinking to shut the machine off. The blood-soaked nametag on the man's chest read “Nathan.” The press bashed down three more times before I got him fully clear of the mechanism. Each crushing stroke took another piece of both Nathan's left leg and arm, leaving puddles of blood with chunks of mangled flesh and splintered bone across the belt. By the time paramedics arrived, Nathan had already gone quiet in the puddle of blood large enough to surround us both. I blink hard as Vassago narrows his eyes at me. 

“Hmm, well better late than never as they say. Except in this case I guess it's too little too late. But at least you made progress this time.” 

Vassago stands up and I reach forward to grab him but am stopped by a surge of pain following a loud crack. I look down to the brittle exposed bone that gives way under my weight as I lean forward. The stringy bits of muscle hang freely as what's left of my now decomposing leg crashes to the floor. Vassago looks down and back up, his eyes now black as he speaks again. 

“One last question for you this time, what do you think made you jump from that shitty apartment building roof at the end? Do you remember that at all?... Do you think it was when you received the wrongful-death lawsuit from Nathan's family, or was it you finally feeling remorseful for what you did?...” 

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left calf.

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left hand. My heart races, each thumping beat like it will burst from my chest, as I inspect the transition of a  slightly bruised and moderately hairy forearm to the baby smooth wrist. 

Blinking heavily I try to recall what I was dreaming about that has me so worked up but only find a blank void of nothingness. Hell I can't even place a single thing I did the entire day, week, or anytime before this moment. The vague elements of my life are there but I can't place a single specific detail. I start up my usual routine with a warm shower. My body aches as though the whole thing has been crushed as I pull myself into the water. 

Getting dressed continues my struggles — aches so intense I can't raise my hands over my head and have to pull my shirt over one arm at a time. I'm forced to sit on my bed to be able to heave each leg of my shorts up. Struggling to find the will to stand I finally manage to hoist myself up and push forward to my bedroom door. Each step feels like it's pushing my muscles to the brink of cramping as I traverse this dusty apartment. 

A bowl slips and clangs to the countertop, knocking over an empty whisky bottle. The sounds and my scramble to catch them force my jaw to clench as I struggle to control my breathing and steady my hand. Without my telling it to, my left hand works to correct the mess. Somehow, I know I have to do so even if it hurts.

My shoulders slump and my back hunches forward to be able to lift the spoon to my mouth. Just get through this, just as you do every day, a small voice in the distant regions of my consciousness tells me. The only thing I can comprehend at the moment is that the trek to the elevator is next. 

The ding rings through the barren hallway as the creaky doors open to a dimly lit rusty box. The first-floor button sticks and flickers like the rest of the lights in the car. Just before the doors close a thin pale hand shoots in and forces them back open. In that moment my eyes catch the glint of a ring displaying an odd double cross atop an infinity symbol just before the hand retracts. A thin man in a tightly tailored suit looks at me from behind his dark green eyes. Stepping forward he flashes a thin curled grin before pulling his slicked back hair tight against his skull. 

“Ah, not going up this time?”

“Sorry what?” 

“Oh nothing, I'm just sorry to hold you up but I'm sure you're in no rush yeah? Saw you limping your way down the hall earlier after all.” 

His voice feels like silk that wraps itself through my ears and around my mind as he gently nudges my elbow. Maybe it's embarrassment or maybe I just needed to work the stiffness out, but my body relaxes and the pressure begins to release from my joints. With a deep exhale I look over to the man and nod as I respond. 

“Oh uh, well yeah I'm definitely not in a rush. I actually don't even know where I'm going or… Or what I'm going to be doing.” 

“Hmm, well sounds like you have plenty of idle time on your hands then. If I can recommend anything, I'd say stop by my bar ‘The Ash and Ember.’ Just tell them you know Vassago and they'll take care of you.” 

A subtle wink accompanies his final words at the same time the doors to the elevator begin to squeak open. Before I can respond, the gentleman steps in front of me, calling over his shoulder just as he crosses the threshold of the car. 

“Although, you might want to get that leg checked out first.” 

The stranger's left hand uses his index and middle finger to point down while he continues to the exit. I look down at my left leg in confusion and find a bright red rash beginning to form on the outside of my calf. Oh great, I finally stop hurting all over and now this?

The previous widespread pain is now isolated to my left leg, but I'm at least able to actually get around. Now if I can only recall what I need to do today. I've just been following the pattern my body has told me to thus far, but I still don't know why I've done any of it. Why did I even bother getting out of bed? If I was hurting that bad I could have just as easily laid there. Hell, why did I bother leaving my apartment if I'm feeling this bad? Before I can take in my surroundings I hear a voice call out over the hustle and bustle of a coffee shop. 

“Hello, sir? Did you want to order? It's your turn now if you do.” 

Startled slightly, I whip my head around to see a sterile, brightly lit coffee shop. The cashier squints at me and turns her head slightly before I step forward to the register. 

“I don't really know what to get, or honestly what you all have. I don't see a menu or–” 

“I mean, we can just make your usual order yeah? Like I don't know if you wanted something different today, but you usually get the same thing sooo?” 

My eyes bulge as they dart around the room. A fresh swell of sweat breaks across my forehead as my chest tightens and my breathing goes shallow. Scrambling through my mind, I can't recall a single memory of being here much less ordering the same thing day after day. 

“Sir, I do need an order if you could–” 

“Erm, well yeah, I guess my usual would be fine?” 

“That wasn't so hard was it? It'll be at the pickup window when it's ready.” 

What the hell is going on right now? My mind's frantic race to put things together is halted as soon as I put weight on my left leg. A grunt escapes me as I look down. The dark red rash has spread across the entire lower half of my leg. Worse yet, there are thick yellow blisters now forming all over it. Each of the twelve or so blisters is at least one inch across and swells more with each flex of the muscle beneath. With a shaking hand I slowly reach forward and poke one of them. The bright yellow bubble of liquid-filled flesh is taut but depresses slightly at my touch. Pulling my finger back, the contents of the bubbled skin almost appear to swirl. 

“Hey, here's your coffee!” 

The same shrill voice of the cashier breaks my fixation and prompts me to hobble to the window. She pushes the coffee forward but I pause before taking it. 

“This might be weird, but uh, does my leg… does it look okay to you?”

She leans over the counter and peers down, tilting her head left and right a few times before returning her attention to me. 

“Looks like a skinny ass leg, is there supposed to be something there?” 

My mouth drops slightly open as I shift my stance and raise my left pant leg before responding. 

“Yeah, the entire lower half is red and covered in blisters isn't it?”

She again leans forward but only for a second this time. 

“Nah man, just a normal skinny guy leg down there to me. Are you feeling okay?” 

Aggressively nodding I grab the coffee cup and stumble towards the door. Reaching for the handle, I take a sip to distract myself from the pain but instantly spit it out. A burning sensation runs down my throat as I gasp for air. Did that chick really just spike my drink, and if not how the hell is this my usual order? The temporary distraction is broken up by the pain that surges with each step. The moment the warm sunlight reaches my face there's a stab of pain and feeling of fluid trickling down my leg. 

I bend down and a foul scent of infection and rot meets me before my eyes can see which one has burst. The thick yellow and pink seepage from a quarter-sized hole in the upper portion of my calf is the culprit. As I sit and pull my leg into my lap, a shot of pain fires through my shin as another blister bursts open, spraying my chin with thick clumps of whatever is inside these things. The offensive odor blurs my vision and forces me to fight with everything in me not to vomit. I wipe the viscous yellow clumps from my face. Another quarter-sized wound sits open in my shin. This one is leaking dark red blood alongside the yellow and pink stream of pus. 

Clambering back to my feet I look in all directions to make out where I should go. I know I need a hospital but don't even recognize the tall buildings that surround me. Choosing to go left, I stumble to the nearest intersection and firmly grasp the light pole to hold myself up.  A massive, involuntary exhale escapes me when I see the sign across the street. I never thought the words “Urgent Care” could bring tears to my eyes, but here I am, bawling while dragging my leaking leg across the street.

Confused, I hear the stern voice of someone speaking to me. I look around at a plain white room with grey cabinets lining the walls. A round man with rimmed glasses stares back at me. His ill-fitting scrubs and stethoscope rise and fall with each heavy breath. 

“I need you to answer my questions sir. I can't help you if you're going to ignore me.” 

His impatient and stern tone shakes me out of my confused silence. 

“I'm sorry, how did I get here? I don't rem–” 

“You walked in like everyone else does. The nurses said you're here for your leg, is that right?” 

“Yeah, my uh leg is in pretty bad shape. There's this rash and these blisters started popping just–” 

The doctor huffs slightly as he leans down towards my leg. 

“Rash and blisters eh? Have we had a few too many drinks today maybe?” 

Baffled, I pick up my leg and am horrified at what I see. The entire area from my knee down is a dark reddish-brown with black circles where each blister was. The skin has turned flaky with a dark yellow center in each black circle. The reddish-brown areas between the black spots have begun to crack, oozing a sticky brown seepage. The entire thing smells like a dead body, and every twitch and subtle movement wafts the scent up to my face. 

The doctor reaches out and pulls my leg forward to examine it. Even his light touches send surges of pain so severe my vision narrows and blurs. He presses his hand in and slides it down the back of my calf making me scream and recoil. In my flailing, a large section of what used to be my skin peels away and hangs down. The area looks like a stained sleeve of flesh that’s been stretched out and dropped. The exposed musculature twitches with each movement as my screams fill the room. I can just barely make out the doctor yelling for assistance as he rushes out the door. Pushing through the piercing pain, I manage to hobble out of the examination room and down the hall. I look back; a trail of thick pus and nearly black blood traces my steps, ending at the flap of still attached calf skin I've dragged with me. Panicking as the sunlight hits my face, I know there's one place left to go, the only place where someone can see what's happening. 

Stumbling back, I fall hard onto the concrete floor. Looking down at me is a hulking man in a black polo. The fine details of his face are hidden in shadow as he scowls at me. A neon sign that reads “The Ash and Ember” lights the backdrop of the massive man as he picks me up off the floor. 

“I told you, you're not on the list bud. Even if you were, there's a dress code here!” 

Fumbling through my sparse memories, I fight to find the name I need. I scream out as the mountain of a man turns me around. 

“I know Vassago! I know Vassago, please just stop!” 

“Did somebody say my name?” 

That silky voice calls out from behind the brute as his fists unclench from my shirt. A stiff pat on my shoulder turns me to face the sleek man from the elevator with slicked back hair and piercing dark green eyes. The thin curled grin he's wearing opens to a wide toothy smile as he waves me forward.  

The interior of the bar is a dimly lit smoke-filled lounge with circular red suede booths scattered throughout. The actual bar is at least fifteen feet long and fully stocked with no-name and blank bottles. Vassago makes his way behind the bar, pours a drink, and returns to sit next to me. Pushing the glass forward, he nods at me and kicks one leg over the other. 

“Tsk tsk. It looks like the leg’s no good. What a shame, after all this time I really thought this one would be your last.” 

His voice grows heavier with each word spoken. Not wanting to wait for me, he picks up the glass and pushes it into my hands and up towards my mouth. 

“Go ahead. A double scotch on the rocks, it's your usual after all.” 

I take a hesitant sip; the ice-cold whisky glides down my throat. For a moment the relief even blocks out the pain from my leg. I look down at it anyway. Any remaining skin is long gone. I'm now left with stringy patches of fibrous muscle that loosely cling to the bones. My shoe has followed the path of my skin, leaving me with a bare foot in a similar state to my calf. 

“Can you see it, can you see my–” 

“Yes, the answer is always yes. For fuck’s sake it's always ‘but my arm’ or ‘but my leg’ with you! When will you finally start to remember huh?” 

“I don't understand, I haven't been here–” 

“No, not this, not our talks. When will you remember what you did?” 

I clench my jaw as my heart begins to race; my mind is even more of a mess now than when I first spoke to this man. 

“Think, damn it! Think about Nathan Collins, about the packing plant! Do you remember any of it?!” 

I shake my head as a pounding builds behind my eyes and a memory starts to come into focus. My breath smelled of the fifth of scotch that I had polished off in my car. A man with long greasy  hair climbed into one of my heat-sealing press machines. He was supposed to troubleshoot something in it and I needed to make sure it stayed turned off. The feelings of drowsiness swept over me in waves until everything went black. I awoke to guttural screams mixed with the industrial whir I knew all too well. The greasy man was kicking and pulling with his right arm as the press slammed down onto him. I looked down to see the switch and button kicked back on at my control station. In a drunken panic I ran for him, never thinking to shut the machine off. The blood-soaked nametag on the man's chest read “Nathan.” The press bashed down three more times before I got him fully clear of the mechanism. Each crushing stroke took another piece of both Nathan's left leg and arm, leaving puddles of blood with chunks of mangled flesh and splintered bone across the belt. By the time paramedics arrived, Nathan had already gone quiet in the puddle of blood large enough to surround us both. I blink hard as Vassago narrows his eyes at me. 

“Hmm, well better late than never as they say. Except in this case I guess it's too little too late. But at least you made progress this time.” 

Vassago stands up and I reach forward to grab him but am stopped by a surge of pain following a loud crack. I look down to the brittle exposed bone that gives way under my weight as I lean forward. The stringy bits of muscle hang freely as what's left of my now decomposing leg crashes to the floor. Vassago looks down and back up, his eyes now black as he speaks again. 

“One last question for you this time, what do you think made you jump from that shitty apartment building roof at the end? Do you remember that at all?... Do you think it was when you received the wrongful-death lawsuit from Nathan's family, or was it you finally feeling remorseful for what you did?...” 

I sit bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat that has soaked my sheets as they cling to my body. My own labored panting is the only sound to fill the room. A single beam of warm sunlight pierces the stuffy bedroom, breaking against my oddly soft and hairless left calf.

To start out, I'm a pretty private person who prefers to mind my own business and hope that everyone else does too. I've been told I can be abrasive at times, so that last part has worked out quite well until recently. You see, for a little over a week, give or take, my neighbor has grown increasingly more annoying. Well, nosy would be more accurate for a normal person. It started with him peering out at me from his living room window whenever I walk out of my house. 

Then after a few days of that, he started roaming around my backyard at all hours of the night. I've even noticed that sometimes he stands in front of my door, he's so close to it that I can just barely make out his face. I can't really tell what he's doing at that moment but he definitely doesn't knock. Hell, even now as I check my doorbell app at just past midnight, I can see him standing there; his pale sweat-covered face staring with bulging eyes at my door handle. The push notification hints that he’s been standing there like that for at least five minutes. He usually leaves after about ten, but never less than five for some reason. 

When I first moved in about two years ago we didn’t even speak, just shared a head nod from across the way. Over the past couple of years, we’ve shared just enough interactions to know that we each live alone. His is a byproduct of a nasty divorce from someone named “Candice” and leaving the police force. Mine’s a result of my inability to entertain meaningless conversation for long enough to make people think I care. My neighbor Don, I figure if I’m going to be talking about him this much I might as well use his name; has been perfectly normal and abided by our unspoken agreement to not meddle with each other any more than needed until just before last week. 

Now, I still have needs, and just because I can't act like I give a shit about people's mundane lives doesn’t mean I can’t talk with others. I just tend to prioritize which interactions are the most beneficial for me. I make it a point to entertain someone every few days, whether it be at a bar or just out and about, someone winds up being my overnight guest. This is where Don and I differ greatly, as I don’t think I’ve seen a single guest over at his place the whole time we've been neighbors. 

We work pretty similar schedules, so we usually share a nod the morning after one of my romps. Even with their car gone the next day, Don still always seems to know that they were over. Recently though, he’s taken to stopping and just staring at me the last two nights I've found someone to entertain. 

I know what you're thinking, “Why don't you just call the police on the creep?” I don't like getting the cops involved in my life. On top of them harassing me out of the last place I lived, I don't think there's quite enough going on to really warrant calling them. In my experience the cops take a report of a stalker as an invitation to stalk you themselves. I'll just answer the door if he doesn't leave by the time I get there. 

The door handle creaks slightly as I turn it, the sound of startled footsteps greets the warm beam of light that fills the doorstep, as I see Don stumble backward and fall into the grass. 

“Hey Don, out for a late night stroll or stopping by to ask to borrow something maybe?..” 

He scrambles up from the grass, eyes widening like pale saucers as thick beads of sweat trace the panicked frown he's wearing. 

“Oh, I uh… No I was just thinking about something, but I uh, I forgot it when I crossed the street.” 

His flat, startled delivery almost paints him more like a victim giving testimony than a predator stalking its prey. Before I can respond, Don's running across the street, the ass of his pants soaked dark with water from the grass. I don't like him creeping around my house one bit but I just might have to deal with it a bit longer to make sure it's handled appropriately. The only thing I know for certain is that I definitely can't entertain in my usual fashion while he's up to these antics. The last thing I need is him seeing how I like to have my fun. 

The next two days feel a bit more aligned to the usual coexistence Don and I inhabit, with the occasional cold stare from his window not counted. Nonetheless I've been weighing my options between some of those “Amazon special” security cameras or something a bit more self-defense-ish like a taser. I don't care for weapons much, I've always lived by the motto “If you can't defend yourself with your mouth, hands, or running, you probably deserve to die.” I do prefer the former approach, as I pride myself on my silver tongue. 

Now I'm just hoping I can use that gift of conversation with Don tonight. I'd really hate to have to dump money on securing my house further. Even so, my charm has failed me before, shit it's failed me a handful of times at this point. I've stacked up eight moves in seven years to serve as proof of that. Anyway, here's to hoping that Don is willing to talk and tell me what's going on. 

My knocks ring out loud amongst the symphony of crickets embracing the sunset. The light of the peephole in the door flickers as I hear the padlock tick, a clear double check that it's locked. 

“Hey there Don, I'm sorry to bother but wanted to chat for a second. I just want to know what's going on and see if I can help with anything…” 

The lack of response lingers heavy in the air before the lock sharply clicks and the door creaks open. Just enough of a gap shows Don's wide sunken eye and quivering mouth as he peers out from the dimly lit hallway. He clearly hasn't been sleeping or eating much, his usually filled-out face shows sunken cheeks and a pale complexion. He coughs lightly as he finally responds to me.

“What do you want with me?” 

“I was hoping we could sit while we—” 

“We can talk here just as well as we can inside, go on now, what do you want with me?” 

Slightly taken aback by his abruptness I fumble over my tongue in search of words, its usual silken touch turning to sandpaper as it flops in my mouth. 

“Well I uh, I want to know why you've been skulking around my house and standing at my—” 

“Ha you want to know more about me?! I want to know more about you… No, at this point I need to know more about you and what you do… Was that all you wanted?” 

“Well I guess so, kind of–” 

Don's eyes sharpen, almost as if to pierce through my own as he pulls the door shut and clicks the lock back into place. What in the fuck was that last sentence about? We've known each other for two years, and now out of nowhere he “needs to know more about me”? He could just ask, or come inside and chat with me. I admittedly wouldn't care for it too much but damn sure would more than this constant pestering. I shake off Don's odd response and make my way back to my own house. Right as I shut the door, I glance across the street just in time to see those sunken white eyes staring directly at me. 

I make the evening short, barely eating dinner, and heading straight to bed as the night fully sets in. The idea of mindlessly navigating some bullshit television show is even less alluring than normal tonight. I toss and turn for a good bit before I suddenly feel myself jolt awake at the feeling of firm hands pulling me from my bed. I kick and start to fight just as I feel cold metal against my left wrist, followed by an intense shooting pain as whatever it is presses into the bone. 

As my eyes adjust to the nearly non-existent light, I can just make out a silhouette fumbling along the wall. In an instant my eyes are flushed with white light as I involuntarily blink the room back into existence. Squinting I can just track the figure that is now pacing around the room and turn to see my left wrist has been handcuffed to my bed frame. Looking back I can just make out Don's face, his expression rapidly twisting between a wild grin and a hopeless frown and back again. He's pacing with heavy steps as he pulls hard at his usually slicked back hair, now appearing disheveled and slightly overgrown. 

“Hey, Don! What the fuck is this ab–” 

“Oh you! You SHUT THE FUCK UP!” 

His yell fills the silent room with a weight that only this kind of situation can carry. I fall silent and intently watch his every move. As I stretch my left shoulder slightly, Don makes a “tsk tsk” sound and stops to face me. His face now has settled into a bewildered frustration as he kneels down in front of me. 

“Hmm, I've been wondering what to do with you for a while now. I just didn't know if I had it in me still, but he–” 

“What do you mean ‘what to do with me’, Don?! What the fuck is going–” 

“OH SHUSH! You damn idiot, you really don't understand what you've worked yourself into. But we'll fix that in just a bit, don't you worry about it.”

His last words barely carry over his shoulder as Don turns and walks out of the room. A moment later he returns with a pair of pliers, a small paring knife, and a scrap of ratty old stained cloth. Don's bewildered frustration now settles further into a harsh focus. He tilts his head to either side of his neck, small cracks and pops ringing out with each pull. 

“I've been good for so long, it's been years and I literally mean YEARS since I last got to this point. I swore I'd be better after Candice left me, but everything falls apart eventually.” 

“Don, what are you talking about man?” 

Don's mouth searches for the words to respond with, while his eyes soften slightly as he seemingly finds his response. 

“Honestly, I'm not even too sure anymore… I was fine living alone and just waiting for the days to stop coming. But then you moved in, and I… I felt that spark in me again.” 

“Oh come on man, what have I been doing to get your attention? Having people over and–”

“Because of what you get to do with them once they're here. I've sat and just endured, at first I assumed the most innocent of things but then… Then one night I saw one of their cars leave and started putting things together.” 

Twisting my wrist I work myself just enough space to not feel like it’s going to be crushed inside the cuff. Thankfully Don closed it at an off angle and left me some wiggle room. I start working to pull my thumb slightly out of its socket as I respond. 

“Don, are you an addict man, have you seen the coke and pills or something?” 

“Ha, oh I'm an addict alright, you little rodent. And you know exactly what kind of addict I am. It's time to stop playing and shut up!” 

Don pulls his arms back behind him, forcing a small pop from his chest as a thin curled smile stretches across his stubble-covered mouth. A sudden pressure in my thumb allows my hand to scrape out of the cuff, leaving bits of skin behind as Don lurches forward at me with the pliers in hand. 

I fall to my right just as Don's heavy body falls onto my leg, his arms wildly grabbing at my twisted knee while I kick and pull away. The son of a bitch is strong and manages to clamber back up my waist and swings the metal pliers hard at my face. Jolting my head back leaves me with a sharp pain in my chest and collarbone. He missed but I think he still fucking broke something.

Don starts to pull his arm back while grunting like a wild animal. I just manage to grab his meaty sweaty hand before he drops it down to strike at me again. We both exhale a guttural growl as we roll and fight for control of the pliers. I feel my finger slip between the grips as they squeeze shut against it, this time there's a sticky warmth as we continue fighting. 

The slick blood works to my advantage with the pliers, but not before Don manages to scramble on top of me and starts raining down hammer fists. Each hit brings an exhausted yell with it from Don as I try to block them with my left arm. I finally fix a strong grip on the pliers and bash them hard against Don's face. 

Don tilts to the side but maintains his pressing mount on my chest as I see a thick bubble of red begin to leak from his chin. Damn, too low. I have to make this next one count. I pull my right arm back to strike again. Before I can bring the heavy metal flying back towards Don, he collapses forward onto me and sinks his teeth into my cheek. I scream out as his hot breath mixes with my warm blood. I swing the pliers down onto the back of his head once, then twice, and just before the third blow he finally releases my face and crumples to my side. 

I stand and look down at the trails of blood already carving their way through Don's hair as I stretch my neck and back. I'll take care of my face and hand once I get this asshole tied down. Dragging Don into my side room makes me realize just how much muscle he hid under his portly build, no wonder he was so damn strong. Not wanting to bother with a pocket search I strip him down to just his boxers and affix the steel collar around his neck with a fresh zip tie for his hands. 

After washing out the disgusting animal-like bite on my cheek, and halfway through the bandage application, I hear the familiar sounds of the half-inch towing chains rustling to life. I'll have to finish dressing the wound in the side room, before he starts screaming and making too much noise. Turning the corner I see a confused Don sitting cross-legged holding the steel chain in his lap that runs up to his collar. He squints as he inspects the floor-to-ceiling plastic sheets and painted-over, blacked-out windows. 

“See now, I was afraid you might have been catching on to my fun little nights. Although, never in a million years did I think we would share my passion.” 

“Who the hell are–” 

“Don, you got to talk plenty earlier. Well, I let you talk to give me some time. Nice job by the way, how did you get in without waking me up?” 

Still holding the chain Don is now staring a hole into my very existence as the room grows stale with the prolonged silence. 

“Well you don't have to answer if you don't want, but I'm just curious since the whole breaking in to do the deed just isn't my style. So, are you going to share your tricks?” 

“Bump key, if you don't use the deadbolt they work just fine. I was waiting for you to forget to lock the damn deadbolt all week…” 

I lean forward to sit as sharp pain shoots up my chest, nearly knocking me down as I rub the spot he hit. Clumsily standing back up, I purse my lips and nod to Don in an acceptance of defeat before responding. 

“Sounds like I fucked up tonight, really fucked up between the lock and now I've got this crater in my face. What kind of fucking animal bites someone's face anyway?”

“One who knows they've lost and is fighting to stay alive… How many will I make for you when this is all said and done?” 

“Now Don, I don't think you’re in any position to be asking me questions. Although I'll answer it if you tell me how many bodies you have.” 

Rolling his eyes and using the blood to slick back his overgrown hair with both hands, Don exhales sharply as he answers. 

“I stopped for about the last five years, before that it must have been twelve all in total.” 

“Oh that's not bad at all, how did you do your deeds?”

“Being a highway patrol officer, the overnight shift meant I got away with as much as I wanted… Well until the one night, when I was in the middle of my business and failed to respond to a downed officer on my route. He died, they took my badge, and I lost everything else.” 

“Gotta keep that off the company dime, it'll make you sloppy at one or the other. I've never trusted cops anyhow. Now I’ve got a good reason at least.” 

Don adjusts his legs before glaring at me and gesturing his hands forward. 

“Oh right, I did say I would answer you if you told me. Well if I include you, that should make twenty-three for me. I do have to move quite a bit, but that's preferred over the bad sex on a failed night. I never really understood the attraction to it, just wasn't worth it am I right?”

Don maintains his glare as he shakes his head once slowly before looking down to his hands.

“Well, might as well stop wasting time, I do have to take care of this and get on the road before the sun comes up. No way I can make this shit hole work for me after you go missing.” 

A single nod from Don is all the confirmation I need to get started. I'm not usually a fan of weapons and prefer to see the light fade slowly but I figure I'll honor my fellow enthusiast this time. 

I retrieve from my pocket the small paring knife Don had brought with him and make a small incision into the left side of his neck and step back. Don kicks and gurgles as the blood spurts further with each exaggerated movement until both abruptly stop. I loved this place for having tiled floors that were so easy to clean, but this time I don't think I'll get the stains out. 

A few hours of axe swings and emptying a few full canisters of gas leave me with a trunk full of body parts to dispose of. I stand in the doorway to the house, remembering all of my fun times shared here for one last moment. The match drops as a rapid trail of fire races into the house and behind me across the street. The bright orange that fills the windows of each matches the sunrise that reflects perfectly from them as I return to my car. The engine rumbles to life to bring me to a new town with my new identity. Hopefully I look well enough like a Don Parks to make this one last longer. I back up and check the rear view mirror one last time as I drive forward, taking in the final beauty of the houses becoming consumed in their own bright orange flames.

To start out, I'm a pretty private person who prefers to mind my own business and hope that everyone else does too. I've been told I can be abrasive at times, so that last part has worked out quite well until recently. You see, for a little over a week, give or take, my neighbor has grown increasingly more annoying. Well, nosy would be more accurate for a normal person. It started with him peering out at me from his living room window whenever I walk out of my house. 

Then after a few days of that, he started roaming around my backyard at all hours of the night. I've even noticed that sometimes he stands in front of my door, he's so close to it that I can just barely make out his face. I can't really tell what he's doing at that moment but he definitely doesn't knock. Hell, even now as I check my doorbell app at just past midnight, I can see him standing there; his pale sweat-covered face staring with bulging eyes at my door handle. The push notification hints that he’s been standing there like that for at least five minutes. He usually leaves after about ten, but never less than five for some reason. 

When I first moved in about two years ago we didn’t even speak, just shared a head nod from across the way. Over the past couple of years, we’ve shared just enough interactions to know that we each live alone. His is a byproduct of a nasty divorce from someone named “Candice” and leaving the police force. Mine’s a result of my inability to entertain meaningless conversation for long enough to make people think I care. My neighbor Don, I figure if I’m going to be talking about him this much I might as well use his name; has been perfectly normal and abided by our unspoken agreement to not meddle with each other any more than needed until just before last week. 

Now, I still have needs, and just because I can't act like I give a shit about people's mundane lives doesn’t mean I can’t talk with others. I just tend to prioritize which interactions are the most beneficial for me. I make it a point to entertain someone every few days, whether it be at a bar or just out and about, someone winds up being my overnight guest. This is where Don and I differ greatly, as I don’t think I’ve seen a single guest over at his place the whole time we've been neighbors. 

We work pretty similar schedules, so we usually share a nod the morning after one of my romps. Even with their car gone the next day, Don still always seems to know that they were over. Recently though, he’s taken to stopping and just staring at me the last two nights I've found someone to entertain. 

I know what you're thinking, “Why don't you just call the police on the creep?” I don't like getting the cops involved in my life. On top of them harassing me out of the last place I lived, I don't think there's quite enough going on to really warrant calling them. In my experience the cops take a report of a stalker as an invitation to stalk you themselves. I'll just answer the door if he doesn't leave by the time I get there. 

The door handle creaks slightly as I turn it, the sound of startled footsteps greets the warm beam of light that fills the doorstep, as I see Don stumble backward and fall into the grass. 

“Hey Don, out for a late night stroll or stopping by to ask to borrow something maybe?..” 

He scrambles up from the grass, eyes widening like pale saucers as thick beads of sweat trace the panicked frown he's wearing. 

“Oh, I uh… No I was just thinking about something, but I uh, I forgot it when I crossed the street.” 

His flat, startled delivery almost paints him more like a victim giving testimony than a predator stalking its prey. Before I can respond, Don's running across the street, the ass of his pants soaked dark with water from the grass. I don't like him creeping around my house one bit but I just might have to deal with it a bit longer to make sure it's handled appropriately. The only thing I know for certain is that I definitely can't entertain in my usual fashion while he's up to these antics. The last thing I need is him seeing how I like to have my fun. 

The next two days feel a bit more aligned to the usual coexistence Don and I inhabit, with the occasional cold stare from his window not counted. Nonetheless I've been weighing my options between some of those “Amazon special” security cameras or something a bit more self-defense-ish like a taser. I don't care for weapons much, I've always lived by the motto “If you can't defend yourself with your mouth, hands, or running, you probably deserve to die.” I do prefer the former approach, as I pride myself on my silver tongue. 

Now I'm just hoping I can use that gift of conversation with Don tonight. I'd really hate to have to dump money on securing my house further. Even so, my charm has failed me before, shit it's failed me a handful of times at this point. I've stacked up eight moves in seven years to serve as proof of that. Anyway, here's to hoping that Don is willing to talk and tell me what's going on. 

My knocks ring out loud amongst the symphony of crickets embracing the sunset. The light of the peephole in the door flickers as I hear the padlock tick, a clear double check that it's locked. 

“Hey there Don, I'm sorry to bother but wanted to chat for a second. I just want to know what's going on and see if I can help with anything…” 

The lack of response lingers heavy in the air before the lock sharply clicks and the door creaks open. Just enough of a gap shows Don's wide sunken eye and quivering mouth as he peers out from the dimly lit hallway. He clearly hasn't been sleeping or eating much, his usually filled-out face shows sunken cheeks and a pale complexion. He coughs lightly as he finally responds to me.

“What do you want with me?” 

“I was hoping we could sit while we—” 

“We can talk here just as well as we can inside, go on now, what do you want with me?” 

Slightly taken aback by his abruptness I fumble over my tongue in search of words, its usual silken touch turning to sandpaper as it flops in my mouth. 

“Well I uh, I want to know why you've been skulking around my house and standing at my—” 

“Ha you want to know more about me?! I want to know more about you… No, at this point I need to know more about you and what you do… Was that all you wanted?” 

“Well I guess so, kind of–” 

Don's eyes sharpen, almost as if to pierce through my own as he pulls the door shut and clicks the lock back into place. What in the fuck was that last sentence about? We've known each other for two years, and now out of nowhere he “needs to know more about me”? He could just ask, or come inside and chat with me. I admittedly wouldn't care for it too much but damn sure would more than this constant pestering. I shake off Don's odd response and make my way back to my own house. Right as I shut the door, I glance across the street just in time to see those sunken white eyes staring directly at me. 

I make the evening short, barely eating dinner, and heading straight to bed as the night fully sets in. The idea of mindlessly navigating some bullshit television show is even less alluring than normal tonight. I toss and turn for a good bit before I suddenly feel myself jolt awake at the feeling of firm hands pulling me from my bed. I kick and start to fight just as I feel cold metal against my left wrist, followed by an intense shooting pain as whatever it is presses into the bone. 

As my eyes adjust to the nearly non-existent light, I can just make out a silhouette fumbling along the wall. In an instant my eyes are flushed with white light as I involuntarily blink the room back into existence. Squinting I can just track the figure that is now pacing around the room and turn to see my left wrist has been handcuffed to my bed frame. Looking back I can just make out Don's face, his expression rapidly twisting between a wild grin and a hopeless frown and back again. He's pacing with heavy steps as he pulls hard at his usually slicked back hair, now appearing disheveled and slightly overgrown. 

“Hey, Don! What the fuck is this ab–” 

“Oh you! You SHUT THE FUCK UP!” 

His yell fills the silent room with a weight that only this kind of situation can carry. I fall silent and intently watch his every move. As I stretch my left shoulder slightly, Don makes a “tsk tsk” sound and stops to face me. His face now has settled into a bewildered frustration as he kneels down in front of me. 

“Hmm, I've been wondering what to do with you for a while now. I just didn't know if I had it in me still, but he–” 

“What do you mean ‘what to do with me’, Don?! What the fuck is going–” 

“OH SHUSH! You damn idiot, you really don't understand what you've worked yourself into. But we'll fix that in just a bit, don't you worry about it.”

His last words barely carry over his shoulder as Don turns and walks out of the room. A moment later he returns with a pair of pliers, a small paring knife, and a scrap of ratty old stained cloth. Don's bewildered frustration now settles further into a harsh focus. He tilts his head to either side of his neck, small cracks and pops ringing out with each pull. 

“I've been good for so long, it's been years and I literally mean YEARS since I last got to this point. I swore I'd be better after Candice left me, but everything falls apart eventually.” 

“Don, what are you talking about man?” 

Don's mouth searches for the words to respond with, while his eyes soften slightly as he seemingly finds his response. 

“Honestly, I'm not even too sure anymore… I was fine living alone and just waiting for the days to stop coming. But then you moved in, and I… I felt that spark in me again.” 

“Oh come on man, what have I been doing to get your attention? Having people over and–”

“Because of what you get to do with them once they're here. I've sat and just endured, at first I assumed the most innocent of things but then… Then one night I saw one of their cars leave and started putting things together.” 

Twisting my wrist I work myself just enough space to not feel like it’s going to be crushed inside the cuff. Thankfully Don closed it at an off angle and left me some wiggle room. I start working to pull my thumb slightly out of its socket as I respond. 

“Don, are you an addict man, have you seen the coke and pills or something?” 

“Ha, oh I'm an addict alright, you little rodent. And you know exactly what kind of addict I am. It's time to stop playing and shut up!” 

Don pulls his arms back behind him, forcing a small pop from his chest as a thin curled smile stretches across his stubble-covered mouth. A sudden pressure in my thumb allows my hand to scrape out of the cuff, leaving bits of skin behind as Don lurches forward at me with the pliers in hand. 

I fall to my right just as Don's heavy body falls onto my leg, his arms wildly grabbing at my twisted knee while I kick and pull away. The son of a bitch is strong and manages to clamber back up my waist and swings the metal pliers hard at my face. Jolting my head back leaves me with a sharp pain in my chest and collarbone. He missed but I think he still fucking broke something.

Don starts to pull his arm back while grunting like a wild animal. I just manage to grab his meaty sweaty hand before he drops it down to strike at me again. We both exhale a guttural growl as we roll and fight for control of the pliers. I feel my finger slip between the grips as they squeeze shut against it, this time there's a sticky warmth as we continue fighting. 

The slick blood works to my advantage with the pliers, but not before Don manages to scramble on top of me and starts raining down hammer fists. Each hit brings an exhausted yell with it from Don as I try to block them with my left arm. I finally fix a strong grip on the pliers and bash them hard against Don's face. 

Don tilts to the side but maintains his pressing mount on my chest as I see a thick bubble of red begin to leak from his chin. Damn, too low. I have to make this next one count. I pull my right arm back to strike again. Before I can bring the heavy metal flying back towards Don, he collapses forward onto me and sinks his teeth into my cheek. I scream out as his hot breath mixes with my warm blood. I swing the pliers down onto the back of his head once, then twice, and just before the third blow he finally releases my face and crumples to my side. 

I stand and look down at the trails of blood already carving their way through Don's hair as I stretch my neck and back. I'll take care of my face and hand once I get this asshole tied down. Dragging Don into my side room makes me realize just how much muscle he hid under his portly build, no wonder he was so damn strong. Not wanting to bother with a pocket search I strip him down to just his boxers and affix the steel collar around his neck with a fresh zip tie for his hands. 

After washing out the disgusting animal-like bite on my cheek, and halfway through the bandage application, I hear the familiar sounds of the half-inch towing chains rustling to life. I'll have to finish dressing the wound in the side room, before he starts screaming and making too much noise. Turning the corner I see a confused Don sitting cross-legged holding the steel chain in his lap that runs up to his collar. He squints as he inspects the floor-to-ceiling plastic sheets and painted-over, blacked-out windows. 

“See now, I was afraid you might have been catching on to my fun little nights. Although, never in a million years did I think we would share my passion.” 

“Who the hell are–” 

“Don, you got to talk plenty earlier. Well, I let you talk to give me some time. Nice job by the way, how did you get in without waking me up?” 

Still holding the chain Don is now staring a hole into my very existence as the room grows stale with the prolonged silence. 

“Well you don't have to answer if you don't want, but I'm just curious since the whole breaking in to do the deed just isn't my style. So, are you going to share your tricks?” 

“Bump key, if you don't use the deadbolt they work just fine. I was waiting for you to forget to lock the damn deadbolt all week…” 

I lean forward to sit as sharp pain shoots up my chest, nearly knocking me down as I rub the spot he hit. Clumsily standing back up, I purse my lips and nod to Don in an acceptance of defeat before responding. 

“Sounds like I fucked up tonight, really fucked up between the lock and now I've got this crater in my face. What kind of fucking animal bites someone's face anyway?”

“One who knows they've lost and is fighting to stay alive… How many will I make for you when this is all said and done?” 

“Now Don, I don't think you’re in any position to be asking me questions. Although I'll answer it if you tell me how many bodies you have.” 

Rolling his eyes and using the blood to slick back his overgrown hair with both hands, Don exhales sharply as he answers. 

“I stopped for about the last five years, before that it must have been twelve all in total.” 

“Oh that's not bad at all, how did you do your deeds?”

“Being a highway patrol officer, the overnight shift meant I got away with as much as I wanted… Well until the one night, when I was in the middle of my business and failed to respond to a downed officer on my route. He died, they took my badge, and I lost everything else.” 

“Gotta keep that off the company dime, it'll make you sloppy at one or the other. I've never trusted cops anyhow. Now I’ve got a good reason at least.” 

Don adjusts his legs before glaring at me and gesturing his hands forward. 

“Oh right, I did say I would answer you if you told me. Well if I include you, that should make twenty-three for me. I do have to move quite a bit, but that's preferred over the bad sex on a failed night. I never really understood the attraction to it, just wasn't worth it am I right?”

Don maintains his glare as he shakes his head once slowly before looking down to his hands.

“Well, might as well stop wasting time, I do have to take care of this and get on the road before the sun comes up. No way I can make this shit hole work for me after you go missing.” 

A single nod from Don is all the confirmation I need to get started. I'm not usually a fan of weapons and prefer to see the light fade slowly but I figure I'll honor my fellow enthusiast this time. 

I retrieve from my pocket the small paring knife Don had brought with him and make a small incision into the left side of his neck and step back. Don kicks and gurgles as the blood spurts further with each exaggerated movement until both abruptly stop. I loved this place for having tiled floors that were so easy to clean, but this time I don't think I'll get the stains out. 

A few hours of axe swings and emptying a few full canisters of gas leave me with a trunk full of body parts to dispose of. I stand in the doorway to the house, remembering all of my fun times shared here for one last moment. The match drops as a rapid trail of fire races into the house and behind me across the street. The bright orange that fills the windows of each matches the sunrise that reflects perfectly from them as I return to my car. The engine rumbles to life to bring me to a new town with my new identity. Hopefully I look well enough like a Don Parks to make this one last longer. I back up and check the rear view mirror one last time as I drive forward, taking in the final beauty of the houses becoming consumed in their own bright orange flames.

Okay everyone, shit has gotten wild since this all started! You might want to check out the previous posts (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!) to know how this all began and the last update (Help! My Wife Left Because of Our Ghost!) if you're not caught up yet! Because I just found out some wild stuff about Bart and a buddy of his!

So last time I was talking about how Janet moved out and called me to complain about something. I’ll admit that I kind of tune out when she yells, so that thing might as well have been in German for all I cared. Unfortunately, that was just the start of her yelling voicemails that she would leave me!

I ignored three of those bad boys while I worked to get the sink unclogged. Man that thing must have had a mile of hair jammed down in it. I felt like a damn magician pulling scarves out of a hat, but instead of a hat I had a chipped sink. And instead of a rabbit at the bottom it was a half decomposed rat. The smell that filled the house when I finally got him out of the drain was enough to make me sick!

Trying my best to not throw up all over myself, I rushed out of the bathroom while Bart thought it was fuckin hilarious. He kept fake puking and spraying ectoplasm at my damn feet while I ran down the hall, hollering not to slip and break my neck. He thinks he’s really funny when he’s talking about me dying in this house and being stuck with him. If that wasn't bad enough, guess who I saw standing with a pissed off looking face on the other side of the front door?

That's right, Janet came back baby, it's like she could smell how macho I was with my handyman skills! Well if not that, she definitely smelled that disgusting slimy clump of rotting fur I pulled out of the pipe at least. She actually seemed pretty worried about me, aside from the obvious anger cramped up in her tightened jaw. We just stood there, looking at each other for a moment until she sighed and spoke.

“H-have you been feeling okay lately? Like sleeping and eating okay?”

“Whisky naps and Spam have kept me alive just fine!”

Apparently, I can't read a room for shit, cause that was not the energy expected. Janet scoffed at me as she threw her hands up while pacing. Now, I know I stress the woman out but this time seemed worse than normal.

“Well Ruth and Betty called me damnit, they’re saying you've been doing weird ass shit at night!”

“Those old hags will gossip about any–”

“Not gossip, they sent me videos of you! Ruth said you hopped the fence and stole that annoying ass dog she loves more than a child! Like what the hell is wrong with you?”

Scratching my head, I thought about those weird ass dreams a bit more. I guess they did feel pretty vivid and I did wake up naked after them. Even still I don't have a basement, so there's no way I killed that overgrown rat she called a dog. I must have been wearing a pretty stupid expression at that point, cause Janet got extra fired up.

“OH WHAT?! Are you gonna play dumb now?! Or are you just getting that blackout drunk?! Cause Betty sent me a real twisted video of you in her yard too! You grabbed a squirrel out of their tree and shoved the whole thing into your mouth one night! Like how the hell did you do that?! Much less why?!”

“Huh, guess that's a new party trick aha. I did have some fuzz in my teeth and my jaw was sore the other day. I just figured I face planted real–”

“What are you talking about YOU IDIOT?!”

I shrugged at her while looking back to the house to see Bart's fat dead ass laughing at me. His translucent round belly jiggled with each chuckle while he pointed at me. I started to think that the bastard was pranking me at night too or something. I didn’t hear what she said, but could certainly tell that Janet wasn't happy about something, since she shoved me really hard while she kept on yelling.

“Gah it all happens late as shit, each video’s between midnight and one in the morning. I told them I'd stay the night to see what's going on. I'm getting so tired of them–”

“Hey! Wait, they know we're having marital troubles? Damn it I hope they don't think I'm having dick issues!”

“What! The! Fuck! Are! You! Talking! About?!?! You damn idiot, have you not heard what I've been saying?! You've been eating wild animals whole! On fucking camera! Who cares about your dick?!”

I don't think she wanted an answer to that particular question, but just so the answer is out there… I care — I care a lot about that.

I spotted Ruth’s ugly face peeking out from behind a curtain across the street while I nodded in her direction, to let Janet know there were eyes on us. “Jesus FUCK!” Janet cried out as she stormed through the front door, leaving me on the porch to flip Ruth the bird before following inside. We had to open all the windows to get the stink out after I flushed the mushy hairball with a skin tail down the toilet. Janet kept telling me I had to watch the videos, because I apparently wasn’t “taking things serious enough” so far.

Now I don’t like admitting when Janet’s right about me, but this shit was odd. Like really odd, even for me getting blackout and not remembering a damn thing. To start, the video of me taking that annoying Pomeranian out of Ruth’s yard wasn’t that crazy. Well, except for me being completely naked and choosing to stand staring at the security camera for, according to the timestamp, at least twenty minutes. I caught myself thinking that I should cut out the fast food, my love handles were getting a bit out of control. But I’ve been known to lose clothes when I drink too much, so that one still didn’t bother me too much.

The one in Betty’s yard is a different story entirely though. I was running around in my damn boxers on all fours, not on my hands and knees, but like a dog of sorts. I had managed to twist my legs to the side and trot around, if I can brag, pretty damn gracefully! The part that stopped me in my tracks was after I lunged halfway up the big tree, clambered down with a squirrel in my left hand, and pried my lower jaw down with the right. I don’t know how I didn’t dislocate it, but I pulled it down far enough to jam that squirrel along with my clenched fist all the way in. I galloped off on all fours like nothing happened after.

I had to admit something was wrong at that point, and agreed when Janet made me swear to not drink. Even after I agreed, she went on about something to make sure it's not a drunk thing. All I knew was that drunk or not, I couldn’t make my jaw open wide enough to fit a grapefruit with my own willpower. By the time the purple and orange sunset met my eyes, I knew the night was going to be rough. Bart was back to his antics and Janet was not having it.

Boy was I right about the night too, Janet kept screaming and throwing stuff at Bart, but I can't blame her too much since he did keep bending over to moon her when she would go around corners. I was just happy to have blacked out around the normal time, I guess I didn't need the liquor for it after all.

In a most violent nature, I was shaken awake, standing shirtless, holding a fist full of some sticky black stiff and holding open a cellar door. Looking around I realized we were on the side of our own house, in front of some thick evergreen shrubs. Janet’s eyes were wide as she shushed me pretty aggressively and wiped something off of her face. She just kept looking back and forth between me and Betty’s house. Before I let go of the door, I could just barely see a few black candles at the edge of the room on the other side.

“Jesus, are you with me? Are you back now?!”

Nodding I bent down to wipe my hand on the grass, but not before Janet started dragging me back into our house. She kept mumbling to herself and shooting dirty looks over her shoulder until she sat me down in the kitchen.

Now she’s frantically washing her hands and face while I look closer at what’s on my hands and instantly wish I hadn’t.

“Is this?... Did I put my hand in—”

“OH IT’S SHIT ALRIGHT!”

“Huh, where did I find—”

“You were chasing a stray dog down the damn street and it shit when you caught it! I was yelling at you, so it wiggled free and you said ‘better than nothing’ and grabbed the big ol pile of shit! With your bare hands! AND THEN YOU WIPED IT ON ME!!!”

I’m not the smartest man, that’s not a secret to me, but even I’m smart enough to know that I can NOT laugh about this. I manage to wash my hands while Janet goes on about the video she got and some other stuff. Bart keeps walking by, scratching his ass while making remarks about how easy this all was.

Anyway, we watch that video together, huddling over her phone in the dimly lit kitchen. It starts out shaky from behind a corner, before pulling me into frame. I’m sitting on the couch, watching a blank TV screen while Bart whispers into my ear. I can’t make out what he’s saying but do notice my posture perk up and body grow stiff. It’s at that moment that Janet comes around the corner and walks right up to the two of us.

“What the hell are you doing to him sicko?!”

“Heh, he’s fine. I just wanted to hang out with an old buddy of mine for a while.”

You can hear Janet start to talk before my mouth opens up real wide, and a voice that is definitely not mine comes out.

“You can call me Asmodeus.”

I'll admit, it's not horrible hearing that charismatic voice coming from my face at least. The low bass in the voice rumbles the phone speaker as I see my own head turn to face Bart’s foggy shape.

“This is the loud annoying one? I thought she had left?”

Bart shrugs as my body looks back to Janet.

“I’ve been having some fun as of late. And I don’t plan on stopping just because you’re here to be a party pooper!”

I stand up, tear my shirt off, and run out of the front door while laughing in that booming voice. The video cuts off as Janet starts following me, with a single frame of Bart flipping the camera off with both hands.

Now Janet thinks that I’m being possessed by a demon or something, but I’m pretty sure it’s just Bart messing around. I’m no exorcist, but hell the last one that was here didn’t know his head from his ass so maybe I could be. So I feel pretty confident that a good talk with our dead roommate will clear all this up!

Okay everyone, shit has gotten wild since this all started! You might want to check out the previous posts (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!) to know how this all began and the last update (Help! My Wife Left Because of Our Ghost!) if you're not caught up yet! Because I just found out some wild stuff about Bart and a buddy of his!

So last time I was talking about how Janet moved out and called me to complain about something. I’ll admit that I kind of tune out when she yells, so that thing might as well have been in German for all I cared. Unfortunately, that was just the start of her yelling voicemails that she would leave me!

I ignored three of those bad boys while I worked to get the sink unclogged. Man that thing must have had a mile of hair jammed down in it. I felt like a damn magician pulling scarves out of a hat, but instead of a hat I had a chipped sink. And instead of a rabbit at the bottom it was a half decomposed rat. The smell that filled the house when I finally got him out of the drain was enough to make me sick!

Trying my best to not throw up all over myself, I rushed out of the bathroom while Bart thought it was fuckin hilarious. He kept fake puking and spraying ectoplasm at my damn feet while I ran down the hall, hollering not to slip and break my neck. He thinks he’s really funny when he’s talking about me dying in this house and being stuck with him. If that wasn't bad enough, guess who I saw standing with a pissed off looking face on the other side of the front door?

That's right, Janet came back baby, it's like she could smell how macho I was with my handyman skills! Well if not that, she definitely smelled that disgusting slimy clump of rotting fur I pulled out of the pipe at least. She actually seemed pretty worried about me, aside from the obvious anger cramped up in her tightened jaw. We just stood there, looking at each other for a moment until she sighed and spoke.

“H-have you been feeling okay lately? Like sleeping and eating okay?”

“Whisky naps and Spam have kept me alive just fine!”

Apparently, I can't read a room for shit, cause that was not the energy expected. Janet scoffed at me as she threw her hands up while pacing. Now, I know I stress the woman out but this time seemed worse than normal.

“Well Ruth and Betty called me damnit, they’re saying you've been doing weird ass shit at night!”

“Those old hags will gossip about any–”

“Not gossip, they sent me videos of you! Ruth said you hopped the fence and stole that annoying ass dog she loves more than a child! Like what the hell is wrong with you?”

Scratching my head, I thought about those weird ass dreams a bit more. I guess they did feel pretty vivid and I did wake up naked after them. Even still I don't have a basement, so there's no way I killed that overgrown rat she called a dog. I must have been wearing a pretty stupid expression at that point, cause Janet got extra fired up.

“OH WHAT?! Are you gonna play dumb now?! Or are you just getting that blackout drunk?! Cause Betty sent me a real twisted video of you in her yard too! You grabbed a squirrel out of their tree and shoved the whole thing into your mouth one night! Like how the hell did you do that?! Much less why?!”

“Huh, guess that's a new party trick aha. I did have some fuzz in my teeth and my jaw was sore the other day. I just figured I face planted real–”

“What are you talking about YOU IDIOT?!”

I shrugged at her while looking back to the house to see Bart's fat dead ass laughing at me. His translucent round belly jiggled with each chuckle while he pointed at me. I started to think that the bastard was pranking me at night too or something. I didn’t hear what she said, but could certainly tell that Janet wasn't happy about something, since she shoved me really hard while she kept on yelling.

“Gah it all happens late as shit, each video’s between midnight and one in the morning. I told them I'd stay the night to see what's going on. I'm getting so tired of them–”

“Hey! Wait, they know we're having marital troubles? Damn it I hope they don't think I'm having dick issues!”

“What! The! Fuck! Are! You! Talking! About?!?! You damn idiot, have you not heard what I've been saying?! You've been eating wild animals whole! On fucking camera! Who cares about your dick?!”

I don't think she wanted an answer to that particular question, but just so the answer is out there… I care — I care a lot about that.

I spotted Ruth’s ugly face peeking out from behind a curtain across the street while I nodded in her direction, to let Janet know there were eyes on us. “Jesus FUCK!” Janet cried out as she stormed through the front door, leaving me on the porch to flip Ruth the bird before following inside. We had to open all the windows to get the stink out after I flushed the mushy hairball with a skin tail down the toilet. Janet kept telling me I had to watch the videos, because I apparently wasn’t “taking things serious enough” so far.

Now I don’t like admitting when Janet’s right about me, but this shit was odd. Like really odd, even for me getting blackout and not remembering a damn thing. To start, the video of me taking that annoying Pomeranian out of Ruth’s yard wasn’t that crazy. Well, except for me being completely naked and choosing to stand staring at the security camera for, according to the timestamp, at least twenty minutes. I caught myself thinking that I should cut out the fast food, my love handles were getting a bit out of control. But I’ve been known to lose clothes when I drink too much, so that one still didn’t bother me too much.

The one in Betty’s yard is a different story entirely though. I was running around in my damn boxers on all fours, not on my hands and knees, but like a dog of sorts. I had managed to twist my legs to the side and trot around, if I can brag, pretty damn gracefully! The part that stopped me in my tracks was after I lunged halfway up the big tree, clambered down with a squirrel in my left hand, and pried my lower jaw down with the right. I don’t know how I didn’t dislocate it, but I pulled it down far enough to jam that squirrel along with my clenched fist all the way in. I galloped off on all fours like nothing happened after.

I had to admit something was wrong at that point, and agreed when Janet made me swear to not drink. Even after I agreed, she went on about something to make sure it's not a drunk thing. All I knew was that drunk or not, I couldn’t make my jaw open wide enough to fit a grapefruit with my own willpower. By the time the purple and orange sunset met my eyes, I knew the night was going to be rough. Bart was back to his antics and Janet was not having it.

Boy was I right about the night too, Janet kept screaming and throwing stuff at Bart, but I can't blame her too much since he did keep bending over to moon her when she would go around corners. I was just happy to have blacked out around the normal time, I guess I didn't need the liquor for it after all.

In a most violent nature, I was shaken awake, standing shirtless, holding a fist full of some sticky black stuff and holding open a cellar door. Looking around I realized we were on the side of our own house, in front of some thick evergreen shrubs. Janet’s eyes were wide as she shushed me pretty aggressively and wiped something off of her face. She just kept looking back and forth between me and Betty’s house. Before I let go of the door, I could just barely see a few black candles at the edge of the room on the other side.

“Jesus, are you with me? Are you back now?!”

Nodding I bent down to wipe my hand on the grass, but not before Janet started dragging me back into our house. She kept mumbling to herself and shooting dirty looks over her shoulder until she sat me down in the kitchen.

Now she’s frantically washing her hands and face while I look closer at what’s on my hands and instantly wish I hadn’t.

“Is this?... Did I put my hand in—”

“OH IT’S SHIT ALRIGHT!”

“Huh, where did I find—”

“You were chasing a stray dog down the damn street and it shit when you caught it! I was yelling at you, so it wiggled free and you said ‘better than nothing’ and grabbed the big ol pile of shit! With your bare hands! AND THEN YOU WIPED IT ON ME!!!”

I’m not the smartest man, that’s not a secret to me, but even I’m smart enough to know that I can NOT laugh about this. I manage to wash my hands while Janet goes on about the video she got and some other stuff. Bart keeps walking by, scratching his ass while making remarks about how easy this all was.

Anyway, we watch that video together, huddling over her phone in the dimly lit kitchen. It starts out shaky from behind a corner, before pulling me into frame. I’m sitting on the couch, watching a blank TV screen while Bart whispers into my ear. I can’t make out what he’s saying but do notice my posture perk up and body grow stiff. It’s at that moment that Janet comes around the corner and walks right up to the two of us.

“What the hell are you doing to him sicko?!”

“Heh, he’s fine. I just wanted to hang out with an old buddy of mine for a while.”

You can hear Janet start to talk before my mouth opens up real wide, and a voice that is definitely not mine comes out.

“You can call me Asmodeus.”

I'll admit, it's not horrible hearing that charismatic voice coming from my face at least. The low bass in the voice rumbles the phone speaker as I see my own head turn to face Bart’s foggy shape.

“This is the loud annoying one? I thought she had left?”

Bart shrugs as my body looks back to Janet.

“I’ve been having some fun as of late. And I don’t plan on stopping just because you’re here to be a party pooper!”

I stand up, tear my shirt off, and run out of the front door while laughing in that booming voice. The video cuts off as Janet starts following me, with a single frame of Bart flipping the camera off with both hands.

Now Janet thinks that I’m being possessed by a demon or something, but I’m pretty sure it’s just Bart messing around. I’m no exorcist, but hell the last one that was here didn’t know his head from his ass so maybe I could be. So I feel pretty confident that a good talk with our dead roommate will clear all this up!

Okay everyone, shit has gotten wild since this all started! You might want to check out the previous posts (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!) to know how this all began and the last update (Help! My Wife Left Because of Our Ghost!) if you're not caught up yet! Because I just found out some wild stuff about Bart and a buddy of his!

So last time I was talking about how Janet moved out and called me to complain about something. I’ll admit that I kind of tune out when she yells, so that thing might as well have been in German for all I cared. Unfortunately, that was just the start of her yelling voicemails that she would leave me!

I ignored three of those bad boys while I worked to get the sink unclogged. Man that thing must have had a mile of hair jammed down in it. I felt like a damn magician pulling scarves out of a hat, but instead of a hat I had a chipped sink. And instead of a rabbit at the bottom it was a half decomposed rat. The smell that filled the house when I finally got him out of the drain was enough to make me sick!

Trying my best to not throw up all over myself, I rushed out of the bathroom while Bart thought it was fuckin hilarious. He kept fake puking and spraying ectoplasm at my damn feet while I ran down the hall, hollering not to slip and break my neck. He thinks he’s really funny when he’s talking about me dying in this house and being stuck with him. If that wasn't bad enough, guess who I saw standing with a pissed off looking face on the other side of the front door?

That's right, Janet came back baby, it's like she could smell how macho I was with my handyman skills! Well if not that, she definitely smelled that disgusting slimy clump of rotting fur I pulled out of the pipe at least. She actually seemed pretty worried about me, aside from the obvious anger cramped up in her tightened jaw. We just stood there, looking at each other for a moment until she sighed and spoke.

“H-have you been feeling okay lately? Like sleeping and eating okay?”

“Whisky naps and Spam have kept me alive just fine!”

Apparently, I can't read a room for shit, cause that was not the energy expected. Janet scoffed at me as she threw her hands up while pacing. Now, I know I stress the woman out but this time seemed worse than normal.

“Well Ruth and Betty called me damnit, they’re saying you've been doing weird ass shit at night!”

“Those old hags will gossip about any–”

“Not gossip, they sent me videos of you! Ruth said you hopped the fence and stole that annoying ass dog she loves more than a child! Like what the hell is wrong with you?”

Scratching my head, I thought about those weird ass dreams a bit more. I guess they did feel pretty vivid and I did wake up naked after them. Even still I don't have a basement, so there's no way I killed that overgrown rat she called a dog. I must have been wearing a pretty stupid expression at that point, cause Janet got extra fired up.

“OH WHAT?! Are you gonna play dumb now?! Or are you just getting that blackout drunk?! Cause Betty sent me a real twisted video of you in her yard too! You grabbed a squirrel out of their tree and shoved the whole thing into your mouth one night! Like how the hell did you do that?! Much less why?!”

“Huh, guess that's a new party trick aha. I did have some fuzz in my teeth and my jaw was sore the other day. I just figured I face planted real–”

“What are you talking about YOU IDIOT?!”

I shrugged at her while looking back to the house to see Bart's fat dead ass laughing at me. His translucent round belly jiggled with each chuckle while he pointed at me. I started to think that the bastard was pranking me at night too or something. I didn’t hear what she said, but could certainly tell that Janet wasn't happy about something, since she shoved me really hard while she kept on yelling.

“Gah it all happens late as shit, each video’s between midnight and one in the morning. I told them I'd stay the night to see what's going on. I'm getting so tired of them–”

“Hey! Wait, they know we're having marital troubles? Damn it I hope they don't think I'm having dick issues!”

“What! The! Fuck! Are! You! Talking! About?!?! You damn idiot, have you not heard what I've been saying?! You've been eating wild animals whole! On fucking camera! Who cares about your dick?!”

I don't think she wanted an answer to that particular question, but just so the answer is out there… I care — I care a lot about that.

I spotted Ruth’s ugly face peeking out from behind a curtain across the street while I nodded in her direction, to let Janet know there were eyes on us. “Jesus FUCK!” Janet cried out as she stormed through the front door, leaving me on the porch to flip Ruth the bird before following inside. We had to open all the windows to get the stink out after I flushed the mushy hairball with a skin tail down the toilet. Janet kept telling me I had to watch the videos, because I apparently wasn’t “taking things serious enough” so far.

Now I don’t like admitting when Janet’s right about me, but this shit was odd. Like really odd, even for me getting blackout and not remembering a damn thing. To start, the video of me taking that annoying Pomeranian out of Ruth’s yard wasn’t that crazy. Well, except for me being completely naked and choosing to stand staring at the security camera for, according to the timestamp, at least twenty minutes. I caught myself thinking that I should cut out the fast food, my love handles were getting a bit out of control. But I’ve been known to lose clothes when I drink too much, so that one still didn’t bother me too much.

The one in Betty’s yard is a different story entirely though. I was running around in my damn boxers on all fours, not on my hands and knees, but like a dog of sorts. I had managed to twist my legs to the side and trot around, if I can brag, pretty damn gracefully! The part that stopped me in my tracks was after I lunged halfway up the big tree, clambered down with a squirrel in my left hand, and pried my lower jaw down with the right. I don’t know how I didn’t dislocate it, but I pulled it down far enough to jam that squirrel along with my clenched fist all the way in. I galloped off on all fours like nothing happened after.

I had to admit something was wrong at that point, and agreed when Janet made me swear to not drink. Even after I agreed, she went on about something to make sure it's not a drunk thing. All I knew was that drunk or not, I couldn’t make my jaw open wide enough to fit a grapefruit with my own willpower. By the time the purple and orange sunset met my eyes, I knew the night was going to be rough. Bart was back to his antics and Janet was not having it.

Boy was I right about the night too, Janet kept screaming and throwing stuff at Bart, but I can't blame her too much since he did keep bending over to moon her when she would go around corners. I was just happy to have blacked out around the normal time, I guess I didn't need the liquor for it after all.

In a most violent nature, I was shaken awake, standing shirtless, holding a fist full of some sticky black stiff and holding open a cellar door. Looking around I realized we were on the side of our own house, in front of some thick evergreen shrubs. Janet’s eyes were wide as she shushed me pretty aggressively and wiped something off of her face. She just kept looking back and forth between me and Betty’s house. Before I let go of the door, I could just barely see a few black candles at the edge of the room on the other side.

“Jesus, are you with me? Are you back now?!”

Nodding I bent down to wipe my hand on the grass, but not before Janet started dragging me back into our house. She kept mumbling to herself and shooting dirty looks over her shoulder until she sat me down in the kitchen.

Now she’s frantically washing her hands and face while I look closer at what’s on my hands and instantly wish I hadn’t.

“Is this?... Did I put my hand in—”

“OH IT’S SHIT ALRIGHT!”

“Huh, where did I find—”

“You were chasing a stray dog down the damn street and it shit when you caught it! I was yelling at you, so it wiggled free and you said ‘better than nothing’ and grabbed the big ol pile of shit! With your bare hands! AND THEN YOU WIPED IT ON ME!!!”

I’m not the smartest man, that’s not a secret to me, but even I’m smart enough to know that I can NOT laugh about this. I manage to wash my hands while Janet goes on about the video she got and some other stuff. Bart keeps walking by, scratching his ass while making remarks about how easy this all was.

Anyway, we watch that video together, huddling over her phone in the dimly lit kitchen. It starts out shaky from behind a corner, before pulling me into frame. I’m sitting on the couch, watching a blank TV screen while Bart whispers into my ear. I can’t make out what he’s saying but do notice my posture perk up and body grow stiff. It’s at that moment that Janet comes around the corner and walks right up to the two of us.

“What the hell are you doing to him sicko?!”

“Heh, he’s fine. I just wanted to hang out with an old buddy of mine for a while.”

You can hear Janet start to talk before my mouth opens up real wide, and a voice that is definitely not mine comes out.

“You can call me Asmodeus.”

I'll admit, it's not horrible hearing that charismatic voice coming from my face at least. The low bass in the voice rumbles the phone speaker as I see my own head turn to face Bart’s foggy shape.

“This is the loud annoying one? I thought she had left?”

Bart shrugs as my body looks back to Janet.

“I’ve been having some fun as of late. And I don’t plan on stopping just because you’re here to be a party pooper!”

I stand up, tear my shirt off, and run out of the front door while laughing in that booming voice. The video cuts off as Janet starts following me, with a single frame of Bart flipping the camera off with both hands.

Now Janet thinks that I’m being possessed by a demon or something, but I’m pretty sure it’s just Bart messing around. I’m no exorcist, but hell the last one that was here didn’t know his head from his ass so maybe I could be. So I feel pretty confident that a good talk with our dead roommate will clear all this up!

If you don't know what's going on, I recommend you check out my last post (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!). I cover how I got into this mess pretty well in that one. Plus, it might help you understand why we got that weak-minded priest to come over to exorcise Pervy Pete. 

It's been a few days since that pitiful excuse of an exorcism took place. I had to give that damn priest a bottle of my Glenfiddich 15 to get him out of my bathroom! I tried a cheap bottle of Jack Daniel's but he had expensive taste. I guess it was worth the damn near hundred bucks worth of scotch to get my bathroom back though. Although, my wife did not agree with my understanding it seemed. 

“Oh so you'll give up booze for a priest but not for me???” 

I was a bit caught off guard at her accusation. I didn't give up booze first of all, I'm still a right lush after all. I just did what was necessary to get the overgrown crybaby out of our house. I guess she didn't take kindly to the bewildered expression I wore to her frustration either. 

“Oh what?! You think you saved the day or something?! We still have that sick dead bastard in our house! Not to mention, we broke a priest! I'm not sure but I think the church looks down on breaking their leaders! They definitely won't let us back through the doors after that!!!” 

“Uhh, we're not religious last that I checked? So can we not care about that part at least?” 

Again I was wrong in my reaction apparently, as she lit my ass up for several hours. Damn if Pervy Pete didn't think it was properly funny though. He spent the whole time popping his damn head through the wall to laugh in my face, and I mean inside of my face. He would make sure to pass his ugly fat head right through my own when I would walk by. 

I don't know if any of you all have been haunted before, but the whole “it's cold here, there must be a ghost” is a crock of shit. They are slimy feeling bastards, like a slug or bucket of glue. Every time he would slide through me it felt like I was a contestant on Nickelodeon's "Double Dare” from the nineties (yes I know how old I am, fuck off with your inaccurate “okay boomer” shit). 

Anyway Janet, that's my wife's name by the way, went right up the stairs and packed a suitcase. She kept going on about how I only cared about me and that sick freak. Pervy Pete's persisting nudity and desire to wag that puff of a dick at us didn't help things any. She kept looking over at him before scoffing while raising a hand and shaking her head in my direction. 

“Hey now, he's not the worst! At least he's not a demon or something malevolent!” 

“Ha as far as you know! I'm not taking any chances! You can enjoy your new relationship with that sicko!” 

My protests were met with a firm slamming of the front door as she stormed out. Sounds like she's gonna stay with her mother over the state line maybe? I'm not entirely certain if I'm being completely honest. I wasn't really listening much, so I could definitely be wrong about all of it. Anyways now it's just me and this translucent bastard in this old ass house. 

Pete actually hasn't been too bad the past few days. We've been watching a ton of TV and movies in our shared time. I guess that's where the whole “My name is Jeff” bit he was doing came from. The previous owners left a ton of movies behind and he's had them all on repeat ever since. His references are a bit dated but funny nonetheless. 

He can actually recite the entirety of “Superbad” and oddly enough even “Crazy,
Stupid, Love”. You know that sappy rom-com with Michael Scott from the office? He's seen the damn things hundreds of times at this point and even does goofy voices for each character. 

That being said, Pervy Pete has pretty good taste in movies and TV shows. We agree on most things to watch and have a similar sense of humor most of the time. That would be great if I didn't slip on a new puddle of gooey ectoplasm every time I walk around. I don't know what makes him goop shit up, but he's been going crazy ever since Janet left! 

I was honestly starting to think she was right about the messy stuff after the second day of slipping in a huge puddle. Pervy Pete swears it’s not sexual and says it's “just a ghost thing”. Who am I to say what is and isn't a ghost thing after all, I mean I still have a pulse and he's the one making the damn mess. 

Actually, thinking of Janet reminds me, she left me a gnarly voicemail this afternoon. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! I leave and you don't bother to text or call for a week?! My mother's right, you're not worth the trouble!!!” 

I'd be more upset if I hadn't been having such a blast with Bart. Oh yeah, I've decided it's rude to keep calling Bartholomew Pervy Pete. I've realized he's not a perv, he's just bored after all this time. He told me he used to go by Bart back when he was alive, so I figured I'd call him that too. He's really a fun guy, especially when I'm halfway through a bottle of whisky. Hell when I'm half in the bag he's the best kind of drinking buddy. Although it is odd how I wake up from those blackouts with a sore jaw. Maybe I should ask him about it one of these days? Because I usually also wake up in a stale puddle of ectoplasm after I get that drunk…

Hmm actually, now that I think about it I can remember a feeling of my limbs burning while being paralyzed. I don't remember having a basement but have images of one, one where I'm putting up black candles. Oh man, I should probably stop drinking, cause there's even odd little nightmares of me killing the neighbor’s Pomeranian. I could even swear there were some of me painting symbols in that basement with its blood. I don't like that one at all, since Ruth’s been bugging me about her damn Pomeranian having gone missing. If Ruth is anything it's ugly as shit, otherwise she's also definitely persistent and annoying as hell. 

Anyway, now that I've said all of this out loud, I'm feeling like Janet might be overreacting to Bart some. I mean he's not a saint or hell, even a great house guest or anything, but he's fine with me. I don't want the headache of a divorce on my hands and am hoping she can get to know Bart like I have. I wouldn't mind us starting a family, even if we don't have a child we would still have Bart. Maybe if I finally fix the plugged up bathroom sink she'll come back to us. Here's to hoping I have the right idea about it all!

If you don't know what's going on, I recommend you check out my last post (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!). I cover how I got into this mess pretty well in that one. Plus, it might help you understand why we got that weak-minded priest to come over to exorcise Pervy Pete. 

It's been a few days since that pitiful excuse of an exorcism took place. I had to give that damn priest a bottle of my Glenfiddich 15 to get him out of my bathroom! I tried a cheap bottle of Jack Daniel's but he had expensive taste. I guess it was worth the damn near hundred bucks worth of scotch to get my bathroom back though. Although, my wife did not agree with my understanding it seemed. 

“Oh so you'll give up booze for a priest but not for me???” 

I was a bit caught off guard at her accusation. I didn't give up booze first of all, I'm still a right lush after all. I just did what was necessary to get the overgrown crybaby out of our house. I guess she didn't take kindly to the bewildered expression I wore to her frustration either. 

“Oh what?! You think you saved the day or something?! We still have that sick dead bastard in our house! Not to mention, we broke a priest! I'm not sure but I think the church looks down on breaking their leaders! They definitely won't let us back through the doors after that!!!” 

“Uhh, we're not religious last that I checked? So can we not care about that part at least?” 

Again I was wrong in my reaction apparently, as she lit my ass up for several hours. Damn if Pervy Pete didn't think it was properly funny though. He spent the whole time popping his damn head through the wall to laugh in my face, and I mean inside of my face. He would make sure to pass his ugly fat head right through my own when I would walk by. 

I don't know if any of you all have been haunted before, but the whole “it's cold here, there must be a ghost” is a crock of shit. They are slimy feeling bastards, like a slug or bucket of glue. Every time he would slide through me it felt like I was a contestant on Nickelodeon's "Double Dare” from the nineties (yes I know how old I am, fuck off with your inaccurate “okay boomer” shit). 

Anyway Janet, that's my wife's name by the way, went right up the stairs and packed a suitcase. She kept going on about how I only cared about me and that sick freak. Pervy Pete's persisting nudity and desire to wag that puff of a dick at us didn't help things any. She kept looking over at him before scoffing while raising a hand and shaking her head in my direction. 

“Hey now, he's not the worst! At least he's not a demon or something malevolent!” 

“Ha as far as you know! I'm not taking any chances! You can enjoy your new relationship with that sicko!” 

My protests were met with a firm slamming of the front door as she stormed out. Sounds like she's gonna stay with her mother over the state line maybe? I'm not entirely certain if I'm being completely honest. I wasn't really listening much, so I could definitely be wrong about all of it. Anyways now it's just me and this translucent bastard in this old ass house. 

Pete actually hasn't been too bad the past few days. We've been watching a ton of TV and movies in our shared time. I guess that's where the whole “My name is Jeff” bit he was doing came from. The previous owners left a ton of movies behind and he's had them all on repeat ever since. His references are a bit dated but funny nonetheless. 

He can actually recite the entirety of “Superbad” and oddly enough even “Crazy,
Stupid, Love”. You know that sappy rom-com with Michael Scott from the office? He's seen the damn things hundreds of times at this point and even does goofy voices for each character. 

That being said, Pervy Pete has pretty good taste in movies and TV shows. We agree on most things to watch and have a similar sense of humor most of the time. That would be great if I didn't slip on a new puddle of gooey ectoplasm every time I walk around. I don't know what makes him goop shit up, but he's been going crazy ever since Janet left! 

I was honestly starting to think she was right about the messy stuff after the second day of slipping in a huge puddle. Pervy Pete swears it’s not sexual and says it's “just a ghost thing”. Who am I to say what is and isn't a ghost thing after all, I mean I still have a pulse and he's the one making the damn mess. 

Actually, thinking of Janet reminds me, she left me a gnarly voicemail this afternoon. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! I leave and you don't bother to text or call for a week?! My mother's right, you're not worth the trouble!!!” 

I'd be more upset if I hadn't been having such a blast with Bart. Oh yeah, I've decided it's rude to keep calling Bartholomew Pervy Pete. I've realized he's not a perv, he's just bored after all this time. He told me he used to go by Bart back when he was alive, so I figured I'd call him that too. He's really a fun guy, especially when I'm halfway through a bottle of whisky. Hell when I'm half in the bag he's the best kind of drinking buddy. Although it is odd how I wake up from those blackouts with a sore jaw. Maybe I should ask him about it one of these days? Because I usually also wake up in a stale puddle of ectoplasm after I get that drunk…

Hmm actually, now that I think about it I can remember a feeling of my limbs burning while being paralyzed. I don't remember having a basement but have images of one, one where I'm putting up black candles. Oh man, I should probably stop drinking, cause there's even odd little nightmares of me killing the neighbor’s Pomeranian. I could even swear there were some of me painting symbols in that basement with its blood. I don't like that one at all, since Ruth’s been bugging me about her damn Pomeranian having gone missing. If Ruth is anything it's ugly as shit, otherwise she's also definitely persistent and annoying as hell. 

Anyway, now that I've said all of this out loud, I'm feeling like Janet might be overreacting to Bart some. I mean he's not a saint or hell, even a great house guest or anything, but he's fine with me. I don't want the headache of a divorce on my hands and am hoping she can get to know Bart like I have. I wouldn't mind us starting a family, even if we don't have a child we would still have Bart. Maybe if I finally fix the plugged up bathroom sink she'll come back to us. Here's to hoping I have the right idea about it all!

If you don't know what's going on, I recommend you check out my last post (Help! My Wife Thinks I'm Cheating With Our Ghost!). I cover how I got into this mess pretty well in that one. Plus, it might help you understand why we got that weak-minded priest to come over to exorcise Pervy Pete. 

It's been a few days since that pitiful excuse of an exorcism took place. I had to give that damn priest a bottle of my Glenfiddich 15 to get him out of my bathroom! I tried a cheap bottle of Jack Daniel's but he had expensive taste. I guess it was worth the damn near hundred bucks worth of scotch to get my bathroom back though. Although, my wife did not agree with my understanding it seemed. 

“Oh so you'll give up booze for a priest but not for me???” 

I was a bit caught off guard at her accusation. I didn't give up booze first of all, I'm still a right lush after all. I just did what was necessary to get the overgrown crybaby out of our house. I guess she didn't take kindly to the bewildered expression I wore to her frustration either. 

“Oh what?! You think you saved the day or something?! We still have that sick dead bastard in our house! Not to mention, we broke a priest! I'm not sure but I think the church looks down on breaking their leaders! They definitely won't let us back through the doors after that!!!” 

“Uhh, we're not religious last that I checked? So can we not care about that part at least?” 

Again I was wrong in my reaction apparently, as she lit my ass up for several hours. Damn if Pervy Pete didn't think it was properly funny though. He spent the whole time popping his damn head through the wall to laugh in my face, and I mean inside of my face. He would make sure to pass his ugly fat head right through my own when I would walk by. 

I don't know if any of you all have been haunted before, but the whole “it's cold here, there must be a ghost” is a crock of shit. They are slimy feeling bastards, like a slug or bucket of glue. Every time he would slide through me it felt like I was a contestant on Nickelodeon's "Double Dare” from the nineties (yes I know how old I am, fuck off with your inaccurate “okay boomer” shit). 

Anyway Janet, that's my wife's name by the way, went right up the stairs and packed a suitcase. She kept going on about how I only cared about me and that sick freak. Pervy Pete's persisting nudity and desire to wag that puff of a dick at us didn't help things any. She kept looking over at him before scoffing while raising a hand and shaking her head in my direction. 

“Hey now, he's not the worst! At least he's not a demon or something malevolent!” 

“Ha as far as you know! I'm not taking any chances! You can enjoy your new relationship with that sicko!” 

My protests were met with a firm slamming of the front door as she stormed out. Sounds like she's gonna stay with her mother over the state line maybe? I'm not entirely certain if I'm being completely honest. I wasn't really listening much, so I could definitely be wrong about all of it. Anyways now it's just me and this translucent bastard in this old ass house. 

Pete actually hasn't been too bad the past few days. We've been watching a ton of TV and movies in our shared time. I guess that's where the whole “My name is Jeff” bit he was doing came from. The previous owners left a ton of movies behind and he's had them all on repeat ever since. His references are a bit dated but funny nonetheless. 

He can actually recite the entirety of “Superbad” and oddly enough even “Crazy,
Stupid, Love”. You know that sappy rom-com with Michael Scott from the office? He's seen the damn things hundreds of times at this point and even does goofy voices for each character. 

That being said, Pervy Pete has pretty good taste in movies and TV shows. We agree on most things to watch and have a similar sense of humor most of the time. That would be great if I didn't slip on a new puddle of gooey ectoplasm every time I walk around. I don't know what makes him goop shit up, but he's been going crazy ever since Janet left! 

I was honestly starting to think she was right about the messy stuff after the second day of slipping in a huge puddle. Pervy Pete swears it’s not sexual and says it's “just a ghost thing”. Who am I to say what is and isn't a ghost thing after all, I mean I still have a pulse and he's the one making the damn mess. 

Actually, thinking of Janet reminds me, she left me a gnarly voicemail this afternoon. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! I leave and you don't bother to text or call for a week?! My mother's right, you're not worth the trouble!!!” 

I'd be more upset if I hadn't been having such a blast with Bart. Oh yeah, I've decided it's rude to keep calling Bartholomew Pervy Pete. I've realized he's not a perv, he's just bored after all this time. He told me he used to go by Bart back when he was alive, so I figured I'd call him that too. He's really a fun guy, especially when I'm halfway through a bottle of whisky. Hell when I'm half in the bag he's the best kind of drinking buddy. Although it is odd how I wake up from those blackouts with a sore jaw. Maybe I should ask him about it one of these days? Because I usually also wake up in a stale puddle of ectoplasm after I get that drunk…

Hmm actually, now that I think about it I can remember a feeling of my limbs burning while being paralyzed. I don't remember having a basement but have images of one, one where I'm putting up black candles. Oh man, I should probably stop drinking, cause there's even odd little nightmares of me killing the neighbor’s Pomeranian. I could even swear there were some of me painting symbols in that basement with its blood. I don't like that one at all, since Ruth’s been bugging me about her damn Pomeranian having gone missing. If Ruth is anything it's ugly as shit, otherwise she's also definitely persistent and annoying as hell. 

Anyway, now that I've said all of this out loud, I'm feeling like Janet might be overreacting to Bart some. I mean he's not a saint or hell, even a great house guest or anything, but he's fine with me. I don't want the headache of a divorce on my hands and am hoping she can get to know Bart like I have. I wouldn't mind us starting a family, even if we don't have a child we would still have Bart. Maybe if I finally fix the plugged up bathroom sink she'll come back to us. Here's to hoping I have the right idea about it all!

I love my wife but she's too jealous these days! We recently moved into a new house and she swears I'm cheating on her with the ghost in here! I keep telling her that I'm not into guys, much less dead ones, but she won't hear me out. She just keeps saying she hears the moans and knows it's us hooking up.

Hell, just the other day he left a big ol sloppy pile of ectoplasm on the kitchen counter and lord did she have something to say about it!

“Jesus, if you two are going to fuck all over the house can't you at least clean up after?!”

She called out from the kitchen while I walked down the stairs. I was horrified to see the thick seeping spray of ectoplasm on the counter. Like a cartoon, she stood next to it, pointing down with her other arm crossing her torso while tapping her foot. I insisted I didn't have anything to do with it but that I'd clean it up. She just scoffed at me and threw a jerking off gesture in my direction as she walked out.

Things only got worse that evening. I was trying to take a shit and she slammed the door open. She was screaming up a whole storm about “how can I do this while she's right there” and about how “disgusted she is”. I was fuckin lost man, did my best to wipe while she screamed. I got up to see what she was talking about while she just waved her arms over her head. Well the other side of the door was covered from the ceiling to the floor in more goop. I guess that sick old man of a ghost just let loose on the damn thing.

I've since dubbed him “Pervy Pete”, which he is not a fan of. He made it a point to let me know, almost every night now he just hovers over my face. Just stands over me scowling and mouthing the words:

“My name's Jeff”

Over and over again, no sounds or moans, just his translucent form mouthing at me. That would be creepy on its own but the fact that I know he can talk makes it worse. Not to mention I'm pretty sure his name when he was alive was Bartholomew. He used to own the place back in the fifties I think. I found a bunch of pictures of him in the attic with his name on them when we first moved in. So why the hell does he just stand over me saying his name is Jeff every damn night?

I don't know and it's only making things worse with the wife. She woke up last night and started hitting me, and I mean like really hitting me hard. I woke up in a panic to see Pervy Pete standing as buck naked as an ethereal ghost can be next to me. He was smiling and swinging the puff that used to be his dick in front of my face. The wife was screaming at me while I tried to calm her down.

“You're such a sick cheating fuck!!! How can you suck his ghost dick when I'm sleeping next to you?!?! It’s just sick!!!”

It took me, and I shit you not when I say this, six and a half hours to calm her down and convince her I was asleep! Tonight I've got a priest coming by, he's saying he'll perform an exorcism or cleansing of the house type of shit. I didn't really pay attention, I was just glad it might be over finally. We'll see how things go later, fingers crossed this guy's the real deal!

So the exorcism went to shit, Pervy Pete's still here and now I've got a crying priest in my bathroom. The damn guy’s refusing to leave. He keeps yelling at me in a blubbering way that I can't make out worth a damn! It started okay, he put some crosses up and splashed some holy water around before the translucent old man walked in, hairy belly hanging out while he scratched his ass. I thought the priest was going to faint when Pervy Pete nodded at him.

“Hey father, here to join the sex party ahaha!”

He chuckled at him as he walked past. Now I was skeptical before moving into this place but I figured a damn priest who does this for a living wouldn't be. But damn if he didn't panic and start rambling about how he didn't think he'd ever actually see a ghost. Kept going on about how the church didn't prepare him for this. He dumped his whole bag out before looking at me with a bewildered expression.

“Salt, do you have salt and uh… Oh the pagan stuff they say to only use when it's really bad… Uh… OH RIGHT, rosemary, hurry!”

Well I grabbed some salt and dried rosemary out of the cupboard. He was not happy with the dried rosemary, but who the hell just keeps tufts of the shit in the house?! He used it anyway, after some heated back and forth. He walked around throwing salt all over the floor to line the room. He made sure to shoot me a dirty look while he burned the herb in a small bowl he picked out of the pile from his bag. The house smelled pretty good honestly but it didn't seem to work like he wanted. Pervy Pete walked in and looked right at the priest to ask him:

“Hmm, gonna make some chicken with that or are you just wasting their shit?”

“How?!... How did you cross the line foul spirit?!”

The two stood staring at one another, Pervy Pete picked at his ear while the priest shook his head back and forth, looking for something else.

“Tell me your name and why you've beset this couple!”

“My name, eh you can call me daddy yeh prick”

Pervy Pete responded while flipping him off and sat on the couch. He shifted slightly to get comfy, crossing one leg over the other and picked at his teeth. The priest started splashing damn holy water all over my couch. I don't know if the spirit of Christ stains but I wasn't happy at all! He stopped when Pervy Pete started laughing and looked right at him.

“Now Doug, what would your father say if he saw you like this huh?”

“Wha… How do you know?... You can't know my fath—”

“Oh I know ol Billy boy, he's a little horn dog I'll tell ya! Hosts his own wild orgies over on this side of the veil!”

“No, you're lying! He was a man of God an—”

“Ha ‘was’ is the right way to put it! Cause my lord that man fucks now! He slangs that thing all over! Has the freakiest orgies out there! Even tells us to play target practice with that birthmark on his thigh!”

Well that was the straw that broke the priest’s back I guess. He started bawling like a damn toddler and locked himself up in my bathroom. He just kept yelling it's all a lie and to bring him whiskey and he'd leave. Well that's the little I could understand between the blubbering at least.

Pervy Pete's damn happy with himself it seems like, just keeps hiding in the walls and moaning at us until he cracks up laughing. And now my damn wife thinks I did this on purpose, that me and that pervy bastard are in a full blown relationship. She says we're just having fun mocking her and God at this point! I'm going to try and find something else to get rid of that sick bastard, I'm just not sure what might work.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe this isn't the path for me?

The thuds from my trunk shake me to my core.

I look at my bruised knuckles as I weigh the consequences of my actions.

Screams ring out from behind me in desperate pleas.

I'm not a professional, he must have worked the gag free.

I look at my bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror, noticing the developing bruise.

“Fuck you, who the fuck do you think you are?!”

He did put up a good fight, the ambush wasn't enough.

I think back to my boy, my sweet boy.

He's bigger than me, he's bigger than my sweet boy.

“I don't fuckin know you and you don't know me fucker!”

The screams try to obfuscate my vivid memory of his precious face.

My hands shake, the last image of him replaces his innocence.

“I can just go home man, nobody needs to know about this!”

The cuts, bruises, and reports of defilement overcome me as my hand steadies.

The gun feels heavy as I raise it and check the safety.

The man I used to be is gone, it left with my boy.

The dirt of the desert looks like an endless kaleidoscope of options for his end.

The wavering within me drifts away as the car door opens.

The screaming mixes into a bittersweet symphony with the rage that consumes my thoughts.

The car shifts slightly as the man kicks and squirms within.

I feel a chuckle escape me, thinking “why am I laughing at a time like this?”

The trunk flies open as I raise my aim of the weighty gun at him.

“WHOAH MAN! IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS, WHATEVER IT IS, IT'S JUST NOT!”

The shaking returns with the image of my sweet boy.

The first time I held him nixes with the last.

The pain of his last moments foreign but weighing on my soul.

“It's not serious, it's everything, it's for my sweet Mikey”

BANG!

Maybe I was wrong, maybe this isn't the path for me?

The thuds from my trunk shake me to my core.

I look at my bruised knuckles as I weigh the consequences of my actions.

Screams ring out from behind me in desperate pleas.

I'm not a professional, he must have worked the gag free.

I look at my bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror, noticing the developing bruise.

“Fuck you, who the fuck do you think you are?!”

He did put up a good fight, the ambush wasn't enough.

I think back to my boy, my sweet boy.

He's bigger than me, he's bigger than my sweet boy.

“I don't fuckin know you and you don't know me fucker!”

The screams try to obfuscate my vivid memory of his precious face.

My hands shake, the last image of him replaces his innocence.

“I can just go home man, nobody needs to know about this!”

The cuts, bruises, and reports of defilement overcome me as my hand steadies.

The gun feels heavy as I raise it and check the safety.

The man I used to be is gone, it left with my boy.

The dirt of the desert looks like an endless kaleidoscope of options for his end.

The wavering within me drifts away as the car door opens.

The screaming mixes into a bittersweet symphony with the rage that consumes my thoughts.

The car shifts slightly as the man kicks and squirms within.

I feel a chuckle escape me, thinking “why am I laughing at a time like this?”

The trunk flies open as I raise my aim of the weighty gun at him.

“WHOAH MAN! IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS, WHATEVER IT IS, IT'S JUST NOT!”

The shaking returns with the image of my sweet boy.

The first time I held him nixes with the last.

The pain of his last moments foreign but weighing on my soul.

“It's not serious, it's everything, it's for my sweet Mikey”

BANG!

Maybe I was wrong, maybe this isn't the path for me?

The thuds from my trunk shake me to my core.

I look at my bruised knuckles as I weigh the consequences of my actions.

Screams ring out from behind me in desperate pleas.

I'm not a professional, he must have worked the gag free.

I look at my bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror, noticing the developing bruise.

“Fuck you, who the fuck do you think you are?!”

He did put up a good fight, the ambush wasn't enough.

I think back to my boy, my sweet boy.

He's bigger than me, he's bigger than my sweet boy.

“I don't fuckin know you and you don't know me fucker!”

The screams try to obfuscate my vivid memory of his precious face.

My hands shake, the last image of him replaces his innocence.

“I can just go home man, nobody needs to know about this!”

The cuts, bruises, and reports of defilement overcome me as my hand steadies.

The gun feels heavy as I raise it and check the safety.

The man I used to be is gone, it left with my boy.

The dirt of the desert looks like an endless kaleidoscope of options for his end.

The wavering within me drifts away as the car door opens.

The screaming mixes into a bittersweet symphony with the rage that consumes my thoughts.

The car shifts slightly as the man kicks and squirms within.

I feel a chuckle escape me, thinking “why am I laughing at a time like this?”

The trunk flies open as I raise my aim of the weighty gun at him.

“WHOAH MAN! IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS, WHATEVER IT IS, IT'S JUST NOT!”

The shaking returns with the image of my sweet boy.

The first time I held him nixes with the last.

The pain of his last moments foreign but weighing on my soul.

“It's not serious, it's everything, it's for my sweet Mikey”

BANG!

Someone has been randomly knocking on my door at 3:58am exactly. My usual sleep schedule keeps me up until around midnight most of the time. Being the closing manager for a retailer keeps me from my humble home until closer to ten most nights anyway. So I'm usually right in the middle of my sleep when it happens.

The intrusive disturbances started about a week ago now. The knocking isn't an aggressive banging but instead fast, consistent thuds. They're just loud enough to hear throughout my little one-bedroom apartment. It honestly sounds like someone intentionally trying to be as annoying as possible without coming across as violent.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The sound of the rapid thumping dragged me awake from my dead sleep that first night. The fast-paced rhythmic knocking kept going until I went to the front door.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The moment I was within reach of the door the knocking abruptly stopped. The suddenness of me waking up had me beyond disoriented as I looked down to check my phone and saw the time. Thinking it was a prank I turned to walk away.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The knocking burst back to life with the movement of my foot and stopped with my stare returning to the door. My breathing sped up alongside my heart rate as I felt myself break out in a sweat. I stood there for a moment, petrified at the idea that the person on the other side of the door somehow knew I was walking away.

Knock! — Knock! — Knock!

A slow rhythm of knocks resumed, just as hard as the previous ones but slowed to a pace of about every two seconds. With a deep inhale I calmed myself and leaned forward.

On the other side of my peephole, I saw the well-lit hallway of my apartment and someone standing facing away from the door. Looking at them from behind, I could tell they were a shorter person, with a ratty knotted mess of thick black hair that strung over a stained white shirt. They were almost completely still aside from the subtle rise and fall of their shoulders as they drew rapid breaths.

As I watched them through the tiny window, I knew one thing for certain. I was not opening the door under any circumstances. My voice quivered as I called out to them through the door.

“W-what do you want?”

“...”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“...”

With no response I pulled my face away and again turned to walk.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

I whipped back to the door as soon as the knocking drummed back up. With my hand touching the door, it halted just as abruptly as it started. I peeked through the door to confirm that the person was still there. Turning around, I limply slumped down against the door, sitting with my arms folded over my knees. How could they know when I was trying to walk away?

I awoke curled up on the floor in front of my door. My heart rate spiked as I stood and frantically peered through the peephole. Letting out a massive exhale, I saw the grey floors and cream-colored walls, but no mess of black hair. I thought to myself “If that was somebody pranking me, they did a good job” as I stretched my back and made my way to the bathroom.

It took me checking the hall four more times before I felt comfortable leaving that morning. My hands shook as I tried to lock the door and dropped my keys. I knelt down to retrieve them, seeing several long strands of black hair beneath my feet, along with dark stains in the shape of someone's bare feet in the carpet. Shaking off the shiver that ran up my spine, I locked the door and rushed through the hall to the elevator.

I struggled with the most basic of tasks that day at work. I was re-reading every other line three or four times to piece my reports together. My stomach did a flip as I returned home that evening, seeing my door again and noticing tiny scuffs in the center of it. The paint looked to be worn in that one spot in particular, as though it had been rubbed off. I didn't bother to eat dinner that night, and felt my chest tighten when it was time to get ready for bed. I tossed and turned until around two in the morning, when I was finally able to force myself asleep.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

Waking immediately, I was overcome with a sense of dread and scrambled to grab my phone. Sure enough my screen read: 3:58am, just like the night before. I got out of bed and walked the same sleepy path as though guided by a string.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Again the knocking stopped the moment I was within arm’s reach, and again the small figure stood with their matted tangle of black hair facing me. I stayed at the door for nearly an hour. The entire time I tried to collect my scattered thoughts to know what to do, “Should I call the cops? What're the odds they even believe me and show? Maybe if I open the door? No, I'm not doing that… I can't just sleep here again though.” Finally I stood up and walked back to my bedroom.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The knocks rang throughout my apartment as I lay down, pulled my phone out, and put my headphones in. I was either crazy and hallucinating or the prankster would get tired and leave. Either way I was going to play my music and sleep through it.

The faint sound of yelling breached my sleep as a particularly quiet transition between songs carried out. Blinking heavily, I pulled one of my headphones out to hear the voice more clearly. Unmistakably, it was my neighbor Clyde yelling something that I couldn't make out. I stumbled out of bed and ran to the door.

Clyde's door across the hall was wide open with his body covering most of it from my view. He was standing halfway between his apartment and the person still perched in front of mine. I was just barely able to make out what he was saying. His voice was raspy with sleep as he waved his arms around excitedly.

“And at this fucking hour?! How the hell did a bum even get in here damn it?! Are you fucking listening to me still?!?”

His tan round face was bright red as his long dirty-blonde hair bounced with each exaggerated movement. He had clearly been woken up by the knocking, as he was in his boxers wearing a snug-fitting white tank top, one that probably fit better ten pounds ago. Just as I reached for the door handle to intervene, Clyde stopped yelling. Suddenly the figure in front of my door reached out, took Clyde's hand, and walked him back into his own apartment.

By the time I got my door open and burst into the hall, Clyde's door was closed and locked. I wrenched at the door handle as I knocked hard on his door. After a moment I heard his voice call out from the other side of the door in a low tone.

“Please go away, it's late and I don't want any visitors.”

Rushing back to my own apartment, I called the cops. I stood at my door and stared through the peephole for the entire three hours it took them to respond. The sun was cresting through my windows behind me as I saw the glint of the police officer's badge. He turned away from me as I heard a knock on Clyde's door. Several moments later a smiling Clyde opened the door, his skin paler than normal. His lips pulled as far back as they could, stretching his smile to an almost inhuman degree. He looked up at the officer as they traded only a few sentences. Clyde then pointed at my apartment; the officer nodded before turning to face my home.

A hard boom shook my door as I opened it to see the officer scowl at me from under his low haircut.

“Sir, are you the one who called us?”

I nodded before opening my mouth to respond, but the officer cut my words off before I could speak them.

“Is there any reason why your neighbor says you were knocking on his door for several hours last night?”

His words cut through my brain like a hot knife. Is that what Clyde had just told him? I cleared my throat as I answered.

“Uh no sir, someone was knocking at my door and — well my neighbor Clyde, you spoke to him just now, he uh. Well he came out and yelled at them but they—”

“Well he says you were the one knocking and who he was yelling at. Even said he threatened to call the cops if you didn't leave him alone.”

Standing there with my mouth open, my tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth. My entire mouth went bone dry as I searched for the words to reply. The officer squinted while he looked to the left and right as he continued.

“If I ask these other residents about if there was someone else out here, or if it was just you knocking and yelling, what are they gonna tell me?”

Bewildered, I raised both of my hands with the palms facing up in a plea to be believed.

“Mhmm, look I don't know what's going on between the two of you. You don't seem doped up to me but this whole thing is a bit ridiculous. What do you say you leave your neighbor alone and leave last night in the past?”

The officer raised an eyebrow at me as he finished speaking. Exhaling a heavy breath, I nodded as the officer turned and walked back down the hall. Once he reached the elevator I noticed him glance back at me while scratching his head. A ding rang through the hall, prompting him to enter the elevator as he shook his head slightly. I turned back to my own apartment and grabbed the door handle.

Knock! Knock!

My heart started pounding like a drum in my chest as I looked behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Clyde's door was ever so slightly cracked open before snapping shut.

The next day was a non-stop game of spot the difference as I monitored Clyde's apartment. There weren't any signs of him coming or going throughout the entire day. I even tried to ask the other neighbors if they had seen anything, but nobody on my floor would answer their doors. I'd knock and call out but not a single person would answer me. As I worked my way up and down the hall, I noticed scuffs in the paint at the center of every door between my own and the elevator. All of the scuffs were in the exact same spot on the doors but stopped at Clyde's.

Sleep kept itself far from my grasp that night. My eyes burned and grew heavy as I made sure to watch the clock tick away. Counting the minutes as they passed, I anticipated the knocking to infect my apartment again. My mind raced when I watched the time change over from 3:57am to 3:58am. As the minute passed I played the past two nights back in my head. Fighting hard, I tried to convince myself they were real as the clock changed to 3:59am.

I remained awake through to sunrise, unable to accept the lack of activity that night. Maybe I had hallucinated the whole situation? Stress wasn't weighing on me with work and I've never been a family person though. Was I genuinely going insane? I would have to be if those events really didn’t happen, if I was creating my own torture.

That new stress carried on throughout the day as I couldn’t collect my thoughts well enough to be useful on the job. The turmoil I had twisted myself into left me with no option but to call out of work. I sat there all day again, unable to find the constitution to leave the apartment. Something in my mind told me that if I left, it would be behind every door. Again I struggled to fall asleep that night, but was out cold once I managed to get into bed to finally succumb to my exhaustion.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The echoing sounds drummed me awake yet again as the rhythmic thuds filled my apartment. Checking my phone, I yet again saw 3:58am. Stumbling out of bed, I landed on my knees and in a panic crawled forward to the door. The knocking stopped as it usually did when I got close. As I stood up, I pressed my face to the peephole but kept my eyes closed tight. Taking deep breaths, I worked to calm myself as I opened my eyes slowly.

Clyde’s round face smiled up at me from the hallway. I nearly fell backwards at the unexpected sight but managed to focus on the door behind him. Clyde’s door was still closed — the same as it had been every time I checked throughout the past couple days. Oddly, he was looking up into the peephole of my door. Clyde and I were nearly the exact same height and I had to hunch slightly to see through the hole. He wasn't crouching but stood upright, staring up like a child to an adult.

That same smile from the conversation with the officer was stretched across his face. I shifted my head to try and see the rest of his body. He was standing so close to the door, though, that I couldn't see anything below his stained white shirt. His eyes were incredibly bloodshot and filled with tears that refused to fall. At that angle I could see cracks in his face — the edges of the smile were pulling themselves apart. Glints of blood shined in the hallway light as I felt his gaze pierce through my door and sink into me. I took in the widening smile when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The tiny peephole nearly hid it from me at that moment, but I caught it. Clyde's door was slowly opening behind him. It stopped once it was only a few inches open and remained there.

Again, I didn't sleep that night and refused to walk away from the door. Remaining curled up on the floor, I only took breaks to check on that thing that couldn't have been Clyde. Each time I returned to the peephole in my door, I could have sworn its head shifted to follow my movement. Calling the cops was out of the question and I was too terrified to scream out for any of the neighbors. The thought of Clyde's fate befalling any of them at my expense kept that idea at bay.

That was two days ago now. The thing that stole Clyde’s face was gone when I checked sometime around seven in the morning. Even though it left me, Clyde's door across the hall is still open. It never closed and has just stayed cracked by those few inches. I've stayed in this fifteen-foot area that spans my kitchen, across my front door, and to my bathroom. I managed to get some sleep last night when 3:59am finally came around, but I don't know how much longer I can stay awake now.

My kitchen was already low on groceries and I'm not leaving here until Clyde's door closes. Since I've taken up post here, I haven't heard anyone else walk up or down the hall. I don't know if that thing has already gotten everyone else and it's just me left. All I do know is that I really don't want to die here, but I will not let that thing get me, even if it means starving to death.

Someone has been randomly knocking on my door at 3:58am exactly. My usual sleep schedule keeps me up until around midnight most of the time. Being the closing manager for a retailer keeps me from my humble home until closer to ten most nights anyway. So I'm usually right in the middle of my sleep when it happens.

The intrusive disturbances started about a week ago now. The knocking isn't an aggressive banging but instead fast, consistent thuds. They're just loud enough to hear throughout my little one-bedroom apartment. It honestly sounds like someone intentionally trying to be as annoying as possible without coming across as violent.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The sound of the rapid thumping dragged me awake from my dead sleep that first night. The fast-paced rhythmic knocking kept going until I went to the front door.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The moment I was within reach of the door the knocking abruptly stopped. The suddenness of me waking up had me beyond disoriented as I looked down to check my phone and saw the time. Thinking it was a prank I turned to walk away.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The knocking burst back to life with the movement of my foot and stopped with my stare returning to the door. My breathing sped up alongside my heart rate as I felt myself break out in a sweat. I stood there for a moment, petrified at the idea that the person on the other side of the door somehow knew I was walking away.

Knock! — Knock! — Knock!

A slow rhythm of knocks resumed, just as hard as the previous ones but slowed to a pace of about every two seconds. With a deep inhale I calmed myself and leaned forward.

On the other side of my peephole, I saw the well-lit hallway of my apartment and someone standing facing away from the door. Looking at them from behind, I could tell they were a shorter person, with a ratty knotted mess of thick black hair that strung over a stained white shirt. They were almost completely still aside from the subtle rise and fall of their shoulders as they drew rapid breaths.

As I watched them through the tiny window, I knew one thing for certain. I was not opening the door under any circumstances. My voice quivered as I called out to them through the door.

“W-what do you want?”

“...”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“...”

With no response I pulled my face away and again turned to walk.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

I whipped back to the door as soon as the knocking drummed back up. With my hand touching the door, it halted just as abruptly as it started. I peeked through the door to confirm that the person was still there. Turning around, I limply slumped down against the door, sitting with my arms folded over my knees. How could they know when I was trying to walk away?

I awoke curled up on the floor in front of my door. My heart rate spiked as I stood and frantically peered through the peephole. Letting out a massive exhale, I saw the grey floors and cream-colored walls, but no mess of black hair. I thought to myself “If that was somebody pranking me, they did a good job” as I stretched my back and made my way to the bathroom.

It took me checking the hall four more times before I felt comfortable leaving that morning. My hands shook as I tried to lock the door and dropped my keys. I knelt down to retrieve them, seeing several long strands of black hair beneath my feet, along with dark stains in the shape of someone's bare feet in the carpet. Shaking off the shiver that ran up my spine, I locked the door and rushed through the hall to the elevator.

I struggled with the most basic of tasks that day at work. I was re-reading every other line three or four times to piece my reports together. My stomach did a flip as I returned home that evening, seeing my door again and noticing tiny scuffs in the center of it. The paint looked to be worn in that one spot in particular, as though it had been rubbed off. I didn't bother to eat dinner that night, and felt my chest tighten when it was time to get ready for bed. I tossed and turned until around two in the morning, when I was finally able to force myself asleep.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

Waking immediately, I was overcome with a sense of dread and scrambled to grab my phone. Sure enough my screen read: 3:58am, just like the night before. I got out of bed and walked the same sleepy path as though guided by a string.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Again the knocking stopped the moment I was within arm’s reach, and again the small figure stood with their matted tangle of black hair facing me. I stayed at the door for nearly an hour. The entire time I tried to collect my scattered thoughts to know what to do, “Should I call the cops? What're the odds they even believe me and show? Maybe if I open the door? No, I'm not doing that… I can't just sleep here again though.” Finally I stood up and walked back to my bedroom.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The knocks rang throughout my apartment as I lay down, pulled my phone out, and put my headphones in. I was either crazy and hallucinating or the prankster would get tired and leave. Either way I was going to play my music and sleep through it.

The faint sound of yelling breached my sleep as a particularly quiet transition between songs carried out. Blinking heavily, I pulled one of my headphones out to hear the voice more clearly. Unmistakably, it was my neighbor Clyde yelling something that I couldn't make out. I stumbled out of bed and ran to the door.

Clyde's door across the hall was wide open with his body covering most of it from my view. He was standing halfway between his apartment and the person still perched in front of mine. I was just barely able to make out what he was saying. His voice was raspy with sleep as he waved his arms around excitedly.

“And at this fucking hour?! How the hell did a bum even get in here damn it?! Are you fucking listening to me still?!?”

His tan round face was bright red as his long dirty-blonde hair bounced with each exaggerated movement. He had clearly been woken up by the knocking, as he was in his boxers wearing a snug-fitting white tank top, one that probably fit better ten pounds ago. Just as I reached for the door handle to intervene, Clyde stopped yelling. Suddenly the figure in front of my door reached out, took Clyde's hand, and walked him back into his own apartment.

By the time I got my door open and burst into the hall, Clyde's door was closed and locked. I wrenched at the door handle as I knocked hard on his door. After a moment I heard his voice call out from the other side of the door in a low tone.

“Please go away, it's late and I don't want any visitors.”

Rushing back to my own apartment, I called the cops. I stood at my door and stared through the peephole for the entire three hours it took them to respond. The sun was cresting through my windows behind me as I saw the glint of the police officer's badge. He turned away from me as I heard a knock on Clyde's door. Several moments later a smiling Clyde opened the door, his skin paler than normal. His lips pulled as far back as they could, stretching his smile to an almost inhuman degree. He looked up at the officer as they traded only a few sentences. Clyde then pointed at my apartment; the officer nodded before turning to face my home.

A hard boom shook my door as I opened it to see the officer scowl at me from under his low haircut.

“Sir, are you the one who called us?”

I nodded before opening my mouth to respond, but the officer cut my words off before I could speak them.

“Is there any reason why your neighbor says you were knocking on his door for several hours last night?”

His words cut through my brain like a hot knife. Is that what Clyde had just told him? I cleared my throat as I answered.

“Uh no sir, someone was knocking at my door and — well my neighbor Clyde, you spoke to him just now, he uh. Well he came out and yelled at them but they—”

“Well he says you were the one knocking and who he was yelling at. Even said he threatened to call the cops if you didn't leave him alone.”

Standing there with my mouth open, my tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth. My entire mouth went bone dry as I searched for the words to reply. The officer squinted while he looked to the left and right as he continued.

“If I ask these other residents about if there was someone else out here, or if it was just you knocking and yelling, what are they gonna tell me?”

Bewildered, I raised both of my hands with the palms facing up in a plea to be believed.

“Mhmm, look I don't know what's going on between the two of you. You don't seem doped up to me but this whole thing is a bit ridiculous. What do you say you leave your neighbor alone and leave last night in the past?”

The officer raised an eyebrow at me as he finished speaking. Exhaling a heavy breath, I nodded as the officer turned and walked back down the hall. Once he reached the elevator I noticed him glance back at me while scratching his head. A ding rang through the hall, prompting him to enter the elevator as he shook his head slightly. I turned back to my own apartment and grabbed the door handle.

Knock! Knock!

My heart started pounding like a drum in my chest as I looked behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Clyde's door was ever so slightly cracked open before snapping shut.

The next day was a non-stop game of spot the difference as I monitored Clyde's apartment. There weren't any signs of him coming or going throughout the entire day. I even tried to ask the other neighbors if they had seen anything, but nobody on my floor would answer their doors. I'd knock and call out but not a single person would answer me. As I worked my way up and down the hall, I noticed scuffs in the paint at the center of every door between my own and the elevator. All of the scuffs were in the exact same spot on the doors but stopped at Clyde's.

Sleep kept itself far from my grasp that night. My eyes burned and grew heavy as I made sure to watch the clock tick away. Counting the minutes as they passed, I anticipated the knocking to infect my apartment again. My mind raced when I watched the time change over from 3:57am to 3:58am. As the minute passed I played the past two nights back in my head. Fighting hard, I tried to convince myself they were real as the clock changed to 3:59am.

I remained awake through to sunrise, unable to accept the lack of activity that night. Maybe I had hallucinated the whole situation? Stress wasn't weighing on me with work and I've never been a family person though. Was I genuinely going insane? I would have to be if those events really didn’t happen, if I was creating my own torture.

That new stress carried on throughout the day as I couldn’t collect my thoughts well enough to be useful on the job. The turmoil I had twisted myself into left me with no option but to call out of work. I sat there all day again, unable to find the constitution to leave the apartment. Something in my mind told me that if I left, it would be behind every door. Again I struggled to fall asleep that night, but was out cold once I managed to get into bed to finally succumb to my exhaustion.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

The echoing sounds drummed me awake yet again as the rhythmic thuds filled my apartment. Checking my phone, I yet again saw 3:58am. Stumbling out of bed, I landed on my knees and in a panic crawled forward to the door. The knocking stopped as it usually did when I got close. As I stood up, I pressed my face to the peephole but kept my eyes closed tight. Taking deep breaths, I worked to calm myself as I opened my eyes slowly.

Clyde’s round face smiled up at me from the hallway. I nearly fell backwards at the unexpected sight but managed to focus on the door behind him. Clyde’s door was still closed — the same as it had been every time I checked throughout the past couple days. Oddly, he was looking up into the peephole of my door. Clyde and I were nearly the exact same height and I had to hunch slightly to see through the hole. He wasn't crouching but stood upright, staring up like a child to an adult.

That same smile from the conversation with the officer was stretched across his face. I shifted my head to try and see the rest of his body. He was standing so close to the door, though, that I couldn't see anything below his stained white shirt. His eyes were incredibly bloodshot and filled with tears that refused to fall. At that angle I could see cracks in his face — the edges of the smile were pulling themselves apart. Glints of blood shined in the hallway light as I felt his gaze pierce through my door and sink into me. I took in the widening smile when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The tiny peephole nearly hid it from me at that moment, but I caught it. Clyde's door was slowly opening behind him. It stopped once it was only a few inches open and remained there.

Again, I didn't sleep that night and refused to walk away from the door. Remaining curled up on the floor, I only took breaks to check on that thing that couldn't have been Clyde. Each time I returned to the peephole in my door, I could have sworn its head shifted to follow my movement. Calling the cops was out of the question and I was too terrified to scream out for any of the neighbors. The thought of Clyde's fate befalling any of them at my expense kept that idea at bay.

That was two days ago now. The thing that stole Clyde’s face was gone when I checked sometime around seven in the morning. Even though it left me, Clyde's door across the hall is still open. It never closed and has just stayed cracked by those few inches. I've stayed in this fifteen-foot area that spans my kitchen, across my front door, and to my bathroom. I managed to get some sleep last night when 3:59am finally came around, but I don't know how much longer I can stay awake now.

My kitchen was already low on groceries and I'm not leaving here until Clyde's door closes. Since I've taken up post here, I haven't heard anyone else walk up or down the hall. I don't know if that thing has already gotten everyone else and it's just me left. All I do know is that I really don't want to die here, but I will not let that thing get me, even if it means starving to death.