u/Waiting4MidMoon

"Babe?"

"Yeah?"

"There’s something in the garden."

Sophie doesn’t look up. "Raccoons again?"

"No. It’s not alive."

She joins me at the window. Leans in.

"...Where?"

"There. In the grass."

"Erm...Oh." Her voice drops. "Yeah. I think I see it."

It’s not a shadow. Shadows don't pull.

"What is it?" she whispers.

"I don’t know, but...It’s like your eyes don’t want to land on it."

She exhales through her nose and rubs her arms. "Feels like it’s stroking me or something."

Then she opens the sliding door.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Just want a closer look."

"Sophie-"

Too late.

She’s out the door. Barefoot in the grass.

The thing doesn’t move, but the lawn dips slightly where it sits. Like gravity’s different there.

She stops three feet away. The suction tugs at her hoodie.

"It’s not black," she says. "It’s hollow."

"Please come back."

She kneels. Slowly. Tilts her head.

"There’s depth to it. Like it goes down forever. Like…"

"Sophie!"

"...like it’s waiting."

She reaches out.

"Don’t-"

Her fingers vanish. Then her wrist. Elbow.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flinch.

She just stares, blank-eyed, as the blackness swallows her arm... Her shoulder... Her throat.

Then...

Gone.

I don’t move.

Just stand there. The wind in my ears. The cold on my back.

I walk to the patch. The grass around it now dead and brittle. Then an enormous sound escapes.

I run inside, lock the door and wait.

An hour. Maybe two.

Then-

The door clicks open.

Footsteps.

Wet...

Slow...

Sophie walks in.

Same hair. Same hoodie. Same face.

But her smile doesn’t know how to smile.

"Why’d you leave me?" she asks. Her voice the creepiest thing I'd ever heard.

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

She steps closer. Dripping.

The hand she reached in with is gone.

No blood. No wound.

Just an empty sleeve.

She lifts it. Lets it dangle like a question.

"You just watched," she says. Then she quickly leans in. Sniffs me. "But you feel it now, don’t you?”

I didn't, but I slowly nod anyway.

Her eyes glint.

She smiles wider.

Then I notice something moving inside her empty sleeve.

Something wriggling.

A tiny green shoot pushes through the fabric.

I stare.

Another appears.

Then another.

It's...Grass.

Thin blades of grass begin pushing through the sleeve, growing rapidly from the darkness where her arm should be.

Behind her, the sliding door is still open.

I look outside.

The black patch has doubled in size. The grass around it dances and bends towards the darkness.

Sophie follows my eyes and smiles.

"It’s deeper in there now," she whispers, wrapping her grassy tentacles around my shoulders and slowly pushing me forward. "Want to help make it deeper?"

The first letter arrived on Tuesday.

There was a familiar-looking insurance logo in the corner and my name and address.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

Dear Mrs Harper,

We are contacting you regarding an incident involving your insured vehicle.

Our records indicate that your vehicle will be involved in a collision in seven days at approximately 2:15pm.

Please do not drive your vehicle at this time.

To update your policy or speak to a member of our Claims Prevention Team, please call 0900 614 9281 immediately.

Please quote reference CP-17492.

Yours sincerely,

Claims Prevention Team

I read it twice.

Then I laughed.

It was obviously a scam.

Who sends you a letter telling you your car is going to crash?

I put it in the recycling.

On Wednesday morning, I received an email.

The subject line read:

URGENT: ACTION REQUIRED REGARDING YOUR MOTOR POLICY

I opened it.

It repeated almost everything in the letter.

Same prediction.

Same time.

Same number to call.

I deleted it.

That evening, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

Naturally, I ignored it.

It rang again.

And again.

By the fourth call, I was irritated enough to answer.

Nobody spoke.

I waited.

“Hello?”

There was a faint crackle.

Then the call ended.

I blocked the number.

Five days later, another email arrived.

URGENT: PLEASE CONTACT US

I deleted it straight away.

At lunchtime, my daughter called.

She'd locked herself out and needed me to bring her spare key.

She lived twenty minutes away.

I grabbed my keys and drove to my daughter's.

At 2:15pm, a delivery van hit my car.

Hard.

The impact pushed my car into the wall outside her flat.

I remember the sound of breaking glass.

Then nothing.

When I woke up, I was in hospital.

The police told me the other driver was drunk.

The doctor told me I'd been lucky.

My left leg had been trapped beneath the crushed dashboard, the metal folding around my thigh. My right arm had been pinned between the door and the seat, with several bones broken. A shard of windscreen had cut deep into my cheek and another had lodged beneath my collarbone.

The steering wheel had been forced into my chest hard enough to fracture several ribs.

The doctor said the worst injury was to my spine.

He said I'd never walk again.

My phone was on the bedside table.

There was a new email.

The subject line was:

CLAIMS PREVENTION TEAM: FOLLOW-UP

I opened it.

Dear Mrs Harper,

We are sincerely sorry to hear about your injuries.

We would like to remind you that we made several attempts to contact you prior to today's incident.

As previously advised, you were not to drive your vehicle at the stated time. We therefore regret to inform you that your policy does not provide cover for this incident and no claim will be accepted.

Please do not disregard our next warning.

Yours sincerely,

Claims Prevention Team

0900 614 9281

Reference: CP-17492

I stared at the email for a long time.

Then I opened my insurance app.

I went through my policy documents, looking for the section I'd apparently violated.

I couldn't find it.

I opened the latest version.

There was a new section.

AI ACCIDENT PREDICTION AND PREVENTION SYSTEM

As part of our ongoing commitment to customer safety, our new AI tracking systems are now able to interpret when an accident involving your insured vehicle is likely to occur.

Where our systems identify a potential incident, we will notify you up to ten days before the predicted incident.

Failure to comply with a warning which subsequently results in the predicted incident occurring will result in the policyholder being ineligible for compensation or claim settlement relating to that incident, regardless of blame.

Human beings have always played games.

The first were simple.

Stones that moved around carved boards.

Bones thrown for luck.

Games played beside fires.

Then came cards.

Chess.

Go.

Backgammon.

Football.

Tennis.

Boxing.

Games became more complicated as we did.

Games of skill.

Games of chance.

Games of strategy.

Games where the winner got something.

Games where the loser lost something.

Then we invented computers.

Pong.

Space Invaders.

Pac-Man.

Games became bigger.

More realistic.

More immersive.

Eventually, games became entire worlds.

Millions of people could play together without ever meeting.

Then, one morning, a new game appeared.

Nobody knew who had made it.

No advertisement.

No launch.

It simply appeared on every screen connected to the internet.

The Cruel Game Of Life

WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY?

YES

NO

Most people pressed YES through pure curiosity.

ONLY ONE WINNER

Then the first question appeared.

DO YOU WANT TO WIN THIS GAME?

YES

NO

Then another.

DO YOU REALLY WANT TO WIN THIS GAME?

YES

NO

Then actual questions began.

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON AN AIRPLANE?

YES

NO

Then another.

DO YOU HAVE A PET?

YES

NO

DO YOU LIKE THE COLOUR GREEN?

YES

NO

There was no score.

No timer.

No objective.

No explanation.

Just questions.

Hundreds of them.

Thousands.

Millions.

Some, perhaps most, were completely meaningless.

People laughed about it. Made videos answering the questions. It became a whole thing.

Eventually, people stopped asking what the game was for.

They simply kept playing.

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE?

YES

NO

HAVE YOU EVER LIED TO SOMEONE YOU LOVE?

YES

NO

DO YOU REGRET IT?

YES

NO

Still, nothing happened.

There was no score.

No reward.

No indication of how far anyone had progressed.

But it became an obsession.

Months passed.

Years.

People began leaving the game open constantly.

They answered questions while eating.

While travelling.

While working.

Some people had been playing for decades. And I was proudly one of them.

Sometimes I barely noticed the questions.

I'd answer while making coffee.

While waiting for the bus.

While lying in bed.

YES.

NO.

YES.

YES.

NO.

I had missed birthdays because I was playing.

A few weddings too.

Christmases.

Even funerals.

I told myself none of it mattered.

There would always be another one.

Another birthday.

Another Christmas.

Another question.

Even my daughter used to complain about it.

She stopped eventually.

I can't remember when.

I can't remember my first grey hair.

I can't even remember buying my reading glasses.

The game continued.

YES.

NO.

YES.

NO.

Eventually, people started dying.

Some had played almost their entire adult lives.

Some had spent longer playing than they had spent at school, at work, or with their families.

Still, nobody stopped.

If anything, people became more determined.

We had already given too much time to quit now.

That was what everyone said.

We had come too far.

I had come too far.

There had to be an end.

Every game had one.

And every game had a winner.

It said so.

Naturally, I wanted it to be me.

Just like everybody else.

And so...

I kept playing.

Then, one morning, a question appeared that I almost answered without even reading it.

Then I stopped.

DO YOU WANT TO WIN THIS GAME?

YES

NO

DO YOU REALLY WANT TO WIN THIS GAME?

YES

NO

I stared at it...

And stared at it...

I thought about how long I'd been playing.

I thought about everything I'd missed. Everything I'd skipped. Everything I'd lost.

Everything that had happened around me while I'd been too busy playing.

And it was at that moment I realised exactly how to win.

You already know the simulation theory. You’ve heard it all before. Déjà vu, glitches, the Matrix. None of that is new.

But here’s the part no one knows. The architects of this system, the ones who built the AI that runs our reality? They aren’t human. They’re demons. And some of the most brilliant people in history didn’t discover truth… they were simply handed pieces of the code.

Think about it. Albert Einstein “suddenly” reimagines the universe with relativity, bending time and space as if he could see the architecture itself. He didn’t just theorize it, he was given access to the source code, a reward for selling a piece of himself to the ones who wrote it.

Nikola Tesla claimed he received visions, entire blueprints for inventions appearing in his mind, fully formed. Was that genius, or direct downloads from the demons who wanted to push technology further, to test how much of their code humanity could comprehend before it broke us?

Isaac Newton? An apple falls, and suddenly gravity is "d**iscovered"? No. That was just the cover story. Newton spent more of his life on alchemy and the occult than physics. He was searching for the cracks in the system, and the demons rewarded him with equations that still govern our reality.

Even artists weren’t immune. Beethoven claimed music came to him as if dictated by a higher power. Shakespeare wrote words that feel timeless, eternal, as if they were always meant to be spoken. Maybe they were. Maybe those lines were already in the script, handed down as part of the deal.

And it hasn’t stopped. Elon Musk talks openly about simulation theory and AI, as if he isn’t just speculating but remembering. He pushes technology forward at a pace that feels inhuman, almost guided. Perhaps he didn’t build his empire alone. Perhaps he made the same deal, receiving fragments of the code in exchange for carrying their agenda into the modern world.

Every leap forward in history, every impossible burst of knowledge, every piece of brilliance that feels too perfect, might not be human at all. It could be the demons, feeding fragments of their code to chosen individuals, keeping the simulation evolving just enough to stay interesting.

So when you admire a genius, or marvel at a discovery that feels beyond human, ask yourself... Did they earn it? Or did they sell their soul for access to the system?

And if the demons are still handing out fragments of the code, then perhaps they’re looking for someone new.

Maybe they’re looking for you...

M̶͂a̷̔y̴͛b̶͂e̶͗ ̴͊t̷̏h̴͠e̴͝y̶̿...

M̶͂a̷̔y̴͛b̶͂e̶͗ ̴͊t̷̏h̴͠e̴͝y̶̿ ̶̍a̴̽r̶͠e̴͛ ̵̑w̴͘...

M̶͂a̷̔y̴͛b̶͂e̶͗ ̴͊t̷̏h̴͠e̴͝y̶̿ ̶̍a̴̽r̶͠e̴͛ ̵̑w̴͘a̴̓t̷͗ć̵h̴͠i̸͝n̶͂g̶͋ ̴͌y̸̛o̶͂u

As we picked through the park, searching for anything we could eat, the peaceful serenity around us suddenly transformed into a frantic nightmare.

"Look, fellas! We got a loner!" a voice shouted in the distance. "Get her!"

My stomach dropped. I glanced over my shoulder and saw them...a gang of men charging towards us, their silhouettes moving between the trees as their footsteps pounded against the pavement.

"Run, Maxx! Run!"

Maxx looked up at me for half a second, his ears flattening against his head before taking off beside me. I ran as fast as I could, but I kept looking down to make sure he was still there. He was getting tired. I could see it in the way his tongue hung from his mouth and the way his back legs were beginning to drag, but he never stopped.

"Come on, boy. Just a little further."

His paws hammered against the pavement alongside mine as we tore through the park. Adrenaline surged through my veins, drowning out the exhaustion that had been weighing me down for days. Behind us, the men shouted and laughed.

"Yeah, keep running! We love the chase!"

"We'll catch you!"

"We'll catch you and eat you!"

"And your dog!"

I tightened my grip on Maxx's lead.

They could have me. They could take everything I owned.

But they weren't taking him.

He was the reason I kept getting up every morning. The reason I still had someone to talk to when the nights became too much. When I had nothing to eat, I made sure he got the first bite. When I was cold, I'd wrap my coat around him.

He was my world.

We raced across a bridge, our footsteps clanging against the metal beneath us. I dared to look back and immediately regretted it.

They were closer.

Much closer.

"Shit! Come on, Maxx!"

I pulled him towards a narrow path disappearing into a dense thicket. He followed without hesitation.

Branches whipped across my face as we plunged between the trees, while thorns clawed at my skin and ripped through my clothes. Maxx yelped when a branch caught him across the side, and I nearly stopped.

"Are you hurt?"

He looked back at me, still running.

"It's okay. I'm here."

I ran beside him, refusing to let go of his lead.

The men's voices followed us for a while, but gradually they began to fade.

Further away...

Further...

Quieter...

Eventually, there was nothing but our ragged breathing and the frantic beating of my heart.

But we kept going anyway.

We couldn't risk stopping.

Eventually, the trees opened into a wide field. The moon was beginning to rise.

I looked around desperately for somewhere to hide and saw a barn standing at the far end of the field.

Its wooden walls were grey and weathered, its roof sagging beneath years of neglect.

It really wasn't much.

But it was shelter.

"Come on, Maxx. This will have to do for now."

He was limping now.

I scooped him into my arms.

He was heavier than I remembered, but I didn't care. I carried him across the field, his head resting against my chest, his warm breath brushing against my neck.

"It's okay," I whispered. "I've got you."

The wooden doors groaned as I pushed them open, and I carried him inside.

The smell of dust and damp wood filled my lungs. I lowered Maxx carefully onto the floor and crouched beside him, running my hands over his legs and checking every scratch.

"You're okay, baby. You're okay."

He licked my hand and I couldn't help but smile.

"Yeah, you're okay."

He wagged his tail.

For the first time since todays chase began, I felt safe.

Not because we were safe, but because we were still together.

I waited a little longer before finally stepping back outside.

Maxx followed immediately.

His legs were still stiff, but he refused to leave me.

"Good boy."

For a moment, everything felt almost normal.

...Almost.

Maxx suddenly stopped.

His ears lifted.

His body stiffened.

He stared towards the trees.

"Is it them, Maxx?"

He looked at me, then back towards the darkness.

A low groan suddenly drifted across the field.

Another groan seemed to answer it.

Then another.

My smile disappeared.

The moon had risen higher now, illuminating the distant trees, and I saw something move between them.

Fast...

Oddly shaped...

Maxx began pulling desperately at my clothes, trying to drag me back towards the barn.

"Okay, boy, okay. I know."

I grabbed his collar and pulled him closer.

"It's that time again..."

Another low groan.

"Let's go hide..."

You see, we hadn't escaped the danger.

Oh no. Not one bit.

We had only escaped what was left of the living...

'At the end of this game, there'll be a prize.'

The handwriting was clearly my wife's.

The post it note, green in colour, had been left on the small table in the hallway where we keep our keys and mail. I'd just come home from work, but fuck it, I was totally up for a game of adult hide and seek, or, whatever this was.

I flipped over the note to read the first clue;

'Let's make it easy, this is your first clue, the next note to find, is with your favourite blue.'

Hmm...She must mean my favourite blue hoodie I wear on my walks.

It was always hung in the same place. I searched the pockets and swiftly found the next clue, green;

'Lets make this one hard, as that one was easy, the next clue to find, is located in something cheesey.'

Okay...That's not hard at all.

I opened the fridge and...nothing. Well, nothing but food.

I stood with the fridge door open and a confused look upon my face.

Huh...

Then I noticed my walking shoes by the back door.

Ooh...Ha! Cheesey feet. Cheeky.

I smiled and closed the fridge. The note in my shoe was yellow;

'I know where these have been, last night you were out 'til three, The next clue to find, is upstairs with me.'

My smile disappeared.

My mind began to race, my legs began to pace. My head was sweating and my heart was thumping.

The note said she was upstairs...

At the very top step, I found another post it note, yellow;

'What you're about to see, may be quite a shock, come into our bedroom, there's no need to knock...'

My heart was pounding uncontrollably.

I slowly pushed the door open with a long and drawn out squeak, and on our bed, there she laid; bloodsoaked sheets and a nice sharp blade.

At the end of the bed, written on both sides, a post it note, red;

'I thought you might enjoy this, seeming as you like childish games, I followed you last night, and watched with a shameful gaze.

You said that you go walking, that it helps to clear your head, when really you're just a cheating man, and I know where you've been instead.

After a lot of thinking, I came up with this plan, a way to scare you shitless, and make you half a man.'

She then sat up straight from the fake blood scene, and held the knife between my legs.

"I've got you now you bastard, there's nothing you can do. But you did make it to the end, so here's your prize..."

slice

"...Fuck you."

You think it happens so fast. Within seconds. That's what the TV always shows us, right?

Wrong.

It takes soo long.

At first, I thought I'd only have to wait a few minutes. Ten, maybe. Twenty, tops.

But then twenty minutes became an hour.

An hour became two.

I keep checking the clock, even though it doesn't help.

2:14.

2:37.

3:06.

3:41.

Time moves differently when you're waiting for something.

You start noticing things you normally wouldn't.

The tiny crack in the ceiling above me. A loose thread on the sleeve of my jumper. The second hand on the clock seeming to hesitate before each tick.

Stupid things.

Anything to keep your mind occupied.

I've made three cups of coffee. Haven't finished any of them.

The first went cold.

The second tasted awful.

The third is still sitting beside me, cold and forgotten, like a promise neither of us intends to keep.

I keep telling myself it won't be much longer. That it has to happen eventually. That's how these things work.

You wait...

And wait...

And eventually, the thing you're waiting for... happens.

I walked into the other room a few times. Just to check.

Everything looked the same.

I started wondering if I'd done something wrong.

Maybe I'd missed something?

Maybe I should have done more?

No.

No. I did everything I was supposed to do.

Perfectly.

Now there was nothing left except waiting.

So that's what I did.

I waited.

The strange thing is, you think you'd feel more nervous, but after a while, the fear goes away.

It gets replaced by boredom.

Irritation.

Exhaustion.

I slumped on the floor with a loud huff, leaning my head against the wall like an unruly teenager with an attitude.

I checked the clock.

4:18.

"Oh come on," I whispered.

Another hour passed.

Then another.

I stopped checking the clock.

Stopped making coffee.

Stopped moving altogether.

I just sat there.

Listening.

Waiting.

Because eventually, this will all be over.

Eventually, I can leave this strange house.

Go home to my own bed.

Wake up tomorrow.

And this will be behind me.

I just need to wait a little longer.

That's all.

Just a little longer.

I look at the photograph I'd brought with me.

Our wedding day.

We looked genuinely happy.

Two idiots smiling at a camera, completely unaware of what the next few years will turn us into.

Funny, isn't it?

How quickly happiness can rot when you leave it sitting in the dark.

I nearly tore the photograph.

I wanted to rip it into a thousand pieces.

I really wanted to.

But instead, I just looked away in disgust.

Then I heard him breathe again.

Slow...

Shallow...

But still alive.

"Almost," I huff to myself.

And I wait once again.

>!I just hope the poison kills my husband before his mistress comes home.!<

>!Everything is already waiting for her.!<

>!The bottle...!<

>!The messages...!<

>!The fingerprints...!<

The boy had been having a difficult time lately.

I knew because I'd been watching.

His parents had started shouting again. They did that most evenings now. Doors slammed. Voices rose. Things broke.

The boy would sit at the top of the stairs, hugging his knees and listening. He never cried. Not where they could hear him.

At school, things weren't much better.

Three boys had decided they didn't like him. They pushed him in corridors. Called him names. Took his lunch.

Yesterday, they had locked him inside a cupboard.

He'd sat in the dark for twenty-three minutes before a teacher found him. He hadn't told anyone.

Children are very good at keeping secrets. Especially the ones they shouldn't have to keep.

That night, his mother shouted. His father shouted louder. Something smashed downstairs.

The boy climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over his head.

I waited.

Eventually, the house became quiet. His breathing slowed. His hands loosened.

He fell asleep.

That's when I came for him.

The place I took him wasn't nice.

Not one bit of it was nice.

It was an enormous warehouse with no windows and no obvious doors. The ceiling disappeared into darkness. One bare bulb hung from a wire, swinging gently above us.

There were chairs scattered around the room. Metal tables. Rusted hooks. Shelves filled with things nobody should ever need.

The air smelled of damp concrete, bleach and something metallic.

The boy stood beside me.

He wasn't scared anymore.

His parents were there.

So were the three boys from school.

The boy walked towards them slowly.

His mother started crying. His father tried to speak. One of the boys began apologising.

The boy didn't say anything.

He just looked at them, smiling.

I'd never seen him smile like that before.

He pointed towards the chairs.

"Sit."

They did.

One by one.

For the first time in a very long time, nobody shouted at him. Nobody pushed him. Nobody told him what to do.

Because tonight, he was the one making the rules.

I watched him become someone I'd never seen before. Someone who didn't need to hide. Someone who didn't need to be quiet. Someone who finally had control.

Hours passed.

The screaming stopped eventually.

The boy walked back to me. There was something different in his eyes.

Something cold.

Something peaceful.

"Are we finished?" he asked.

I looked across the warehouse at the people who had made his world unbearable.

"No," I said.

The boy smiled.

"Good."

He walked back towards them, and I continued to watch.

Because tonight was his night.

His trauma to deal with.

And tomorrow night, after another bad day at school, after his parents start shouting again, he will climb beneath the blankets once more.

He will close his eyes...

He will fall asleep...

And I, again, will be waiting to take him back.

I don't remember where I started. I only remember the movement.

The constant drift.

The warmth around me.

The feeling of being carried somewhere I had never been before.

At first, I thought I was alone. But then I noticed the others. Millions of them. All moving beside me.

Some travelled alone. Some were in clusters.

We were all rushing forward, but none of us knew where we were going.

The walls around us were strange.

Soft.

Wet.

They moved with every passing moment.

Sometimes they tightened around me. Sometimes they opened wide and let me drift freely.

I learned quickly that fighting the movement was pointless.

Whatever carried us was stronger.

It decided where we went.

But the further I travelled, the stranger things became.

Pieces of things floated past me.

Tiny fragments.

Broken pieces of something that had once been whole.

Some were smooth.

Some were jagged.

Some looked almost alive.

I watched as the others passed them without noticing.

They never stopped.

We never stopped.

We just continued forward.

Sometimes our surroundings changed.

They became rough.

Thick.

Things that looked like they had been there for years.

Some passages felt smooth.

Normal.

Others felt damaged.

Overused, perhaps.

I passed through narrow spaces where everything around me squeezed tightly.

The pressure was incredible.

At times, I thought I would disappear. Be squeezed into nothing.

But somehow, I kept moving.

Always moving.

And the further I went...

the longer I was in here...

the louder it became.

It was a sound I couldn't explain.

A deep rhythm. A steady force.

Boom, boom.

Boom, boom.

It travelled through everything.

Through the walls.

Through the river around me.

Through me.

It grew louder with every passing second. I knew I was getting close to something.

Something important.

Something... massive.

The others around me began moving faster.

The current changed.

It no longer carried us...

Now, it dragged us.

I couldn't stop.

Nobody could.

Everything felt suddenly different.

And then I saw... It.

A vast opening with four enormous chambers waiting ahead.

The walls around them were thicker than anything I'd seen before.

Stronger.

The valves seemed to open with impossible strength.

Then they slammed shut.

The sound was deafening now.

Open... (Boom!)

Close... (Boom!)

Open... (Boom!)

Close... (Boom!)

The force was unbelievable.

Everything around me was being dragged towards it.

I felt myself stretching.

Almost breaking apart.

For the first time during my journey... I was afraid. Because I finally understood where I was going.

The place where everything must pass through.

But sometimes...

Someone gets trapped.

Someone blocks the way.

And I didn't know I would be one of them until that moment.

I felt the sudden panic...

I felt the sudden chaos...

And then I heard the doctors shouting...

>!"He has an air embolism! Call ICU! Now!"!<

I’ve seen the readings.

I’ve watched the patterns converge.

There’s no model for this.

No precedent.

This is my warning to you all...

The crust of the Earth is starting to collapse.

It’s trembling beneath your feet even now. A pulse beneath the pulse.

You won’t feel it yet, but it’s breathing.

The Earth is breathing.

Every mine, every tunnel, every pipeline. It all connects. Capillaries of emptiness. The veins we carved for greed are now filling. Pressurizing. The planet draws breath through them like lungs learning to wake.

We thought we were digging downward, but... we were only opening airways.

We call it vibration.

We call it seismic noise.

But listen longer...

It’s a rhythm.

A pulse.

A heartbeat.

If you stand perfectly still, your own heartbeat will eventually try to match it.

The Earth is alive...

...And it remembers what we did.

It tolerated us while we were small, but eventually, all living things instinctively reject parasites.

We drilled too deep into its marrow.

We pierced the mantle and drained its blood.

We hollowed it out like gods without souls.

Well...

It's finally fighting back.

Fault lines will bloom overnight. Sinkholes the size of stadiums will open. Entire towns will be swallowed without a scream.

The hollows will collapse.

The blood will return.

Every cave ever discovered will become a mouth. The oceans will become its saliva.

You will taste death in the air.

You will hear the low squeal beneath the wind.

Children will hear it first.

They always do.

It will be the sound of the world tightening its skin.

Dogs will refuse to enter buildings.

Birds will abandon the skies.

Then, before you can even blink, highways will suddenly twist like veins. Cities will sink in seconds. The oceans will suddenly lower.

Please, no need to run. There is nowhere safe. No amount of money will save you. There's no secret corner of the world you could hide.

This is inevitable.

The first fissures will open in silence. No one will notice.

Then comes the breath.

Hot...

Wet...

Like the inside of something enormous that has finally opened its mouth.

Then the murmur will deepen until your ribs start to answer it.

Every fracking drill, every doomsday bunker, every grave we carved into its flesh...

The Earth will reclaim them.

Every cavity will fold.

Every city will cave.

Every basement will become a throat.

And that is when you will know...

The world is actually ending.

Each and every one of us will be painfully pulled towards the core.

...And there's nothing you can do about it.

My mum always told people the same thing about me.

"This is my son."

Then she would smile.

"He's a-...he's my maniac."

She always whispered the last part.

But the strange thing was, nobody ever reacted the way I thought they would. Or should.

Nobody stepped away. Nobody looked scared. Nobody treated me differently.

They would just nod politely.

Sometimes they would look at my mum with a kind of understanding. Sometimes they would ask questions.

"How long has it been?"

"Does he need anything?"

"Have you had any problems recently?"

I never fully understood.

Because I knew I wasn't a maniac.

I didn't hurt people. I didn't break things. I didn't do anything that made me dangerous.

I was just a normal kid.

At least, I thought I was.

But adults have a way of making you feel like there's something about yourself that you don't understand.

And everyone seemed to know something about me that I didn't.

At school, my mum would pull teachers aside.

"Please, just make sure they all know."

Before I went to a friend's house, she would talk quietly with their parents.

At family gatherings, she always kept an eye on me.

Not because she didn't trust me.

Because she was worried.

I used to think that was what being a maniac meant.

Not being bad.

Just being someone people had to watch. Someone who needed special rules.

My 7th birthday was the first time I realised how serious it really was.

Everyone was there.

My grandparents.

My aunts and uncles.

My cousins.

Mum had made a huge buffet and a big birthday cake.

I was halfway through eating some chicken when I felt something sharp.

I suddenly choked, then coughed.

Everyone stopped.

I coughed again.

The room went completely silent.

"I'm okay," I said, after a few more coughs, then swallowed whatever was left.

But, nobody moved.

It's like they were frozen in fear. All of them just...staring at me.

But I'd stopped choking.

It was gone.

I could breathe. I could speak.

"See? I'm fine. It was just something sharp."

Nobody looked relieved.

Instead, Mum suddenly stood.

"Don't move," she said. Her face had gone pale.

"Mum, I'm okay."

"Don't move!" 

Everyone started rushing around.

Someone grabbed the phone and started dialing.

Someone else grabbed towels. I don't know why.

My dad looked absolutely terrified.

And still, everyone was staring at me.

Like they were waiting for something to happen.

"How-...how do you feel?" My aunt asked.

I frowned, confused.

"Fiiine."

Nobody moved.

"I'm fine."

But then, slowly...

I wasn't.

A strange feeling started creeping through me...

Not pain...

Something else.

A heaviness...

A weakness...

Like my body was suddenly working harder than it should.

My mouth felt dry...

My heart started beating faster...

I looked around the room.

Everyone was still watching me.

"Why do I feel strange?"

My voice sounded different.

Even to me.

Gargled, almost.

My throat felt like it had been cut.

I could feel something was very wrong...

>!"Baby!" My mum spun me around and grabbed me by the shoulders. "How many times do I need to tell you to be careful?! You're a haemophiliac!"!<

I sat in my car outside the community centre for eleven minutes, staring at the entrance.

I don't know why I counted.

I almost didn't come.

Again.

I've been avoiding it for weeks ever since I lost my wife.

Eventually, I got out the car.

The room was smaller than I expected.

Eight chairs in a circle. A box of tissues on the table. A kettle in the corner.

The woman running the group smiled when I walked in.

"Hi. First time?"

I nodded.

"My name's Claire," she said. "Please... Sit wherever you're comfortable."

I sat down.

Nobody needed to ask why I was there.

The meeting started at seven, but for a while, nobody spoke.

Then, the man sitting across from me cleared his throat.

"I threw away her clothes today."

He had a name tag on his jumper.

Steve.

I don't know if that was actually his name or not, but for tonight, he was Steve.

Claire nodded with a warm smile.

"Mm-hm. And how did that feel?"

He looked down at his hands. Let out a big huff.

"Wrong. Like-...like I was erasing her."

Nobody spoke.

We all understood.

"I kept one thing, though."

"Oh? What did you keep?"

"Her coat."

"Why?"

"On that day, she-... she was supposed to-..." 

Steve swallowed. Hard. Then he quickly shook his head.

Claire nodded.

"It's okay, Steve. We all understand. There are no judgements here."

The woman beside me spoke next.

"Hi, I'm Caroline."

She fiddled and played with her wedding ring.

"I still make two cups of tea in the mornings."

The group smiled gently.

"How long has it been?" Someone asked.

"Nine months. I just...it feels more normal if I make two, you know? I'll make them both. Put them on the table. And then I remember."

"Then what?"

She looked down. A slow, sad frown forming on her forehead.

"...Nothing."

Nobody spoke.

Again, we understood.

The older man near the window introduced himself as Tim.

He kept his hands folded tightly in his lap.

"I thought I heard her voice yesterday."

Claire looked at him.

"How did that make you feel?"

Tim thought about it for a few seconds.

"Hopeful."

"Hopeful? Why?"

"Because for a second, I forgot."

He looked around the room at us.

"I forgot about losing her. I forgot about that day and how much pain she was in. I forgot about the hundreds of hours I'd spent crying and missing her." 

The room stayed quiet.

"I forgot about everything that'd happened that day and I had hope. Hope that she would somehow, somehow, come back to me." 

Claire nodded.

"Mm. Those moments can be difficult. Thanks for sharing, Tim." 

Tim looked at the floor.

"Yeah."

When it got to me, I nearly passed on speaking. But when everyone looked at me, I felt the need to share at least something.

"I still talk to her. My wife." 

The whole group nodded.

"That's okay," said Claire. "That's actually very common." 

I looked at my hands. My thumbs had a mind of their own.

"No. I-... I actually talk to her. She's-..."

I hung my head low.

Lower.

I couldn't finish my sentence.

Claire waited a moment, then gently moved the conversation on.

The rest of the session passed quite quickly.

People talked.

People cried.

People hugged.

We talked about memories.

About birthdays.

About habits.

About the strange little things that stayed behind.

At 8:30, Claire looked at the clock.

"I'm afraid that's all we have time for tonight, guys."

At first, nobody moved. We all just lingered in the after-feelings.

Eventually, Steve stood up, put his jacket on and left without saying goodbye. Caroline kissed her wedding ring and hugged Claire for a full minute before leaving. And Tim thanked Claire with a short handshake and a wary nod in my direction.

I watched them all leave as I thought about how strange our shared grief was.

How it can change not just a person... but the entire world.

Because the people we had lost weren't exactly dead... They were just no longer human.

Maybe I'll tell them more about my wife next week...

About the spare room...

The chain around her neck...

Hmm...

...Maybe.

The first night I heard the footsteps, I blamed the house.

Old houses make noises.

Pipes knock. Floorboards settle. Wood expands and contracts when the temperature changes.

A house is never completely quiet.

At least, that's what I told myself.

Because I live alone.

Actually alone.

No partner.

No children.

No pets.

Just me and a three-bedroom house that always felt bigger after dark.

The footsteps started at 2:13 in the morning.

I remember because I checked my phone.

One step.

Then another.

Slow.

Careful.

They sounded like they were upstairs.

I lay there, waiting for the obvious explanation.

A pipe?

A mouse?

Anything.

But the footsteps continued.

They moved from the spare bedroom, across the hallway, stopped outside the bathroom, then walked back again.

Then silence.

Eventually, I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because sometimes your brain laughs when it doesn't know what else to do.

The next night, they came again.

Same time.

Same route.

So I checked around.

Every room was empty.

Every window was locked.

Every door was secure.

There was nothing.

No one.

Just silence.

After a while, you get used to almost anything.

But that doesn't mean I wasn't silently afraid.

That's the strange thing about fear.

We imagine it as screaming. Running. Panic.

But sometimes fear is much quieter.

Sometimes fear is making sure no one is behind you when you look in the bathroom mirror at night.

Sometimes fear is checking the clock and thinking, "Not yet. I still have twenty minutes."

Sometimes fear is just footsteps.

The first time they changed their route, I knew immediately.

2:13.

They walked straight across the hallway and stopped a few feet outside my bedroom door.

My eyes stayed fixed on the handle, perfectly still, waiting for it to move...

But it didn't.

The door never opened.

After a few minutes, the footsteps simply walked away.

But the next night they stopped closer.

I heard the floorboard directly outside my bedroom creak.

The same floorboard that always made a sound when I stepped on it.

Every night, they came a little closer.

Tonight, I stay awake.

No pretending.

No excuses.

I want to know what happens.

I watch the clock.

2:11

2:12

2:13.

The footsteps begin.

One step.

Then another.

Slow.

Careful.

The spare bedroom door opens with a slow creak...

The footsteps cross the hallway to the bathroom...

The light clicks on...

Silence...

Then the footsteps change.

They move quickly across the hallway and stop abruptly outside my door.

Again, I freeze.

Eyes on the handle.

But then...I hear it...

Two slow footsteps...

Inside my room...

I don't remember pulling the covers over my head.

One second, I'm staring at the door, the next, I'm curled beneath the duvet, gripping the sheets so tight my hands hurt.

I feel ridiculous.

A grown man hiding under a blanket.

But I can't move.

The footsteps start to cross the room.

Slow this time.

Careful.

I hold my breath...

Then they stop beside my bed...

I quickly squeeze my eyes shut...

And then, from just inches away, a voice whispers:

"Why are you hiding?"

My entire body goes cold.

...Because it's my voice.

★☆☆☆☆

I paid £5,000 for a five-minute experience.

I saw the advert a month ago.

READY FOR THE THRILL OF A LIFETIME?

TRY MAXIMUM PSYCHOLOGICAL EFFECTS!

FIVE MINUTES THAT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

I assumed it was just another expensive wellness gimmick.

Something designed to make rich people feel like they've discovered themselves.

But, I was wrong.

The room itself was disappointing.

A simple chair.

A simple headset.

A simple screen.

That's it.

For that price, I expected at least a better chair...

The experience itself is impossible to explain. The best way I can describe it is this:

I was gone.

Just...gone.

Not asleep.

Not unconscious.

Gone.

When they removed the headset, I genuinely didn't know how long I had been there.

An hour?

A day?

When I asked the technician, he said it was the full five minutes. So I laughed.

Because that wasn't possible.

Anyway.

The reason I'm writing this review is because I've spent the last week trying to contact their support team.

Nobody answers.

The website is gone.

The phone number doesn't work.

So hopefully someone sees this because I have one question.

Why does my receipt say my appointment was three years ago?

---

UPDATE:

Someone replied.

They said there had been a mistake.

They said my appointment was still scheduled...for next month!

---

UPDATE 2:

I went back to the address.

The building isn't there anymore.

The land is empty.

I spoke to someone nearby who told me the building was demolished three years ago.

I don't understand what happened.

I don't understand where I was.

But I do know one thing.

The advert was right...

Maximum psychological effects indeed.

---

UPDATE 3:

How do I change my rating?

Hospitals are awful places to get lost in.

Every corridor looks the same.

Every sign somehow points in the same direction.

And if you've got blood on you, well, good luck getting someone to stop and help.

I tried asking almost everyone I passed.

Nurses.

Doctors.

Patients pushing IV stands.

"Excuse me?"

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

I know hospitals are busy and that people have jobs to do. Lives to save. But you'd think someone would notice the man leaving a bloody trail across their floor.

Apparently not.

If there's one thing you can rely on at hospitals, it's that people act like you're not there.

I wandered for what felt like hours.

It wasn't, but it felt like it.

I took a left.

A right.

Another left.

Another right.

Every corridor led to another corridor.

Every set of doors opened onto another waiting room.

I even ended up back where I'd started at one point.

I huffed, and kept trying.

"Excuse m-...."

"Can you help-...?"

"Excuse me?"

Nothing.

It was honestly impressive.

Either people are too used to ignoring others covered in blood, or I was having the unluckiest day.

Eventually, someone stopped.

An older woman carrying a coffee cup.

A reliable age.

She smiled.

"Can I help you?"

Finally.

"Oh, thank God. Thank you. I've been trying to find the exit for ages."

She blinked.

"The exit?"

"Yeah. I think I've walked every corridor in this place," I laughed awkwardly. "Twice."

She smiled and pointed behind me.

"You're not that far now. Go through Reception, turn left, and you'll see the main entrance."

I could've hugged her.

I didn't.

Instead, I thanked her. And just a few minutes later, the automatic doors slid open and cold air rushed over me.

I stepped outside and took the deepest breath I'd taken all night.

...Aaaahhhh.

Freedom.

I wiped what was left of my cheating wife's blood from my hands onto my jeans, and walked away.

I found out weeks ago.

Thought I'd wait for her routine operation.

A reliable time.

Bless her...

She always hated hospitals...

What a shame she won't be leaving.

I know Mummy.
I know Daddy.
I know cuddles before bed.
I know kisses on my hands and feet, and the soft ones on my head.
Our loving home sings with a quiet hum.
And I fall asleep as I suck my thumb.

Daddy makes funny faces.
Mummy laughs until she cries.
They both smile when they look at me, and I smile back inside.
They even smile when wiping my bum.
So I smile back as I suck my thumb.

Mummy says I'm getting big.
Daddy says I'm strong.
But Mummy sits alone now.
Her smile doesn't last for long.
The house was starting to feel numb.
So all I could do was suck my thumb.

Sometimes Mummy looks tired.
Sometimes Daddy looks mad.
But when I reach my arms out, they both don't look so sad.
The happy moments still go and come.
And I continue to suck my thumb.

Daddy doesn't dance now.
Mummy doesn't sing.
They say that they still love me.
They say that it's nothing.
But now the days feel cold and glum.
And I feel better when I suck my thumb.

Daddy comes home later now.
Mummy waits in the dark.
She says she's feeling better now.
But the house has lost its spark.
The laughter fades and so does the fun.
So all I can do now is suck my thumb.

The walls are louder after dark.
Even the doors seem to cuss.
Mummy cries when Daddy shouts.
Then she tells me not to fuss.
My tiny heart is now feeling numb.
So I sit in the corner and I suck my thumb.

Mummy wears long sleeves now.
Daddy says she fell.
Mummy says she bumped her head.
But she's lying, I can tell.
Her bruises bloom the colour of plum.
And I cry in bed as I suck my thumb.

Last night was the loudest.
Daddy screamed as Mummy ran.
I think I heard a little whimper.
It sounded like a man.
The silence after made the whole house thrum.
So I rock back and forth as I suck my thumb.

Today, strangers came to see me.
They sat me in a seat.
"Do you know where Daddy went?"
And they wrapped Mummy in a sheet.
They try to ask more questions, but I'm still far too young.
So I cope the way I've always coped...
I close my eyes and I suck my thumb.

I don't remember the last time I felt like myself.

Not sad.

Not angry.

Just...

Empty.

Low.

Like someone had turned the volume down on everything.

Food didn't taste the same.

Music sounded distant.

People talked, and I heard the words, but they never really reached me.

I kept telling myself it would pass.

Everyone has bad days.

Bad weeks.

Bad months.

Eventually though, you stop counting.

But then, one random night, I saw the advert.

WHEN YOU'RE LOW, GET HIGH.

I almost laughed.

It sounded ridiculous.

Like something designed to sell false hope to desperate people.

Then I read the rest.

A new approach to finding yourself.

No medication.

No endless talking.

See beyond yourself.

I should have closed the page.

Especially when I saw the price.

But when you've spent long enough feeling lost, you start listening to anything that promises to bring you back...

The clinic wasn't what I expected.

Just a waiting room and a treatment room. That was it.

The woman introduced herself as Dr. Vale.

I told her everything.

"I just don't feel anything anymore."

She smiled widely.

"Then we'll help you feel everything."

The treatment was surprisingly simple.

A device placed against my head, a few instructions, then darkness...

When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in the room anymore.

I wasn't dreaming.

I was somewhere else.

I saw colours my brain couldn't understand.

I heard sounds that didn't come from anywhere.

For the first time in years...

I felt alive.

When I returned, I was crying.

"Don't worry," Dr. Vale smiled. "Most people cry their first time."

"What-...happened?"

"You saw more."

"More?... Of what?"

She looked at me.

"Reality..."

I went back a few days later.

Then again.

And again.

I was completely addicted.

At first, it was unbelievably beautiful.

Everything felt connected.

Everything had meaning.

It was something words just couldn't reach.

However, by my thirteenth session, things started to change.

I started seeing...things.

Dr. Vale called them "symbols."

"The mind creates all sorts of images when it reaches higher levels of consciousness," she said.

I didn't believe her.

Because symbols aren't supposed to watch you.

And buildings aren't supposed to be made from humans.

And there's supposed to be only one Sun in the sky...not twenty.

And, behind those suns, there's not supposed to be something terrifyingly enormous hiding...

Waiting...

Watching...

Like our reality was its own personal curtain...

Yeah, okay...I really don't want to be high anymore.

This story is not based on true events.

I want to make that very clear.

None of this happened.

Not a single part of it.

The people in this story are fictional.

The places are fictional.

The events are impossible.

It's just another internet myth.

So please don't waste your time looking for proof.

Because you won't find any.

I know how these stories work.

Someone reads them and starts searching.

They look for names.

They look for locations.

They convince themselves there has to be some truth hidden somewhere.

Well, there isn't.

This is just a story.

A completely fictional story.

About a man who found something in his bedroom that wasn't supposed to exist.

A man who heard someone walking around in other rooms late at night.

A man who started finding objects in his house that he didn't remember owning.

A man who began waking up with dirt beneath his fingernails but no memory of it.

Obviously, none of that happened. Because it's clearly impossible.

Just like people don't receive a demonic visit after repeating a name three times in a mirror.

Like people don't see tall faceless shadows standing at the end of their bed.

They don't wake up to find a slender figure watching them from the trees outside their window.

Those are just internet stories.

Urban legends.

Things people created.

Slender Man doesn't exist.

The Hat Man doesn't exist.

Bloody Mary doesn't exist.

And I-... the man in this story, whose cheating wife suddenly disappeared without a trace, does not exist.

I made it all up.

Every single word.

Everyone in the department had a theory about me.

Some thought I had an incredible instinct.

Some thought I had connections I refused to reveal.

But most of them thought I was psychic.

I never corrected them.

Because honestly...

I didn't know what else to call it.

The first time it happened was during the Samson murder.

A woman found dead in her home.

No witnesses.

No suspects.

No evidence.

Until I heard the voice.

The garden shed.

I stood there for almost an hour before I finally listened.

Behind a stack of old boxes, buried beneath the floorboards, I found a knife.

The victim's blood covered the blade.

The fingerprints belonged to her neighbour.

He was arrested that night, screaming he was innocent.

They all say that.

After that, the voices became my reputation.

They never told me who the killer was.

They never showed me their face.

They only showed me where to look.

A weapon hidden beneath the floor of an abandoned apartment.

The fingerprints belonged to the victim's ex-husband.

He swore he'd never seen it before.

Then another voice.

Another murder.

Another impossible discovery.

All of the perpetrators screaming their innocence.

But the evidence was always there.

And the evidence never lied.

The department started calling me the psychic detective.

The newspapers loved me, too. They wrote about my ability.

But... I hated the attention.

Sometimes I wondered if I was truly gifted. Other times I wondered if I was losing my mind.

But the results spoke for themselves, I suppose.

This continued for months.

I became a local hero.

And then... Everything changed.

The voice changed.

For the first time, it didn't tell me where to look.

It warned me.

Don't let them find it.

I completely froze...

The next morning, my colleagues were waiting outside my house.

They had found something at the latest murder scene without me...

The murder weapon... with my fingerprints on it.

My DNA.

My blood.

After my initial arrest, I sat waiting to be questioned.

Then, one of my colleagues walked in, an old medical file in his hand. He tossed onto the table.

It landed open.

And right there, it revealed everything...

A diagnosis from when I was ten years old.

Dissociative identity disorder.

Two personalities.

And then I remembered.

Years of missing time.

Memories I couldn't explain.

I never told the force when I joined because the doctors said the other personality was gone.

...They were wrong.

The voice was never showing me where the evidence was...

It was remembering where I had framed someone.

Ben and I made the promise when we were eight.

We were sitting behind the old playground, hiding from the older kids.

He had a split lip.

I had a bruised eye.

Neither of us wanted to admit we were scared.

Ben wiped the blood from his mouth and held out his little finger.

"Nobody gets to hurt us."

I smiled.

"Ever?"

"Ever."

I hooked my little finger around his.

"Irregardless?"

"Don't you mean, regardless?"

"...Whatever."

And we laughed our pain away.

I didn't know then that promises made by children don't understand limits.

Ben disappeared three months later.

The police called it a runaway.

His parents never believed that.

Neither did I.

They searched the woods behind our school for weeks.

They found his backpack...

His coat...

His lunchbox...

But not Ben.

Eventually, everyone moved on.

Everyone except me.

I grew up.

I got married.

Had children.

Built a life.

But I never left that house.

Everyone told me to.

My wife.

My friends.

Even my own family.

They said I was holding on to something that was gone.

But they didn't understand.

I wasn't staying because of the memories.

I was staying because of Ben.

For years, strange things happened.

Small things at first.

A window I forgot to lock would already be secured.

A broken fence would be repaired overnight.

The loose floorboard in my daughter's room would somehow be fixed.

Old house?

Bad memory?

Coincidence?

But then bigger things started happening.

Worse things.

Someone broke into our house while we were asleep.

They never made it past the hallway.

When the police arrived, the intruder was sitting on the floor.

Crying.

Terrified.

He refused to tell anyone what happened.

A few months later, a man was found outside our front gate. His neck had been broken.

We were later told by police that he had been following our daughter home from school for weeks.

Then there was the man from my workplace.

He had spent months making my life miserable.

The kind of things nobody reports because they sound too insignificant.

I'd come home depressed every day.

One morning, he didn't show up.

Three days later, his car was found abandoned at the edge of the woods.

The police never found him.

One evening, I was down in the basement looking for something I had misplaced.

That's when I noticed it.

A small hole behind a panel in the back corner.

One I had never seen before.

A narrow passage descended beneath the foundations.

The further I went, the less it became abandoned.

Blankets.

Food tins.

Tools.

Books.

Then photographs.

Hundreds of them.

My first day of school.

My wedding.

My children being born.

Every important moment of my life.

At the end of the passage was a small room.

A bed.

A chair.

A table.

And on that table...

A note.

The handwriting was older.

But I knew it immediately.

Ben.

I unfolded it.

My dearest friend...

If you're reading this, you finally found our promise.

I'm sorry I never told you the truth.

I didn't run away.

I couldn't stay there anymore.

My parents hurt me. Every day. I thought if I told someone, things would only get worse.

So I left.

I took my bag and coat into the woods and left them there because I knew everyone would look there.

I knew you would look there.

I knew you would never stop searching for me.

That's why I knew you would never leave this house.

You always kept your promises.

So I kept mine.

I stayed close.

I watched.

Nobody was ever going to hurt you again.

Not your wife. Not your children. Not anyone.

Irregardless.

I read the note twice.

Then a third time.

I looked around the small room beneath my house.

The place where my best friend had spent most of his life.

Waiting.

Watching.

Keeping a promise we made when we were children.

I folded the note carefully and placed it back on the table.

Then I went back upstairs.

I made dinner.

I kissed my wife.

I helped my children with their homework.

And I never told anyone about Ben.

Because regardless of what I had found...

Regardless of what he had done...

Regardless of the years he spent beneath my home...

I had made a promise too.

And some promises are never meant to be broken.

Irregardless.