I’ve had sleep paralysis before, but this was different.
Usually, when it happens, I know exactly what’s going on. I can’t move, I can’t speak, and after a few seconds I wake up completely. This time, I wasn’t dreaming.
At least, I don’t think I was.

It happened around 3:40 in the morning. I remember checking my phone before putting it on my nightstand because I had work the next morning. I fell asleep on my back. Then I woke up. I could see my bedroom.
My ceiling fan was spinning. The streetlight outside was shining through the blinds. My phone was still sitting on the nightstand. Everything looked completely normal.
Except I couldn’t move. I tried lifting my arm. Nothing.

I tried opening my mouth. Nothing. Then I heard someone walking in the hallway. Slow footsteps. My bedroom door was open about six inches. I live alone. I immediately started telling myself it was just sleep paralysis. My brain was probably creating sounds that weren’t actually there.
Then the footsteps stopped. Right outside my door.
I stared at the opening. Nothing moved.

A few seconds passed. Then I heard a quiet whisper. “Are you awake?” I nearly lost it. The voice sounded like my sister. But my sister lives nine states away. I tried screaming her name, but nothing came out. Then the door slowly opened another inch. I couldn’t see anyone.
Just darkness in the hallway. And then something happened that still makes my stomach turn.

My phone lit up. I could see the screen from my bed.
Someone was calling me. The caller ID said ME. My own phone number. I watched it vibrate against the nightstand. Once. Twice. Three times. I couldn’t move. Then the call stopped. The bedroom went completely silent. I thought it was over. Then my phone screen lit up again. This time, it wasn’t a call. It was my camera.

The front-facing camera had opened by itself. And I could see my own face on the screen. My eyes were open.
But behind me… There was someone standing beside my bed. I couldn’t turn my head. I could only see them on my phone. They were extremely tall. Too tall. Their head was almost touching the ceiling. I couldn’t make out a face. It was just this dark shape standing completely still.

I started crying. And then the figure leaned closer to me.
Except it didn’t move on the phone screen. It moved in the actual room. I felt the mattress sink beside my leg.
Something had sat down. I could feel the weight. I could feel the mattress pressing against my body. And then I felt breathing against my ear. Slow. Wet. Almost like someone had just run a mile. I was waiting for it to say something.

Instead, it whispered: “You always wake up before I get here.” I don’t know why, but that sentence scared me more than anything else. Because it sounded like this had happened before. Like whatever was beside me had been waiting for me to notice it. Then I heard my bedroom door slam shut. The mattress suddenly lifted. I could move. I shot out of bed and grabbed my phone. The room was empty. The door was closed. I turned on every light in the apartment and checked every room. Nobody was there.

I barely slept for the rest of the night. The next morning, I told myself it was just an extremely vivid episode of sleep paralysis. Until I looked at my phone. There was a photo in my camera roll that I didn’t remember taking. It was a picture of my bedroom. Taken from the doorway. The timestamp was 3:47 AM. I was asleep in the bed. And standing beside me was a tall, dark figure.

The worst part? I live alone. And the photo had been taken from inside my apartment. I deleted it. I changed my locks. I even bought a camera for my bedroom. I haven’t had sleep paralysis since. But three nights ago, I checked the camera footage before bed. There was one video recorded at 3:47 AM. The room was empty.

For the first few minutes, nothing happened. Then the bedroom door slowly opened. Nobody walked in. But the mattress on my bed suddenly sank. Like someone had just sat down. And then, from somewhere directly beside the camera, I heard my own voice whisper: “You always wake up before I get here.” I haven’t slept in that room since. And honestly… I’m starting to wonder if the thing I saw wasn’t visiting me during sleep paralysis. Maybe sleep paralysis was the only time I was actually able to see it.

I saw him on Halloween night.

I was walking home late when I saw a man in a white mask dragging an axe toward my neighbor's house. I thought it was a costume. A prank. But he didn't knock. He didn't ring the bell. He just walked through the front door like he owned the place.

I stood there — frozen — watching through the window.

I saw him raise the axe. The father. The mother. The daughter. They didn't have time to scream. He didn't stop. He moved from room to room like he was checking off a list.

When he finished, he walked out the same way he came — dragging his axe behind him, stepping over the bodies, heading to the next house.

I ran home. I locked the door. I didn't sleep.

The next morning, the news was everywhere.

"Halloween massacre leaves 14 dead across the neighborhood. No suspects. No motive. No survivors."

I knew the truth. I saw his face. His white mask. The axe. But I didn't tell them.

Because I knew — he wasn't done.

And I know he'll be back.

Governments are very good at hiding things: bodies, weapons, entire towns, and, occasionally, the truth.

I’ve spent almost seven years watching classified reports vanish, evidence get destroyed, and witnesses suddenly develop convenient memory problems. Paper can be confiscated. Servers can be wiped. So when I decided to record what we actually do, I knew better than to put it somewhere the government could reach.

Which brings me to Reddit.

Yes, Reddit. I know how ridiculous that sounds. That’s exactly why I chose it. If someone finds this account, they’ll probably assume it’s fiction written by some bored twenty-year-old with an unhealthy interest in military history and monsters.

Perfect. Let them.

Everything you’re reading is real.

My name is General Eleanor.

Well, no, it isn’t. It’s the name I’m using here. I’m not stupid enough to put my real name on Reddit and then document classified military operations.

What I can tell you is that I’m a four-star general in the military of a very large country that has a habit of involving itself where it probably shouldn’t. For the last two years, I’ve commanded a division that officially doesn’t exist.

Our actual job is simple.

We fight monsters.

Not terrorists. Not insurgents. Monsters.

Things that crawl out of oceans. Things that wear human faces. Things that have lived beneath our soil since before our country existed. Things the government has spent more than a century pretending aren’t real.

I’ve spent almost seven years making sure they don’t reach you.

And I’ve also spent seven years learning that our records are incomplete. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes because the people writing them died. And sometimes because someone decided the truth was more dangerous than the thing we were fighting.

That’s why I’m writing this.

Every general who takes my position receives the same briefing: forty-seven rules across thirty pages.

I’ve read it nineteen times.

It’s wrong.

Not completely wrong, which would almost be easier. It’s wrong in exactly the ways that get people killed.

So I’m recording everything the official briefing leaves out: what these things look like, how they behave, what kills them, what doesn’t, what they want, and why. I’ll record our mistakes too.

Especially those.

Because after seven years, I’ve learned something important.

Monsters don’t kill most people.

Mistakes do.

I was fifteen when this started. At the time, I was more worried about passing algebra than supernatural creatures and military training.

Mostly algebra.

Now I’m twenty-two. The military has never had a four-star general this young before.

Then again, they’ve never had a monster extermination division before either.

So, future General, if you’re reading this someday, I’m sorry about your promotion.

You’re going to need this.

And if you’re reading it while I’m still alive?

Good.

You’re preparing early.

I like that.

The earlier you’re ready, the better.

Mission 578 — **********

Date: **************, 2026
Location: ************** National Forest
Threat Classification: Class II
Personnel Deployed: 52
Confirmed Casualties: 30
Current Status: Contained

Yesterday started like no other day.

Painfully normal.

That should have worried me.

Normal days encourage people to lower their guard, and lowered guards tend to result in paperwork.

At 0530, I woke up. At 0545, I ran five miles, and at 0617, I showered. By 0630, I was in my office reviewing overnight reports while eating breakfast when Major Denver walked in without knocking.

He was one of the few people allowed to do that.

"You're late," I said.

He checked his watch. "I'm three minutes early."

"Exactly."

He sighed and placed a folder on my desk.

Denver was thirty-eight, six feet tall, perpetually tired, and possessed the unfortunate habit of looking at me like I was a normal human being. Most people didn't. They either looked at me like I was a four-star general or like I was a twenty-two-year-old woman who had somehow been given enough authority to order entire battalions into places sane people avoided.

Denver did neither.

He simply looked tired.

I respected that.

"What is it?"

"Missing persons."

"That's not ours."

"Normally, no."

I opened the folder and found three photographs: a forest, a collapsed section of road, and a hole in the ground.

"How many?"

"Three missing."

"Children?"

"No."

"Military?"

"No."

"Government personnel?"

"No."

I looked up at him. "Then why are you wasting my morning?"

Denver leaned against the desk. "Because the hole is twelve feet wide."

I looked at the photograph again. "That's large."

"Too large for anything native to the area."

"Bear?"

"No."

"Moose?"

"No."

"Very ambitious raccoon?"

He didn't smile.

I closed the folder. "Fine. What did they find?"

"Tracks."

He opened another photograph. Four deep impressions marked the mud, each one ending in six distinct points.

"Size?"

"About sixteen inches."

"Weight estimate?"

"Three hundred kilograms."

"Direction?"

He pointed toward the trees.

"Toward the forest."

"From?"

"The mine."

I turned the page. "How many people live nearby?"

"About four hundred."

"Evacuate them."

"Already ordered."

"Good."

He didn't leave.

I looked at him. "What aren't you telling me?"

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "We found one of the missing people."

"Alive?"

"No."

"Body?"

"No."

I waited.

"Half a body."

That got my attention.

"Explain."

"We found the lower half approximately two miles from the mine."

"And the rest?"

"Missing."

"Signs of predation?"

"Yes."

"Teeth?"

"None."

"Claws?"

"None."

“Fangs?”

“Too large”

"Anything else?"

Denver hesitated. "The victim was wearing a hiking backpack."

"Was?"

"We found the backpack too."

"And?"

"The straps had been cut."

"With what?"

He looked at me. "That's what we don't know."

I closed the folder. "Get Captain Bell."

"She's already waiting."

Of course she was.

Captain Bell had been waiting outside my office for approximately three minutes. She was twenty-nine, six months from promotion, and had the kind of face that suggested she'd never accepted an order without first deciding whether she agreed with it.

I liked her.

That didn't mean I trusted her. Trust was a luxury. Competence was useful.

"Captain."

"General."

"How many people do you need?"

"For what?"

"Whatever we're about to find."

She thought about it. "Forty."

"Fifty-two."

"General—"

"Fifty-two."

She stopped.

"Yes, ma'am."

Denver looked at me. "That's a lot."

"Yes."

"Why fifty-two?"

"Because forty-nine would probably be enough."

He stared at me.

"And?"

"I prefer having three extra people."

Bell smiled faintly. "That's reassuring."

"It shouldn't be."

I picked up the folder. "Four fire teams. Two containment specialists. Medical team. Dr. Ward."

Bell frowned. "Doctor Ward?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because if we're lucky, we're dealing with an insect."

"And if we are not?"

I handed her the photograph of the tracks. "Then I'd like someone present who can tell me what, exactly, decided to ruin my morning."

We reached the forest at 0917.

Dr. Ward spent most of the drive talking. He was a civilian scientist technically attached to the military, which meant he had all the confidence of a civilian and none of the survival instincts of a soldier. He was also one of the smartest people I'd ever met.

Unfortunately, intelligence and common sense don't always come together.

“General,” he said from the passenger seat, “if the tracks belong to an arachnid—”

“They don't. They're from an arthropod.”

“Arachnids are arthropods.”

“I know.”

“Then you haven't ruled out my hypothesis.”

“I've ruled out the arachnid part.”

He turned to look at me. “You really don't like scientists, do you?”

“I like scientists.”

“You don't sound like it.”

“I dislike scientists who talk while I'm trying to think.”

He smiled. “That's fair.”

“It wasn't a compliment.”

“I know.”

I still didn't know why I tolerated him.

Captain Bell was leading the convoy ahead of us, while Sergeant Cole's vehicle followed behind. Cole had been with my division for three years. He'd survived five Class II encounters, two Class III encounters, and one event that was officially classified as a weather incident.

He was also the closest thing our division had to a superstitious man.

Which was ironic.

He was the only person I'd ever met who had survived being swallowed by something and complained afterward that it had terrible breath.

When we arrived, Cole approached me, his eyes fixed on the tree line.

"General."

"Sergeant."

"You want my honest opinion?"

"No."

"It's bad."

"I'll survive," I said, still watching the forest.

Cole didn't answer.

He kept staring into the trees, one hand resting against the dog tags beneath his shirt.

For a few seconds, nothing happened.

No birds.

No insects.

Not even the sound of wind through the branches.

Then the ground moved.

It wasn't much. Just a faint tremor beneath our boots, barely enough to notice. But it was enough to wipe the earlier humor from Ward's face. Cole's hand immediately went to his rifle, while Bell raised one hand, silently signaling everyone to stop.

The entire unit froze.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then I realized something was wrong.

The forest had gone completely silent.

No birds or insects.

Not even the rustle of leaves.

Ward swallowed. "That's not normal."

I glanced at him.

"Thank you, Doctor, for that precious insight."

He opened his mouth, apparently ready to defend his observation, but I was already looking past him toward the tree line.

Something was in there.

I couldn't see it yet.

But that didn't mean it couldn't see us.

I looked at the soldiers behind me.

"Move."

We entered at 0926 and found the first body seventeen minutes later. Then the second. Then the third.

The bodies hadn't been eaten. They'd been torn apart.

That distinction mattered.

Whatever had killed them hadn't been hungry.

We followed the tracks deeper into the forest until they led us to the old mine. The entrance was supposed to have been sealed with concrete twenty-three years ago, but something had broken through from the inside. Hundreds of scratches covered the concrete around the opening.

Ward knelt beside one.

"These are old."

"How old?"

"Months."

I looked into the darkness beyond the entrance.

The tunnel descended for nearly a mile before opening into a chamber so large our lights couldn't reach the far wall.

Then we saw them.

Eggs.

Thousands of them.

Some were attached to the walls, others hung from the ceiling, and some were buried beneath dirt and stone. Several pulsed faintly beneath translucent membranes.

Ward stopped walking.

"General."

"What?"

He pointed.

One of the sacs moved.

Then another.

Then hundreds.

The entire chamber seemed to breathe.

Something stepped out from behind them.

It was twelve feet tall, with six limbs, black armor, and a head shaped like a nightmare version of an insect.

It looked at us.

I looked at it.

For several seconds, neither side moved.

Then Ward whispered, "General."

"Yes?"

"I don't think those are eggs."

I looked at him.

He pointed toward the walls.

Tiny things were moving between the sacs.

I raised my binoculars and saw six legs, black bodies, and clusters of reflective eyes.

My stomach tightened.

"Juveniles?"

Ward swallowed.

"Yes."

I looked back at the adult.

It wasn't looking at us anymore. It was looking at the soldiers behind me, then at the eggs, then back at us.

I understood.

It wasn't hunting.

It was protecting them.

I raised my hand. "Everyone back."

Captain Bell glanced at me. "But, General—"

"Back."

The creature screamed.

Every sac in the chamber convulsed.

I lowered my hand.

"We're leaving."

Bell stared at me. "We're not engaging?"

"No."

The creature screamed again, and dust shook loose from the ceiling.

I reached for my radio. "Air support."

Denver answered. "General?"

"Fire mission."

There was a pause. "You're sure?"

I looked at the nursery, then at the soldiers behind me.

"Yes."

Ward grabbed my arm. "General, if you destroy this chamber—"

"I know."

"There could be thousands."

"I know."

"Then why—"

“Because if we leave them here, thousands won't be the problem for long.”

I looked at Bell. "Get everyone out."

The first missile struck thirty seconds later.

The chamber vanished beneath fire and collapsing stone.

The mountain shook.

For approximately thirty-seven minutes, I believed we'd won.

Then the ground beneath us moved.

At first, I thought it was another aftershock.

Then the soil split open.

One creature climbed out.

Then five.

Then twenty.

Then hundreds.

They weren't spiders. Not exactly. But my brain didn't have a better word for them.

They were smaller than the adult, most only the size of large dogs, with six black legs, armored bodies, and heads covered in clusters of tiny reflective eyes.

And there were far too many.

Someone screamed. “Spiders!!!!”

I drew my rifle.

"Engage!"

The first one lunged, and I put two rounds through its head. The second came from my left, and I shot it before it reached me. The third jumped over the second's body.

I shot that one too.

Five died before I reached the center of the chamber.

I pulled a grenade from my vest, armed it, and threw it into the largest cluster.

The explosion tore through them. Black limbs and pieces of carapace went flying across the chamber.

"KEEP FIRING!"

The soldiers opened up.

Machine guns hammered into the swarm. Rifles flashed. Grenades disappeared into the mass and came back as explosions.

The creatures climbed over one another, crawling across walls, ceilings, and collapsed rubble.

One landed on a soldier's back.

He screamed.

Sergeant Cole shot it off him.

"You're welcome!"

Another grenade disappeared into the swarm.

I didn't wait for it to explode. I grabbed another, pulled the pin, and threw it.

Explosion.

Reload.

Fire.

Throw.

Explosion.

For ten minutes, that was all we did.

Kill. Reload. Kill. Throw. Explode.

Eventually, the swarm began to thin.

Not because we'd won.

Because we were running out of ammunition.

The remaining creatures retreated into the tunnels.

"Don't let them escape!" Bell shouted.

I raised my hand. "No."

She looked at me. "They're retreating."

"That's the problem."

I looked at the tunnels.

"We seal them."

We had killed most of the swarm in the chamber, but the ones underground were another matter. The adult had been guarding the nursery. Now it was dead, and nothing was keeping the juveniles underground.

"Get the demolition team."

Bell understood.

"Black Sun?"

"Yes."

Operation Black Sun was one of the less pleasant tools in my division's arsenal. Seal every known exit, place charges throughout the accessible tunnel network, and detonate them simultaneously. Bury everything underground: the creatures, the eggs, the tunnels, and anyone unfortunate enough to still be inside.

It was crude.

It was ugly.

It was effective.

Then a voice behind me said, "My brother is still inside."

I turned.

Private First Class Mill stood several feet away. He was twenty-three and covered in dirt and blood, although most of it wasn't his.

"Who?"

"My brother. Sergeant Cole's team."

I looked toward Cole. He was already checking his radio.

No response.

Mill stepped closer.

"You can't collapse it."

"We're going to."

"He could still be alive."

"I know."

"Then send someone."

I looked at him. "Twenty-six soldiers are unaccounted for."

His expression changed. He hadn't known the number.

"General—"

"We have no confirmation that any of them are alive."

"But they could be."

"Yes."

"Then we should go get them."

Behind him, engineers were unloading charges. The timer on my watch read seven minutes.

Mill looked at the equipment, then back at me.

"Please."

There it was.

The word commanders should never hear.

Not because it makes decisions difficult.

Because it makes them personal.

I looked at the mine. Twenty-six soldiers, possibly alive. Thousands of juveniles, definitely alive. If we sent another team inside, we would be giving those creatures time to reach another exit.

There were four hundred civilians within ten miles.

I thought about them.

Then I looked at Mill.

"I'm sorry."

His expression collapsed.

"General—"

Two soldiers moved toward him.

He backed away.

"No."

They grabbed his arms.

"Wait!"

He fought them.

"My brother is down there!"

I didn't look away.

"Please!"

They dragged him backward.

"GENERAL!"

His boots scraped against the dirt.

"PLEASE!"

The trees swallowed his voice.

I watched him disappear.

For a moment, I thought that was the end of it.

Then I saw his eyes.

Not grief.

Not fear.

Anger.

He looked at me like he had memorized my face.

I had seen that look before.

Angry soldiers were dangerous.

Not because they stopped following orders.

Because other soldiers started wondering why they should.

All it took was one man shouting the right words in the wrong place, and suddenly twenty soldiers became fifty, and fifty became a hundred.

A unit could turn into a mob faster than most commanders realized.

And Mill had just been given a reason to start one.

Bell stared at me.

"You could have given him a few minutes."

"No."

"He might have found them."

"He might have."

She looked toward the mine, then back at me.

"How many civilians?"

"Four hundred."

She went silent.

That was the end of the argument.

Or it should have been.

I checked my watch.

Six minutes.

"Start Black Sun."

Bell turned toward the engineers.

"Begin deployment."

The first demolition team entered the mine, and I watched them disappear into the darkness. Then my radio crackled.

"General."

"Go."

"Primary exit charges are in place."

"Secondary?"

"Working."

"How long?"

"Eight minutes."

"Seven."

"Yes, ma'am."

I looked at Bell. "Get the evacuation teams farther back."

"Already done."

Good.

I checked the watch again.

Five minutes.

Then four.

Then three.

At 10:41, the first charge detonated.

The mountain shook. A deep crack rolled through the forest as the first tunnel collapsed, followed by another and another. The explosions moved beneath us in a chain until the entire mountainside seemed to groan.

I watched the timer.

10:42.

Another section collapsed.

10:43.

Nothing came out.

10:44.

Still nothing.

"Status?"

Denver pressed his radio to his ear.

"All primary exits sealed."

"Secondary?"

"Being collapsed now."

"Good."

Captain Bell stood beside me.

"Do you think anything survived?"

"Probably."

She looked at me.

"Probably?"

"Something always survives."

She didn't like that answer.

Neither did I.

At 10:49, the final charge detonated.

The ground trembled one last time, sending a final shudder through the earth before everything went still.

For a few seconds, no one moved.

Then the forest slowly came back to life. Birds began calling from the trees, insects resumed their buzzing, and leaves rustled in the wind as if nothing had happened.

It was almost insulting.

After everything we'd just buried beneath that mountain, the world had the nerve to sound peaceful.

I looked toward the mountain and watched the last traces of dust drift from the collapsed tunnels.

"Send the sweep teams."

Bell frowned. "How many?"

"Ten."

"“Ten? General, there are twenty-six missing soldiers.” 

"I know."

"Then why?"

I looked at the mountain.

"Because this mission doesn't require any more personnel."

She didn't argue.

The ten soldiers prepared quickly, checking their armor, weapons, thermal equipment, and portable seismic scanners. Two medical teams accompanied them.

Before they entered, I gave them one order.

"If you encounter anything alive, you report it before you engage."

The team leaders nodded. "Yes, General."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"No, ma'am."

They disappeared into the mine.

At 11:07, they entered.

At 11:19, they reported the first bodies. Juveniles. Dozens of them. Dead.

At 11:26, they reached the first collapsed tunnel.

At 11:31, they found the adult, or what was left of it. The thing had been crushed beneath several tons of rock.

"Confirm kill," I ordered.

"Confirmed."

"Continue."

At 11:42, the radio crackled.

"General."

"Go."

"We have movement."

I frowned.

"How many?"

A pause.

"Two."

Bell looked at me.

I raised my radio.

"Describe."

"Unknown. They're beneath the rubble. We're attempting to reach them."

"Proceed."

The soldiers began clearing debris.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Finally, someone shouted.

"Contact!"

Gunfire erupted.

I reached for my sidearm.

"What happened?"

The radio crackled.

"Creature alive!"

A burst of automatic fire followed.

Then silence.

"Status?"

A soldier answered, breathing heavily.

"Creature down."

"How?"

"Headshot."

I glanced at Bell.

"Good."

Then another transmission came through.

"General."

The soldier sounded frightened.

"What?"

"We have another one."

"Where?"

"Behind us."

A scream erupted over the radio.

Gunfire.

"GET IT OFF ME!"

Static.

"FALL BACK!"

Then a voice:

"Mill!"

I froze.

Bell looked at me.

"What?"

I raised the radio.

"Repeat."

Nothing.

Then the transmission returned.

"Private Mill is inside."

Of course he was.

He hadn't been part of the sweep teams. Apparently, I'd underestimated how badly he wanted to find his brother, or how little he cared about my orders.

The radio came alive again.

"GENERAL!"

Mill.

His voice was panicked.

"It's here!"

Gunfire erupted.

I looked toward the eastern passage.

"Where are they?"

Bell checked the map.

"Two hundred meters from the eastern collapse."

"Open it."

She stared at me.

"General?"

"Open the passage."

Engineers moved.

The barrier gave way.

Smoke poured through.

Something moved inside it.

I raised my rifle.

The creature burst through.

Smaller than the adult.

Still enormous.

Black legs scraped against stone as it charged toward Mill.

I had a clear shot.

A perfect shot.

I aimed at its head.

Mill saw me.

"GENERAL!"

I fired.

The bullet struck the side of its head. The carapace cracked, but the creature barely slowed.

It lunged.

Mill screamed.

I fired again.

This time, I aimed lower.

The round punched through its abdomen.

The creature recoiled, shrieking. One of its legs buckled, and dark fluid spilled across the stone.

It wasn't dead.

It wouldn't be dead for several hours.

But it was badly wounded, badly enough that it couldn't kill Mill quickly.

I could have fired again.

I didn't.

The creature lunged once more.

Mill disappeared beneath it.

His scream echoed through the tunnel.

Then the creature dragged him into the darkness.

Silence.

Bell looked at me.

"You missed."

"No."

She stared.

I lowered my rifle.

"I was a second late."

She understood.

Her face changed.

"You deliberately shot it in the abdomen."

"Yes."

"You could have killed it."

"Yes."

"You could have saved him."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I looked at her.

"Because he disobeyed a direct order."

She stared at me as if she was seeing me for the first time.

Perhaps she was.

"General..."

I turned toward the engineers.

"Seal the passage."

Bell didn't move.

"Captain."

She swallowed.

"Yes, ma'am."

The engineers began sealing the tunnel.

Mill screamed once more.

Then nothing.

The sweep continued for another forty minutes.

We found twenty-six bodies.

None of them were alive, including Mill's brother.

We found no trace of Mill.

Not even his rifle.

By 1231, the mine was declared secure.

Twenty-six soldiers confirmed dead.

Three wounded.

One private missing and presumed dead.

Thirty confirmed military casualties from the operation.

Thousands of creatures buried beneath a mountain.

Four hundred civilians alive.

By military standards, the operation was a success.

I signed the report.

Then I sat alone in my vehicle for eleven minutes.

I didn't feel guilty. I didn't feel regret.

I didn't feel anything at all.

Mill was dead. His brother was dead. Twenty-six other soldiers were dead. Thirty casualties had been added to the report, and somehow, none of it stirred anything inside me.

That was the truth I had learned to live with.

It had been the truth for a long time.

I knew what people expected a commander to feel when one of her soldiers died. Grief. Guilt. Anger. Regret. Something.

I had none of it.

Maybe that's why I was good at this.

Or maybe it was why I had been given this job in the first place.

People will probably call that cruel.

They're welcome to.

Cruelty is irrelevant.

Command isn't about being liked. It's about making decisions everyone else is too emotionally compromised to make. Sometimes that means killing a monster. Sometimes it means letting one kill a soldier. And sometimes the difference between those two decisions is only one second.

I had deliberately missed.

I had deliberately chosen where the second bullet went.

I knew exactly what would happen.

And I'd do it again.

Not because Mill deserved to die.

He didn't.

Not because his brother wasn't worth saving.

He was.

But because the order mattered more than the man who broke it.

That's the part nobody tells you about command. Sometimes doing your job means making a decision you know you'll be hated for. Sometimes it means making one you know you'll never regret. And sometimes they're the same decision.

I don't expect anyone reading this to agree with me. Honestly, I hope you don't. Remember what I did. Remember Mill. Remember that I could have saved him. Then ask yourself what you would have done.

Because someday, you may be sitting behind this desk, making the same kind of decision. Maybe you'll make the right one. Maybe you'll make the wrong one. Maybe you'll be luckier than I was.

I doubt it.

There is one thing I know now that I didn't know when I was fifteen.

The monsters aren't always the things with claws. Sometimes they're the people making the decisions. And sometimes they're the person sitting behind the desk, knowing exactly what a bullet is going to do before she pulls the trigger. 

That's why I'm writing this down.

Not to justify myself.

I don't need justification.

I'm writing it because someone will eventually sit where I am sitting now, and I would rather they understand what happened than repeat it without knowing why.

The official briefing has forty-seven rules.

It doesn't contain this one.

It should.

General's Rule #48

If a soldier disobeys a direct order, deal with it immediately.

Not tomorrow. Not after the mission.

Immediately.

Because once one soldier learns that your orders can be ignored, others will learn it too. And the next time, you might not have the luxury of being only one second late.

As for Private Mill, there is nothing more to say.

He disobeyed a direct order.

So when the situation changed, I ignored his wish just as he had ignored mine.

Mill died.

The mission continued.

The civilians survived.

That was the equation.

I don't regret the decision. I don't feel guilty about it, and I don't expect either of those things to change.

Maybe that makes me a monster.

If it does, then at least I'm a monster who knows exactly what she is.

Okay. I know how this is going to read. I've typed this out like four different ways already, deleted three of them, and I keep landing back here, so I guess this is the version you're getting. I'm not looking for sympathy, and I am begging you, do not comment "have you tried calling them again," because yes, I have tried calling them again, I have called so many times that the hold music has started showing up in my dreams. I'm posting because I think there's a piece of this I'm not seeing, and I'm hoping someone in this sub is the kind of person who notices things. Because clearly I am not.

So. Here's the whole thing, start to now.

It started with a fly. One fly, on the rim of a glass I'd just filled at my own kitchen sink, water still cold enough to ring the glass. It was just sitting there on the rim, rubbing its little front legs together, perched in the exact spot where my mouth was about to go.

I remember it with a total clarity, even better than I remember what I had for dinner two nights ago. I dumped the water. Washed the glass. Got a different one, because once a glass has had a houseguest like that, how can you trust it?

By the time the new glass was full, there were two flies working the faucet, and here's the part that should've tipped me off if I had even one functioning brain cell that day: they weren't doing the normal panicky fly thing, the zip-up-and-vanish-the-second-a-hand-gets-close thing. They were comfortable. One of them kept ducking under the lip of the tap and coming back out, over and over, with the focus of someone checking a peephole before they let you in.

The idea of drinking the water made my stomach turn.

I filed a maintenance request that afternoon, because that's what you do, that's the whole social contract: you pay your rent and in exchange somebody shows up when there's a problem.

Category: Pest control Issue: Flies in kitchen 

Description: There are flies in my unit. I cannot find the source.

It got a maintenance number. But nobody came that day.

I'd stopped wanting to eat almost right away, and I chalked that right up to the flies. I'd ordered a full veggie pizza the night before, extra olives, even though I hate olives but taking them off cost a dollar more than leaving them on which, don’t get me started, is a crime against the consumer. And the flies had gone ahead and claimed the box like it was theirs by eminent domain. Who wants to sit down to a meal with an audience like that?

Everything started smelling wrong, and I don't mean rotten exactly, I mean pungent. The rice in my rice cooker smelled sour clear across the kitchen. The coffee smelled burnt before the water even touched the grounds, and if you’ve ever made coffee, you know that’s not how it’s supposed to work. I opened the fridge and got hit with this thick, sweet smell, like flowers a week past their vase water, and I cleared the whole thing out in one disgusted sweep, didn't even sort it, just bag, bag, trash.

By the second morning there were more flies, and this time they weren't being subtle about anything. Rows of them along the counter, lined up neat as a church pew. A little cluster on the microwave handle, holding what looked like a meeting. I found three in a mug I had personally washed, dried, and put away clean, and one of them walked clear across my phone screen while I was checking the apartment portal, taking its sweet time, and I watched it a half second too long before I flicked it off, because something about the way it moved made me not want to touch it.

The status on my request had changed.

Status: Pending access. Technician unable to confirm entry.

I was home? I had been home the entire time. Nobody knocked. I would've heard a knock, the walls in this building are basically wet cardboard with a paint job, I hear my neighbor's TV through them, I hear her chair scrape when she gets up to pee. There is no version of a knock on my door that gets past me. None.

I left a note in the portal.

I am available for entry. Please knock loudly.

Then I sat down on the couch to wait and must've drifted off, because the next thing I knew the light in the room had gone gray and there was a fly walking up the inside of my wrist, right along the blue vein there, stopping every couple steps to clean its front legs.

I brushed it off.

It came back. Same spot.

Wednesday was the day the smell stopped being a kitchen problem and became a whole-apartment problem.

I searched the entire place. Behind the couch. Every cabinet, the one under the sink, the gap behind the toilet, that shelf in my closet where I keep a tote bag full of other tote bags. I found dust. One earring I'd made peace with losing months ago. A single piece of pasta, fossilized, origin unknown, possibly older than my lease.

I didn't find anything dead. I looked, hard, and there was no body, no mouse behind the stove, no bird that snuck in through a vent. The smell had no address. No source. Just a presence and it was getting bigger by the hour.

The flies followed me. Not all of them. There were always more staying put than coming with me. But I felt like I was being escorted.

I filed a second request. Marked it Urgent, because it was.

Category: Urgent maintenance

Issue: Possible dead animal in unit

Description: Strong odor, increasing fly activity, please send someone today.

The portal threw an error back at me.

Duplicate request detected.

I called the emergency line. Six rings, then voicemail, smooth and unbothered as a customer service rep clocking out at 4:59. I called the leasing office and got the recording. Your call is important to us and will be answered in the order it was received. I called four more times that day.

That evening I knocked on my neighbor's door. I heard her in there!! She was dragging something heavy. And then nothing. Dead stop. I knocked again and I swear she was trying extra hard to be silent. 

When I got back to my own door, there was a fresh line in the portal.

Resident unavailable for entry. Technician unable to complete service.

I read that maybe ten times, trying to find a version where it made sense. Wrong unit. A confused tech, an open door three apartments down. One soft knock mistaken, by some guy with a clipboard who clearly hated his job, for a final answer. 

I left another note.

I am inside the unit. I have not left. Please come back.

That night, something landed on my face while I was half-asleep on the couch. A leg-tap at my upper lip, a second little press at the corner of my eye, a feathery drag along my throat. And I came up swinging at nothing.

In the bathroom mirror, my own face looked like it belonged to someone who'd had the actual worst week of her life. A bruise along my cheekbone I had zero memory of getting, and when I pressed it out of morbid curiosity the way you poke a bruise even though you know better, it didn't hurt the way it should've. It didn't hurt at all, honestly, it really must’ve been the lighting in the bathroom. The lighting's been bad since the day I moved in. Bad light explains a lot.

It did not explain what happened next.

Something moved behind my right nostril.

I stood there at the sink and waited for it to stop being a thing that was happening, the way you wait out a cramp during the middle of the night, white-knuckled and praying to nobody in particular, and instead it kept on happening, and then a fly came out. It was the color of nothing, and dragged itself along my upper lip before I flicked it down into the sink, where it sat there trembling, wings still folded flat and see-through.

I filed another request. It took three tries, because of my shaking hands.

Category: Emergency

Issue: Health hazard

Description: Please send someone. I think something is wrong inside my apartment.

The portal sat there loading for almost a full minute, and then:

This request has been closed. Resident unavailable for entry.

I wrote right back. I am available. I am here.

This request has been closed. Resident unavailable for entry.

I am in the apartment.

This request has been closed. Resident unavailable for entry.

I live here.

Nothing. I thought I'd actually broken the portal. Then the page refreshed on its own, no input from me at all, and a new line came up that I've now read so many times I could say it in my sleep.

Occupancy status pending verification.

I checked my text messages that night, first time in what I'd have sworn was like a day, day and a half tops. Nineteen unread notifications. My mom, four times, the last one nothing but my own name and three question marks, which is somehow worse than actual words. My landlord, once, short: please call me back, we need to confirm something. A coworker asking if I was okay because I'd apparently no-showed two full days.

I tried calling my mom back. It rang and rang and never once dropped to voicemail, which I didn't even know was possible, and then the call just ended on its own.

I typed out a reply to all of them. I'm fine, sorry, phone's been acting weird. I remember my own thumbs moving, the little tap of the keys. When I went back to check if it sent, every thread under every name was just empty. Not unsent. Empty, like the conversation had never once been opened from my end.

The flies had started up a kind of residency on the wall above my couch by then, gathered into a loose, shifting smear that never quite committed to a shape. I'll admit it, some small hopeful part of me kept waiting for them to spell something out. Maybe redrum. At least then I'd have instructions. They never did. They just sat there being a stain with wings, and that was worse than if they'd left me a note.

Tonight there were voices in the hallway below mine. Heavy footsteps. A radio cutting in and out, static then a voice then static. Somebody said a unit number, and it took me a half second longer than it should've to realize the number was mine.

I stood up too fast and had to grab the wall. The room tipped, then righted itself slow, like water finding its level. The smell was everywhere now, sweet and thick. I'd stopped really smelling it days back. I only knew it was bad by the way the air seemed to bend in front of it, the way blacktop shimmers in August.

The voices stopped right outside my door.

A man knocked and said, "Police department. Maintenance is with us. We're coming in."

I tried to answer him. I really did. I opened my mouth to say I'm here, I've been here the whole time, I have the request numbers, I have every note I left, I did everything a person is supposed to do, and what came out was not that. Wasn't anywhere close. A dry click in my throat, that's all, and then every fly in the apartment lifted off the wall and the sink and the couch cushions at once.

The bedroom door was shut. I don't remember shutting it. I don't really go in there anymore to be honest, I've been on the couch, though don't ask me since when, I genuinely couldn't tell you. The flies were coming out from underneath the bedroom door in a thick, steady stream.

They kept forcing themselves through the gap.

The front door opened behind me. Somebody made a sound like they'd been hit in the stomach.

The bedroom door swung open, on its own or somebody opened it, I honestly cannot tell you which, and there was a shape on the floor by the bed that I have been staring at for what feels like a really long time now.

One of the officers said, "How long has she been here?" and I genuinely cannot understand why he's asking that about whatever's on the floor instead of just asking me, since I am standing right here, since I've been right here the entire six days.

I opened my mouth again to finally, finally lay the whole thing out, the requests, the dates, every note, every duplicate-request error, the whole sorry record of it. But flies kept pouring out.

I don't know why nobody will look at me when I talk. Why is nobody talking to me?

I'm pretty annoyed right now. Just got banned from the third home improvement forum because I asked a simple question. 

“Irrelevant content” they say. I ask them to explain themselves. They just tell me that their forums are no place for “horror stories.” 

I'm not trying to write horror stories. Typing is hard enough as is right now. I just want to fix this damn leak. Gary and I are frankly stumped.

Maybe I ought to explain everything from the beginning. That should paint a clear picture for you all. And please be sure to actually read this before assuming I'm a “troll.”

It started this morning. I just got home from my job when I noticed there was an inch of water covering the kitchen floor. Hopped on HomeNet just a few minutes later. I've been using the forum for years at that point, and never ran into any issues prior.

GDon2:
Water’s been flooding my kitchen. I have century-old hardwood floors. Gary says it’s whatever’s under the sink, but I don't know how to deal with it. Can’t afford a plumber. I’m not too shabby with the tools of the trade, just need to be pointed in the right direction. Photo attached.

I didn’t get any replies for a bit. Tried my luck with some more details.

GDon2:
Hey, I hope I'm not flooding, no pun intended, haha. This is a bit urgent. I think it's a hair clog or something. Photo attached.

Bloop. I get a notification a minute later.

parsk00:
Fake.

Then another one.

bigMOISTy:
Seriously, what the **** is that?

Ten minutes go by. I get one last ding, a notification that my post has been deleted, along with a comment from a forum moderator. 

JGordo63 (MOD):
This is a plumbing forum. We appreciate the traffic, but no. Go post this on nosleep. 

I messaged the moderator immediately, asking for an explanation. I took several more photos for proof. Even asked Gary to curl up next to the mass as best as he could for a size comparison. This just got an angrier response.

JGordo63 (MOD):
I'm not interested in your creepypasta.

JGordo63 (MOD):
The decision on your post is final. We will not discuss any revisions or reposts. If you want to continue using the HomeNet forums, we recommend posting RELEVANT DISCUSSION ONLY. Please do not make another post for at least 24 hours. Thank you.

Twenty-four hours? The pressure in my head felt like the pipes which exploded hours earlier.

GDon2:
I don’t know what a creepy pasta is I just want to fix my sink

JGordo63 (MOD):
Bye bye, troll.

Bloop. A notification in my inbox. I click on it.

Sorry. You have been permanently banned by the moderators of HomeNet.
Reason: gore / trolling / harassing mods

I couldn’t access the site anymore. All the threads were locked from my view as though I hadn’t had an account for the last seventeen years. 

“Damn…!”

Gary craned his long neck around the corner, into my bedroom.

“Problem,” he grunted

“I'm working on it.”

“Get bigger.”

I got up from my chair and followed his lanky behind out the door.

Yeah. It definitely got bigger. The cabinet door over the sink wasn’t shutting anymore. The hair bunched up, starting to crawl along the inner frame, propping it open ever so slightly. Yuck.

“How long did you say this has been going on?”

A few of Gary’s eyes blinked. None of them were looking at me. 

“How long, Gary?”

He gestured two big circular motions with his arms. 

“Two hours, huh?” I wiped my brow. “You uh…do anything with the sink beforehand?”

“Gary dumped mupmup.”

Oh no. 

Full disclosure, I don’t know what “mupmup” is. I mean, I know what he’s referring to, but I am unsure what it is actually composed of. I just know it’s slimy and really hard to get out of my clothes. 

“Down the garbage disposal?”

Gary nodded his head. Spittle graced my cheeks from the motion. I wiped it away.

“Okay, Gary. This is your problem as much as it is mine. Do you have any idea how we fix this?”

“Have the glupglup?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Hungry.”

“Just—one minute, okay?”

I headed back to my room and got the computer out of sleep mode. Back to browsing. 

Next on my brief list was the Handyman Hank company forums. Maybe I could get a bite with them. 

Donald G: Hey there. I’ve been dealing with a pretty bad leak. It’s been going on for two hours. My roommate dumped some “mupmup” (photo 1) down the drain. It created a large obstruction of hair, I think (photo 2). If anybody could help me identify what “mupmup” is I would really appreciate it. 

No responses this time. The post was quietly taken down by moderation and my account was given a day-long posting ban. 

I stood up and ran my hand through my hair. Gary was standing right behind me, drooling. 

“Hungry!”

Right. We missed feeding time because of the leak. I was already an hour behind schedule. 

Gary snarled and lunged at me, biting my hand. Thankfully he’s pretty lightweight, despite his head usually scraping the ceiling. I didn’t have too hard of a time fighting him over toward the kitchen. I got the fridge open with my foot, used my free hand to dig open the locked drawer, and pulled free some specially-cured meats. I clocked Gary on the side of the head, causing him to let go, opening his mouth wide. One of my fingers plopped to the floor, getting blood all over the countertop on the way down. Goddamn it. I impatiently stuffed the meat into Gary’s mouth. He started suckling it like a toddler. 

I grit my teeth as I swaddled my hand in a hand towel. The pain was dull, rising by the second as my adrenaline stopped working its magic. 

“Every night with you…! God!” I tried to wiggle the pain out. No use. I really wanted to go to a hospital, but I couldn’t risk it with the leak going on. My precious hardwood hung in the balance. 

Not like I got a chance, anyways. The cabinet door beneath the sink blew open very suddenly. Tendrils of hair wrapped around my wrists and dragged me to the floor. Gary cried, cowering from the mass. 

The hair had grown teeth. It kinda looked like the inside of an electric pencil sharpener, looking down its mouth. A sloppy sound like stuck gears emanated from within. I was getting pulled toward it.

“Gary! Your problem! Help!”

His eyes scanned the room, three-hundred and sixty degrees. They all landed on the butcher’s knife. He clumsily grabbed it by the blade and shambled toward me.

“What do?” he quivered.

“Hurty side down! On the hair! Back and forth, like you're brushing your teeth!”

He got to work. I was freed within a few seconds, thankfully with no extra cuts. Crawled away as fast as I could, picking up a jug of isopropyl alcohol that the thing knocked onto the floor.

If I had balls, maybe I would have used it to set the thing on fire. But the damage to my kitchen was bad enough already.

I decided to go to the hospital instead. Reluctantly. Gary is watching the fort while I'm gone.

In the waiting room, I posted everything to a plumbing sub as one last hail mary. Predictably, at this point, that post now sits at zero upvotes and twenty-three comments saying I'm posting in the wrong community. 

So I guess this is the right one, then. Since apparently I'm living in a horror story. It's news to me. 

Not even going to bother posting the pics this time. They keep getting flagged as gore and I don't want to be banned from Reddit either.

I really just want to fix this leak.

Part 1: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. We Had to Make a Sacrifice This Time.

Part 2: I Went to Antarctica Looking for 10,000 Missing People. I Came Back With a New Boss.

Part 3: Apparently Using Assistants as Sacrifices Violates Company Policy

Part 4: I Work for an Organization That Hunts Gods. One of Them Warned Me About the Angel Following Me.

Part 5: My Boss Asked Me If I Thought He Was a Monster. Now I Know Why.

Part 6: The Most Powerful Being in the CSP Is Studying Humans. Unfortunately, I'm His Favorite Lab Rat.

Part 7: Someone Stole the Rifle Built to Kill Gods. Then They Pointed It at Me.

Part 8: I Thought Dating an Angel Was Bad. Something Wearing My Face Was Worse.

Part 9: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. The Feather Led Something to Us.

Part 10: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. Humanity Now Has a Single Point of Failure.

Part 11: CSP Sent a Team Into Hell. Nobody Came Back.

Part 12: The Thing That Terrified the Creator Is Now Holding My Hand

Part 13: I Was Prepared to Fight a Cult. Instead, I got a Family Reunion.

Part 14: The God Wasn't the Monster Everyone Feared. My Mother Was.

Part 15: I Became the Head of a New Division. My First Case Was a Place My Sister Never Escaped From.

“You look exactly like the memories.”

The old man stared at me with a smile that made my stomach turn. It made me angry, too. This place had stripped my sister of her memories; the one thing that made her my sister. My Remi.

I forced myself to keep my voice steady. “What do you want?”

It was obvious Evergrove had trapped us here on purpose. The place had suddenly appeared on C.S.P.'s radar a month ago, but Remi had encountered it years ago. That meant Evergrove hadn't suddenly awakened.

It had been here all along.

Watching.

Waiting.

And now, somehow, it had deliberately gotten our attention.

The old man’s smile widened. “You're just like your sister.” He paused, studying me. “Makes sense. She raised you.”

My stomach tightened. His gaze shifted past me toward Angelo and Elior before returning to me.

“I have business with you.” His smile disappeared. “Everyone else can leave.”

I looked around the store. For once, the old man wasn't threatening us. He was offering us an exit, and somehow, that scared me more.

If I let everyone leave, there was at least a chance they would survive. Evergrove had been destroyed once before. Remi had killed whatever was inside it, and yet somehow, the place had returned. Whatever Evergrove was, it was more than a god.

Maybe it was more than an entity.

I looked at Angelo. He was already looking at me.

“I won't leave.”

My jaw tightened. “Everyone else can.”

Jackson, my inexperienced new assistant,immediately stepped forward. “We can't leave you guys here.”

I closed my eyes. “Jackson.”

“But—”

“Stop talking.”

He fell silent. When I opened my eyes, I stared directly at him. “Please.”

That finally silenced him.

The old man watched the exchange with an amused expression before looking at me again. “Still protecting everyone around you.”

I said nothing.

He smiled. “Your father would have hated that.”

Everything inside me stopped.

I turned so fast my coat swung behind me. “Father?”

The word echoed through the empty store, but the old man didn't answer. Instead, I noticed his hands. They were trembling, barely enough to notice, and he tried to hide it by curling his fingers into his palms.

Then I saw his eyes.

The smile was still there, but his eyes weren't smiling. Something was buried underneath them.

Regret.

I knew that look. I'd seen it before—not in monsters, but in people who wanted to do something and couldn't.

My eyes narrowed.

The old man hadn't trapped us here because he wanted to.

He was being made to.

My gaze drifted toward the shoppers, and the story Remi had told me came rushing back. Years ago, she'd traded her memories to a spirit in exchange for a knife, a knife she used to kill the night manager. At the time, I'd assumed the spirit had made the bargain willingly.

But what if it hadn't?

My eyes moved from face to face: the cashier, the old woman, the father, the child, and all the other people who had been standing here before we'd even entered.

All of them were spirits.

And all of them were being controlled.

My blood ran cold.

“Get out.”

Nobody moved.

I raised my voice. “GET OUT NOW!”

The Retrieval teams moved first, running for the doors. Jacob remained, as did Elior. Jackson didn't move either.

I looked at Angelo. He leaned toward Jacob and whispered something too quiet for me to hear. Whatever he said, Jacob's expression changed. He grabbed Jackson by the arm.

“Come on.”

“I'm not leaving her.”

“You are.”

Jacob practically carried him toward the entrance while Elior followed. Jackson fought them the entire way, but they dragged him toward the doors anyway.

Then, just before they closed, he looked back.

Our eyes met.

I knew that expression.

He was going to transfer the moment we reached base.

I couldn't blame him.

The doors slammed shut, and silence swallowed the store again.

The old man turned toward Angelo, then back toward me.

“How do you know my father?”

A quiet laugh escaped him. Then his eyes changed.

For a moment, they didn't look human anymore.

His voice dropped into something deeper, older, something that seemed to vibrate through the walls.

“Let me tell you a story.”

He took a slow step forward.

“A very long time ago, there was an angel.”

Angelo's expression hardened.

“She created her first god.” The old man smiled. “The God of Obedience.”

I glanced at Angelo, but he didn't look away from the old man.

“She was tired of her siblings refusing to listen to her. And being the eldest, she believed she was entitled to become the one who created all of them.”

“Like The Creator?” I asked.

The old man chuckled. “Is that what you call the one who left?”

Angelo's eyes narrowed.

“She was quite irresponsible.”

“Mother wasn't irresponsible.”

Angelo's voice was cold enough to make the words feel like a warning.

The old man looked at him for a moment before laughing. “Your sister thought otherwise.”

Angelo said nothing.

The old man's smile slowly faded. “The God of Obedience was powerful. Too powerful.”

He looked around the store as though remembering something that had happened a very long time ago.

“At first, it commanded humans.”

He paused.

“Then lesser gods.”

Another pause.

“Then greater ones.”

The fluorescent lights above us flickered.

“And eventually…”

The old man's eyes settled on Angelo.

“It commanded…the angel who made it.”

Angelo's expression didn't change, but I saw something flicker in his eyes.

Pain.

“The Angel was afraid,” the old man continued. “For the first time in her existence, she was afraid of something she had created.”

He smiled faintly.

“So she destroyed it.”

His smile widened.

“She shattered it.”

He spread his hands as though he could still see the pieces falling.

“Pieces scattered across the world, never to meet again.”

I looked around the store—the silent shoppers, the smiling faces, the old man standing in front of us.

“And I am guessing Evergrove is one of them?”

The old man nodded as he looked at me again.

“Your sister, a mere human, destroyed this piece.”

My throat tightened.

“And yet you're still here.”

“Of course.”

He smiled.

“Just because you destroy a piece of a god.” His voice became almost playful. “Doesn’t mean you destroy the god itself”

Angelo stepped forward, placing himself between me and the old man.

The old man looked at him.

Then he smiled.

“So how is the angel? Did she succeed in becoming the creator?”

Angelo didn't hesitate.

“I killed her.”

For several seconds, the old man simply stared at Angelo. Then he laughed, but the sound changed halfway through. It no longer sounded like an old man. It sounded ancient, like something enormous was wearing his voice.

“Hahahaha.”

His shoulders shook as he laughed. “If only she had let me help her.”

He looked at Angelo with something approaching pity. “You angels are so incompetent.”

Angelo moved.

One instant, he was beside me. The next, he was halfway across the store.

“Stop.”

Angelo froze, his foot suspended above the floor. His body trembled as he strained against whatever had suddenly taken hold of him. Slowly, his foot lowered, and his knee buckled beneath him. He caught himself, then immediately tried to move again.

Nothing happened.

“Angelo?”

His breathing became uneven. “I can't move.”

The old man's smile returned. “If I could command your sister…” He took another step forward. “I can command you.”

Angelo's hands clenched as his entire body strained against something none of us could see, but it didn't matter. The strongest being in the room was being held in place by a single word.

The old man turned his attention back to me and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Now, where were we?”

His eyes met mine.

“Oh, yes.”

“Your father.”

My stomach dropped.

“After your sister killed me and disappeared…” He paused, watching my reaction. “Guess who came looking for her?”

I already knew.

“My father.”

The old man smiled.

I remembered those days. Remi had disappeared, but my father hadn't cried or broken down. He had searched for her night after night, but not like a father desperately trying to find his daughter. He searched like a businessman who had just lost something valuable: a crucial piece of a deal.

A daughter he had planned to marry off.

A future he'd already arranged.

And when Remi escaped, he lost control.

I remembered walking through the house back then: the silence, the doors closing, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the halls. Everyone had learned not to speak when he was angry, and for months, I'd spent my life walking on eggshells.

The old man watched the realization settle across my face.

“He found me.”

His smile widened.

“Or rather…”

“One piece of me.”

I swallowed. “What did you do to him?”

“Offered him a deal, of course.”

He glanced down at his trembling hands. “I was too weak to control him. Your sister truly did a number on me.”

There was almost admiration in his voice.

“What did you want from him?”

“Something to replace the piece I lost.”

He lifted his eyes to mine.

“A small portion of what made him human.”

I laughed bitterly.

Of course.

What a fate.

My mother had become a cult leader. My father had become a power-hungry god dealer. Apparently, my family had a talent for making terrible decisions.

“And what did my father want?”

The old man looked almost amused.

“What your father had always wanted.”

He stepped closer.

“Control.”

His smile became colder.

“He wanted children who would never disobey him.”

A pause.

“So I gave him exactly what he asked for.”

My blood ran cold.

“What do you mean?”

The old man's smile softened.

“I constructed you.”

I stared at him.

“From your sister’s memories.”

My breath caught. “What?”

“When your sister made her bargain, she gave me something far more valuable than memories.” He tilted his head. “She gave me pieces of you.”

My eyes narrowed.

“And I used them…”

His smile widened.

“To make you.”

The words had barely left his mouth before the room seemed to grow colder.

I stared at him, trying to understand, while he looked at me almost fondly.

“But there was one problem.”

His gaze settled on my face.

“The deal was for both of you.”

He paused.

“But I was only able to make you from her memories.”

My stomach tightened.

“I never had your memories of your sister.”

I didn't understand at first.

Then it clicked.

“You couldn't create her.”

The old man smiled.

“Exactly.”

He took another step toward me.

“I could reconstruct the you she remembered.”

He paused.

“But not the her you remember.”

I stopped breathing.

Something cold spread through my chest as I stared at him.

“You need me.”

His smile widened.

“Now you understand.”

I felt sick.

All those years. Everything I remembered about my sister: her voice, her face, the way she used to hold my hand, the nights she stayed awake when I was afraid, the way she raised me when our parents wouldn't. Every stupid argument, every laugh, every moment I thought I'd forgotten until something reminded me.

Everything that made Remi my Remi.

That was the price.

The old man had never wanted my life. He wanted the one thing I could never replace.

My memories of her.

And suddenly, Evergrove didn't feel like a prison anymore.

It felt like a laboratory.

And I was the final ingredient.

I looked at Angelo. He was still frozen, his body unmoving since the old man had commanded him to stop. Then I noticed something else.

The faint glow that usually surrounded him was gone.

His presence felt... smaller.

Wrong.

“What did you do to him?”

The old man smiled. “I stripped him of his angelic authority.”

My blood ran cold.

Angelo's eyes met mine. For once, there was nothing divine behind them. No power. No protection.

Just Angelo.

“You took his powers?”

“No.”

The old man shook his head. “Inside Evergrove, he can't be an angel.”

I frowned. “What?”

“That is how my power works.” He gestured toward the store. “Inside here, everyone is equal. Gods. Humans. Spirits. Angels.”

A smile slowly spread across his face.

“None of you have authority here.”

He took another step toward us.

“I am the only one with authority.”

His voice dropped.

“I am the only one who can command.”

Angelo's expression hardened, and the old man smiled at him.

“You may be an angel outside.” He lifted one finger. “But inside my domain?”

He pointed at Angelo.

“You are just another person who must obey.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

“The one you want is me,” I said.

It was true. The old man had never wanted Angelo. He had never wanted Elior, Jacob, or anyone else who had walked into Evergrove.

He wanted me.

More specifically, he wanted the memories I carried.

“So let Angelo go.”

I looked at him.

The old man shook his head as much as his frozen body allowed.

“Nayeri, don't.”

The old man's expression softened.

“If it makes you feel better…”

He stepped closer.

“I don't want all of your memories.”

I stared at him.

“Only the ones I'm missing.”

My chest tightened.

He extended his hand.

“Give me those, and I will release him.”

I looked at Angelo. For the first time since I'd known him, he couldn't protect me. He couldn't fight, couldn't heal, couldn't even move.

He was completely human.

And somehow, that made my decision easier.

“Deal.”

Angelo's eyes widened.

“Nayeri—”

The old man placed two fingers against my forehead.

“Then let us finish what your father started.”

The moment his fingers touched my skin, something pulled.

Not at my body.

Something deeper.

My memories.

They began flashing through my mind.

Remi laughing.

Remi holding my hand.

Remi teaching me how to lie to our parents.

Remi sitting beside my bed when I was afraid.

Remi stealing food from my plate.

Remi arguing with me over the stupidest things.

Remi promising she would always come back.

My chest tightened.

“No.”

The memories began slipping away.

Not fading.

Being taken.

I reached for them, but my hands couldn't hold onto something that existed only in my mind. I desperately clung to them, trying to hold on to every fragment, every image, every sound.

Then everything stopped.

Panic replaced the fear.

“No. Please…”

The old man said nothing. He simply watched.

And the last thing I saw before everything went black was Angelo.

No longer an angel.

No longer the being who could stand between me and anything in existence.

Just Angelo.

The man I loved.

Watching me disappear.

I woke up in my childhood home.

For a few seconds, I didn't move. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling and trying to understand why I recognized it. The faded wallpaper, the wooden floor, the photographs hanging crookedly along the hallway, everything was exactly as I remembered it.

Except for one thing.

It was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

There were no screams, no footsteps echoing through the halls, no doors slamming. There was no need to listen carefully for my father's footsteps before deciding whether it was safe to leave my room.

I slowly got to my feet and followed the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen.

Then I saw her.

A girl stood by the stove, her long hair falling all the way to her lower back. She turned toward me, and my breath caught.

She had my face.

My eyes.

My features.

Everything about her was unmistakably mine.

Except she smiled.

Not the smile I'd learned to use when I wanted someone to leave me alone. A genuine one.

She wore a simple sweater and jeans, with the front of her hair loosely tied behind her head. A wedding ring rested on her finger.

I stared at it.

“Where am I?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No thank you?”

A small laugh escaped her. “This is still Evergrove.”

I looked around the kitchen. “I see.”

Then I looked back at her.

“Who are you?”

She held my gaze for a moment before answering.

“I’m the version of you he created.”

The words settled heavily between us, and suddenly, it made sense. She wasn't a copy of me in the way I'd first thought. She was the result of the deal; the obedient daughter my father had asked for, the me Evergrove had created from Remi's memories.

But if that was true—

I frowned. “Then why did you help me?”

Her expression softened.

“Because I pity you.”

I almost laughed. A copy of me was standing across from me, making tea and calmly telling me she felt sorry for me. There was something deeply insulting about that, but I had no idea how to respond, so I decided not to.

Instead, my eyes dropped to the wedding ring on her finger, then to the photograph sitting on the table behind her. It was her, standing in a white wedding dress with diamonds draped around her neck and her long hair falling down her back. She was smiling brightly.

I'd never seen myself smile like that.

I looked back at her.

“You're married?”

She looked at the ring and smiled. “Yeah.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “Father arranged it.”

She returned to whatever she was doing. “I think you'll like him. He isn't like Father.”

I stared at her.

She seemed so ordinary. So painfully ordinary.

She complained about her husband leaving his socks on the floor. She told me she'd burned dinner the night before. She even laughed when she realized she'd put salt in her tea instead of sugar. At one point, she bumped her knee against the table and immediately apologized to the table.

I couldn't help staring.

She noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She smiled and went back to her tea. She even asked if I wanted some.

She was everything I wasn't.

Human.

Not weaker. Not less intelligent.

Just... human.

I looked around the kitchen again. The sunlight spilling through the windows, the warm cups sitting on the table, the wedding photographs, the little signs of a life that had somehow grown inside this nightmare.

And slowly, I understood what I was looking at.

This was the life I might have had if I'd never escaped this house. If I had stayed. If I'd learned to obey. If I'd let Father decide what my life was supposed to be.

And strangely, I wasn't jealous.

I was glad.

Because she seemed happy.

She had found something I never had.

But this future didn't feel like mine.

It felt like hers.

I looked back at her.

“You're his obedient daughter…”

She nodded. “I can't disobey him.”

“Then how are you helping me?”

She gave me a small smile. “Because telling you how to end this isn't disobedience.”

She winked at me as she poured tea into my cup.

Sitting across from her felt surreal, like I was watching a version of my life that had somehow happened to someone else.

She was me.

But she wasn't.

“So…”

I looked down at the tea.

“How do I end this?”

Her expression changed.

The smile disappeared.

My fingers tightened around the cup.

“Kill Father.”

She said it almost in a whisper, as if the walls might hear her.

“What?”

“Yes.”

She took a sip of her tea and looked toward the photographs hanging along the wall. I followed her gaze. There were pictures everywhere: her wedding, her husband, holidays, birthdays. A life.

But there wasn't a single picture of Remi.

Not one.

“How do I kill him?”

She looked back at me.

“He's still human.”

“Father?”

She nodded.

“He will remain human until Evergrove succeeds in making—”

She paused.

“Riva.”

My stomach dropped.

I hadn't heard that name in years.

“My sister's name is Remi now,” I said quietly, correcting her.

She looked at me for a moment.

“Remi.”

She said the name carefully, as if trying it for the first time.

“Is that why you saved my memories of her?”

“Yes.”

She lowered her cup.

“Because as long as Riv—” She paused, catching herself. “I mean, Remi isn't made in this world, the deal remains unfinished, and Father remains human.”

She glanced toward the hallway.

“And if Father dies in the real world, this place dies with him.”

“And you?”

She smiled.

“I'll finally be free.”

My throat tightened.

“Then why don't you kill him yourself?”

Her smile disappeared.

“I can't.”

She looked down at her hands.

“I'm his obedient daughter.”

The words came out strangely flat, rehearsed, like she'd said them so many times that she'd stopped thinking about what they meant. Like someone had programmed the answer into her.

Then she looked back at me.

“But you aren't.”

She stood from the table.

“You still have a choice.”

I didn't move.

For the first time since I came here, she looked genuinely sad.

“Goodbye, me.”

She reached out and placed her hand against my forehead.

“Wake up.”

The moment she said it, the world around me cracked.

The kitchen split apart like glass. The walls disappeared, and the house collapsed into darkness around me.

Then I fell.

Angelo's face was the first thing I saw.

His eyes were wide, as the old man stood in front of him.

“How dare you disobey meeeee.”

The old man's voice distorted, stretching into something that made the walls vibrate.

“SIRAAAAAAAAAA!”

My real name echoed through Evergrove.

Not Nayeri.

Sira.

My body went cold. 

But something about the way he said it felt wrong. 

He wasn’t talking to me. 

He was talking to her. 

The obedient Nayeri. Evergroove’s Nayeri. 

Sira. 

I barely had the time to process what that meant before the old man's body suddenly convulsed. 

His chest split down the middle, not like flesh being torn, but like something inside him was forcing its way out. His ribs bent backward as his skin peeled apart, revealing something black writhing beneath the opening.

Then the tendrils erupted.

Angelo couldn't move. He couldn't even raise his arms.

“Nayeri!”

I moved without thinking and threw myself between them.

The first tendril punched through my stomach.

For a second, I felt nothing.

Then the pain arrived.

A small gasp escaped me, and Angelo's eyes widened.

“Nayeri.”

Another tendril tore across my side, and my knees buckled. Angelo still couldn't move. He could only watch as I fell in front of him.

Then the lights went out.

Every fluorescent bulb in the store shattered at once, and darkness swallowed us. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, until something cracked. Not wood. Not glass. The building itself.

A deep fracture tore through the wall behind us, and the old man stopped. His head slowly turned toward the sound as footsteps came from the other side.

One.

Then another.

The cracks spread farther across the wall, and the old man's smile disappeared.

Then the wall exploded inward.

Light flooded the store, and someone stepped through the opening.

Elior.

Light poured from his body, illuminating the broken store as his eyes burned white. He looked at the old man, then at me, and his expression changed.

“I am sorry, Uncle.”

He raised his hand.

“For my delay.”

The light exploded outward, throwing the tendrils backward as cracks raced across the walls of Evergrove. The entire store shook beneath the force, and for the first time since we'd entered the store, the old man looked afraid.

Elior stepped forward.

And the fight began.

I barely heard it.

Angelo was holding me, and somehow, he'd finally broken free. His hands were covered in my blood as he looked down at them, then back at me.

He tried to summon his authority.

Nothing.

He tried to heal me.

Nothing.

His expression slowly changed.

“No.”

He tried again.

Nothing happened.

“No.”

His voice cracked as he stared at his hands as though they had betrayed him. For the first time since I'd met him, Angelo looked completely helpless.

Tears rolled down his face.

“I can't.”

I looked at him.

“You're crying.”

He didn't answer. Instead, he pressed his forehead against mine.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't.”

I reached up and touched his cheek.

“You saved me enough times.”

He shook his head.

“No…”

I smiled.

“It's okay.”

He closed his eyes, and I pulled him closer before kissing him.

It wasn't passionate.

It wasn't dramatic.

It was gentle. Warm. Almost painfully normal.

When we pulled apart, I smiled.

“Hah.”

Angelo looked at me.

“I never expected my first kiss to be my last.”

His face crumpled.

“No.”

He shook his head.

“No, it's not.”

His voice trembled.

“You're going to be fine.”

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than me.

I smiled.

I wanted to believe him.

I really did.

But my vision was already beginning to blur, and suddenly, all I could think about was everyone I loved.

Angelo.

The first time we met.

The strange way he learned how to care about people.

The way he always noticed when something was wrong with me, even when I didn't say anything.

Remi.

Her laugh. Her stupid jokes.

The way she was getting used to holding my hand.

Jacob.

All the arguments. All the times he'd annoyed me.

The only family I had after Remi left.

Elior.

The idiot who somehow managed to make Jacob blush without even realizing what he was doing.

The one I never got to see marry Jacob. The one who taught Angelo how to be more human every day, despite not being human himself.

And then Noah.

Mostly Noah.

I thought about his little voice.

Nay?

I remembered making his spicy eggs. He always complained that they were too spicy, then he'd eat the entire plate anyway.

I thought about cutting his hair while he complained that I was pulling it, and watching Baby Shark with him until I wanted to throw the television out the window.

I wondered who would make his spicy eggs now.

Who would cut his hair?

Who would watch Baby Shark with him?

My chest hurt.

Not because I was afraid to die.

Because I didn't want to leave them.

My vision darkened as Angelo continued holding me, his tears falling against my face. Somewhere behind us, Elior was screaming. The old man was screaming too, and Evergrove was coming apart around us.

And then I thought about another life.

A life without gods.

Without demons.

Without C.S.P.

Without monsters hiding behind human faces.

Maybe we'd have a tiny house in some boring little town.

Our neighbors would be Jacob and Elior. They'd run a little restaurant; Jacob used to tell me about his dream to be a chef.

It would be the kind of place where neighbors were like family. They'd complain when our grass got too long, and we'd complain when their dog barked at three in the morning.

Our biggest problem would be a power outage.

Angelo would complain about the heat.

I'd complain about his complaining.

And somehow, we'd be happy.

Maybe we'd get married.

No grand ceremony.

Nothing extravagant.

Just us.

And Noah could be the ring bearer.

I smiled at the thought.

Yeah.

That sounds nice.

My fingers slowly loosened around Angelo's hand.

Maybe in the next life.

My eyes closed.

Maybe we'll both live there.

Maybe we'll get to be boring.

Maybe we'll finally get to be human.

And then—

everything went dark.

College was supposed to be fun. For Emma, Jake, Sophia, Liam, and Chloe, it was the best time of their lives. Until the night they broke a rule they didn't know existed.

Emma found the deck at a flea market. Old. Wrapped in black silk. The vendor warned her: "Never let anyone else touch it. It chooses its owner."

She didn't believe in curses. She bought it for the aesthetic.

That weekend, she brought it to a party. Her friends were curious.

"Let's do a reading," she said. "I'll draw for each of you."

The first card was for Jake: The Hanged Man. They laughed. He joked about losing his phone. They all laughed.

The second card was for Sophia: The Tower. She shrugged. "I've been wanting a change anyway."

The third card was for Liam: Death. He went quiet. Emma said, "It means transformation, not actual death."

The fourth card was for Chloe: The Fool. She smiled. "That's me, I guess."

The fifth card was for Emma: The Devil. She laughed. "I don't need a card to tell me I'm toxic."

She placed the deck back in the box. The night continued.

The next morning, Jake didn't show up for class. They found him in his dorm room. Hanged. The rope was tied to the ceiling fan. His eyes were wide open.

Sophia couldn't stop crying. She stayed in her room all day.

The next day, she was in a car accident. The car flipped — a tower of metal and glass. She didn't survive. Her last call was to Emma: "I feel like something is watching me."

Liam started checking his door every night. Locking it twice. He stopped leaving his room.

The next day, he was found dead. No wounds. No struggle. Just silence. His phone was on. A video was paused — a tarot reading tutorial.

Chloe tried to run. She packed her bags and drove away. They found her at the bottom of a cliff. Like she had walked off without looking. Her car was still on the road.

Emma was the only one left.

She burned the deck. She watched the cards curl and blacken.

She thought it was over.

She woke up the next morning to find a single card on her pillow: The Devil.

She looked in the mirror. Her reflection smiled at her.

It wasn't her.

She ran to the backyard.

The ashes were gone.

The deck was sitting on the ground — untouched. Unburned.

She picked it up. It was cold.

She opened it. A note fell out — handwritten, old.

"Emma was not the first."

\---

THE END

I was in a pretty bad slump from a $1,000 bust in Ohio.

Couldn’t ask my family for any more money; they were pretty sick of the handouts and my fiscal volatility. I had to figure this one out for myself.

So I took out one last line of credit, bought a one-way ticket out West, and told myself I was going to win my life back.

The flight to Vegas was six hours of stale air and screaming babies. By the time I stepped out into Nevada’s dry desert, it felt like I’d already lost my sanity.

The address on my phone led me to a strip of decrepit buildings across the street from some generic local burger joints. No neon, nor the usual overpromising signs.

I was looking for a home in the wall, one with a painted number on its side and the sound of a 1980s jukebox leaking through the acacia exterior.

It was nice and cool inside, maybe a little too cold for my comfort. A round hardwood counter sat in the center of the room. Pull-tab machines lined the walls. Green-felt tables occupied the floor. It smelled like cigarettes and cheap booze, with something a little stronger underneath it all. Sulfur? Whatever it was, it was pungent. Like a rotten egg.

I sat at one of the many tables. Three other people joined me within a few seconds. The house dealer arrived last, introducing himself as Mr. Knock. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a brick-shaped head. I don’t think I saw him blink once that whole night.

He asked everybody to buy in.

They turned and looked at each other, then back at him. One after another, they said they “agreed to the terms.” A neat stack of poker chips manifested in front of each of them. Nobody questioned it. When it got to my turn, I said the words too. The chips appeared right in front of me like they’d been there from the beginning.

Jimmy sat in the small blind. He was older than the rest of us, a little pudgy in the middle. He struck up conversation while Knock dealt the first hand and asked what we planned on doing if we won.

Miss Hughes, the large blind, answered first. Bored face, bored voice, expensive watches and necklaces. She said something about investing in a new timeshare with her husband. She looked like the kind of person who already had three.

To my left was Jon. He said he wanted to use the money to produce his passion project, a film about magic gunslingers. He pitched it with real gusto, like he truly believed this was the next big thing… and like we were all bigwig investors.

Jimmy looked at me next. I felt the pressure to answer.

“I just need to get some debt paid off,” I said.

The other three laughed like it was totally absurd. Maybe it was, if it meant selling my soul.

Jimmy shook his head and said he planned on using his winnings to pay off his kid’s college tuition. He wished us all good luck. For a second, the table almost felt friendly.

I checked my first hand—an eight and a nine. Already a decent basis for a straight. The flop came ten, eight, and a jack. People started betting high right away, trying to wipe out the competition. I was forced to put in half my chips just to stay in. Jimmy folded early.

The turn was another ten. The river, a queen. I raised when the other two checked. I felt pretty lucky with my hand.

We showed. Miss Hughes had a nine and a king. She took the pot without ceremony. The precedent for disappointment was set.

Next round I folded early. So did Jon. My stack was already looking thin.

Jimmy made a brave bet. Hughes didn’t flinch. She raised him into the ground. Jimmy was left with a single chip. The cards flipped. Hughes raked in the chips while Jimmy buried massaged his eyeballs, trying to push them back inside his head.

I took a look at my next hand and felt something crawl up my spine. Pocket aces. Time to go all in. Hughes and Jimmy hesitated, then folded almost immediately. Jon was the only one who called, the idiot. He put his whole stack in with that same determined look I saw in the mirror. Aimless bravery. Mistaken boldness.

We revealed. I showed the aces first. His confident expression was neutralized. The cards spilled from his limp fingers—a pair of kings.

“Bust,” Mr. Knock said. “For shame.”

He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. His jaw unhinged. I felt a suction from his widening maw unlike anything I’d ever felt. Absolute, like the room itself was about to turn inside out.

Jon screamed and fell from his chair, trying to crawl away. A previously invisible form tore free from his body, ethereal. His soul was ripped from him with a sound like stretching the cheese. Knock swallowed it whole and belched into his fist. He dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief afterwards.

Jon was left on the floor. His hair had turned a bright white. His fingernails were bloody from clawing the wood. He didn’t appear injured otherwise, but he was near-catatonic. Bouncers appeared from the shadows and assisted him just so he would remember how to use the door.

I turned back toward Hughes and Jimmy. Hughes was grinning. Jimmy wouldn’t make eye contact. I realized I was sweating through my shirt.

“Shall we continue?” Knock asked. He was already reshuffling.

The game went on for another hour. Jimmy and I seemed to decide, without speaking, to play against Hughes. We bet recklessly high, one hand after another, getting dumb luck more than once. Her stack progressively shrank. She chewed the skin on her thumb until it bled. When she finally called our bluff, I was holding a flush. She shrieked like a parrot being boiled alive when I flipped my cards.

Knock took her the same way he took Jon. Hughes kicked and cried, and cursed our names before she went limp. She looked drugged, dazed, like an animal that had just been declawed. The bouncers escorted her off the property without incident. She didn’t look back.

Just me and Jimmy left.

He looked at me, silent. I could tell he wanted to apologize for what was about to happen. I asked him casually to tell me about his kid while Knock dealt the next hand.

He said his boy had leukemia growing up. Most of the family’s savings went toward treatment. When it came time for college, they were stumped.

Jimmy looked at his cards. I could see the light leaving his eyes. Bad hand for sure. He only had a handful of chips left compared to my stack.

I checked my own. A pair of sevens. My lucky number.

We played. I tried to bet high enough that he would just fold and walk away. I told him there was no shame in taking what he had. Jimmy kept shaking his head. Said there was no going back for him now. In a way, I kind of agreed.

The board ran out. I made four sevens. Bags had appeared under Jimmy’s eyes that weren’t there a moment ago. We revealed. His hand was nothing.

He looked at me and gave a weak smile.

“That’s that, then. Well played, kid.”

Knock took him, just like the other two. The kindness drained from Jimmy’s face and was replaced by apathy. Emptiness. The bouncers walked him to the door, like he was a piece of broken furniture.

Knock congratulated me on my winnings. I was taken to the front of the house to cash out. The chips turned into money, lots of it. They invited me to come back again as I walked out the door. I never took them up on the offer.

I don’t ask my family for money anymore. I pay my bills on time. I sleep quietly and soundly. I wake up every morning without incident.

I’m debt-free now. Living my best life.

But since that night, I don’t think I’ve had a soul to call my own.

Bạn có bao giờ nghĩ đến một ngày nào đó, bạn sẽ bị một sinh vật mang hình hài giống hệt mình thay thế hay chưa? Và mục đích của chúng không phải là bắt chước bạn mãi mãi, mà là để tiếp cận và giết hết những người đã vô tình chào mời chúng vào nhà.

Tôi sống cùng em trai ở một vùng ngoại ô xa trung tâm thành phố nhộn nhịp và đông đúc. Cả khu chỉ lác đác khoảng năm, sáu căn nhà, nằm cách nhau bởi những khoảng đất rộng và yên tĩnh. Phía sau nhà tôi là một khu rừng khá lớn, nơi bọn trẻ trong vùng thường truyền tai nhau đủ loại câu chuyện kỳ lạ. Mỗi ngày, chúng tôi lại tụ tập thành từng nhóm để vui chơi và kể cho nhau nghe những điều mình từng trải qua hoặc nghe từ người lớn. Trong vô số câu chuyện ấy, nổi tiếng nhất là truyền thuyết về “The Mimic” — một cái tên mà hầu như đứa trẻ nào trong vùng cũng biết đến, và đó cũng là câu chuyện khiến tôi sợ hãi nhất.

Cha mẹ tôi mất sớm khi tôi mới mười tuổi, còn em trai tôi chỉ vừa lên bảy. Là những đứa trẻ mồ côi giữa một vùng quê thưa dân, chúng tôi luôn nhận được sự quan tâm đặc biệt từ những người xung quanh. Người lớn trong vùng đối xử với hai anh em rất ấm áp, xem chúng tôi như người thân trong gia đình. Bọn trẻ cũng thường xuyên rủ chúng tôi chơi cùng, chia sẻ đồ chơi, bánh kẹo và những món ăn mà chúng có.

Dù vậy, mỗi khi nhìn thấy những đứa trẻ được cha mẹ chăm sóc, yêu thương và chờ đón sau mỗi buổi chiều, trong lòng tôi vẫn không khỏi ngưỡng mộ, đôi khi xen lẫn một chút ghen tị. Em trai tôi là một đứa bé ngoan ngoãn và hiểu chuyện hơn nhiều so với tuổi của nó. Có lẽ vì biến cố đến quá sớm nên nó học cách trưởng thành rất nhanh.

Cuộc sống của hai anh em cứ thế trôi qua trong sự bình yên giản dị. Mỗi sáng thức dậy, chúng tôi lại dắt nhau ra ngoài chơi, nhận những phần thức ăn mà hàng xóm tốt bụng mang cho, rồi hòa vào đám trẻ trong vùng với những câu chuyện bất tận. Khi mặt trời lặn, hai anh em lại trở về căn nhà quen thuộc, cùng nhau ăn tối, trò chuyện đôi câu trước khi chìm vào giấc ngủ, chờ đón một ngày mới giống như bao ngày khác.

Một ngày nọ, cả đám trẻ lại tụ tập trước sân nhà Jien — cô bé sống trong ngôi nhà lớn nhất vùng. Như thường lệ, mỗi đứa lại nghĩ ra một trò chơi hoặc một câu chuyện mới để kể cho cả nhóm nghe.

Hôm đó, Brian — thằng nhóc suốt ngày luyên thuyên về đống tiểu thuyết kinh dị ở nhà nó — là đứa đến muộn nhất. Từ xa, nó đã vừa chạy vừa lớn tiếng gọi:

— Này! Hôm nay tớ lại có một câu chuyện đặc biệt để kể cho các cậu đây. Có ai dám nghe không?

Min nhíu mày khó hiểu:

— Chuyện gì mà lại không dám nghe chứ? Bình thường anh vẫn kể đầy ấy thôi.

Brian nở nụ cười đầy bí hiểm.

— Là một truyền thuyết của chính vùng này đấy.

Nói rồi, nó chạy đến chỗ chúng tôi, ngồi phịch xuống sân như không thể chờ thêm được nữa.

— Câu chuyện về “The Mimic” nhé. Các cậu có muốn nghe không?

Vừa nghe đến cái tên đó, cả đám lập tức bị khơi dậy sự tò mò. Dáng vẻ hào hứng của Brian khiến không ai còn tâm trí nghĩ đến trò chơi nào khác.

— Kể đi, Brian! Chúng tớ đang nghe đây! — cả nhóm đồng thanh thúc giục.

Brian nhìn quanh một lượt, hạ thấp giọng như sợ có ai đó nghe thấy, rồi bắt đầu câu chuyện.

Sâu trong khu rừng phía tây từng tồn tại một sinh vật kỳ bí mang tên The Mimic. Cái tên ấy đã nói lên tất cả — một kẻ chuyên bắt chước. Theo lời đồn, hắn thường săn lùng con người vào lúc nửa đêm, đặc biệt là những ai đang ở một mình trong phòng.

The Mimic có khả năng giả giọng người thân của nạn nhân để dụ họ mở cửa, thậm chí còn có thể bắt chước cả ngoại hình của họ một cách hoàn hảo. Tuy nhiên, hắn vẫn có những điểm yếu nhất định. Chỉ cần bạn đóng chặt cửa và nhất quyết không mở, hắn sẽ không thể tấn công được.

Đôi khi, khi nhận ra con mồi không mắc bẫy, hắn sẽ không tiếp tục giả giọng nữa mà để lộ chất giọng khàn đặc đầy đáng sợ của mình. Có lúc hắn đập cửa điên cuồng như muốn phá tung mọi thứ để xông vào, nhưng cũng có lúc hắn chỉ đứng im bên ngoài một lúc lâu rồi lặng lẽ biến mất vào màn đêm.

Nghe xong câu chuyện, đám nhóc đứa nào cũng nổi hết da gà. Riêng tôi, vốn là đứa gan dạ nhất nhóm, nên chẳng cảm thấy sợ hãi gì mấy.

— Chả có gì hay ho cả. Mày làm quá lên thôi. Chỉ là truyền thuyết, làm gì có thật chứ. — Tôi cười khẩy.

Brian lập tức phản bác:

— Nhưng… mẹ em nói bà ấy đã từng gặp nó rồi.

— Mày đùa đấy à? Chẳng vui chút nào đâu.

Ngay lập tức, cả đám nhốn nháo như thể vừa nghe thấy tin động trời. Jien vội ôm chặt lấy Min, gương mặt lộ rõ vẻ sợ hãi.

— Có gì đâu mà sợ. Mày nhát thật đấy. — Tôi bật cười. — Mẹ thằng Brian chắc chỉ nhìn nhầm thôi, hoặc xem phim kinh dị nhiều quá.

— Không phải đâu! Mẹ em bảo là gặp thật mà. — Brian khăng khăng bảo vệ lời kể của mình.

Nhưng tôi vẫn cho rằng đó chỉ là một câu chuyện được thêm thắt để truyền thuyết trở nên đáng tin hơn.

— Thế thì kể nghe xem nào. — Tôi khoanh tay nhìn nó. — Mẹ mày đã gặp cái gì?

— Mẹ em kể rằng chuyện đó xảy ra vào một lần bố đi công tác xa. Hôm ấy, ở nhà chỉ có mẹ và chú chó Kii…

Sau khi ăn tối và dọn dẹp xong, mẹ ngồi xem tivi như mọi ngày. Kii nằm ngay bên cạnh, lim dim mắt như sắp ngủ. Mọi thứ đều rất bình thường cho đến khi từ một góc tối trong nhà bỗng vang lên một âm thanh lạ.

Ban đầu, mẹ tưởng mình nghe nhầm. Nhưng khi lắng tai nghe kỹ, mẹ nhận ra đó giống hệt giọng của chính mình.

Kii cũng lập tức phản ứng. Nó vểnh tai lên, dựng đuôi và nhìn chăm chú về phía phát ra âm thanh. Điều đó khiến mẹ càng thêm bất an, bởi rõ ràng không chỉ mình mẹ nghe thấy.

Một luồng lạnh buốt chạy dọc sống lưng. Tay chân bà cứng đờ, không dám cử động mạnh.

Rồi tiếng gọi ấy lại vang lên.

— Kii… Kii…

Đó là giọng của mẹ, nhưng lại phát ra từ góc nhà tối om.

Âm thanh ấy lặp đi lặp lại hai, ba lần, kéo dài trong vài chục giây. Mỗi lần tiếng gọi vang lên, Kii lại nhìn chằm chằm vào góc tường và sủa đáp trả như thể đang đối diện với một thứ gì đó mà mẹ không thể nhìn thấy.

Còn bà thì chỉ biết ngồi chết lặng trên ghế, cảm giác sợ hãi ngày một lớn dần khi tiếng gọi mang chính giọng nói của mình vẫn đều đều vọng ra từ bóng tối.

— Chỉ có vậy thôi à? Tao vẫn chưa tin lắm. Có khi chỉ là trùng hợp thôi thì sao? — Tôi chen ngang, dù trong lòng đã bắt đầu có chút rùng mình nhưng vẫn cố tỏ ra bình thản.

Brian nhìn tôi một lúc, vẻ mặt vừa lo lắng vừa dè chừng, như thể nó sợ phản ứng của tôi còn hơn cả câu chuyện mà nó đang kể.

— Dạ… nhưng em vẫn chưa kể hết…

Giọng nó nhỏ đi thấy rõ.

Cả nhóm lập tức im lặng. Những tiếng côn trùng kêu ngoài bãi cỏ dường như cũng trở nên rõ ràng hơn trong khoảnh khắc ấy. Brian nuốt khan một cái, hít sâu rồi tiếp tục kể phần còn dang dở của câu chuyện.

— Mẹ em bế Kii chạy thật nhanh vào phòng ngủ rồi khóa chặt cửa lại. Dù đã ở trong phòng, bà vẫn chưa thể hoàn hồn sau những gì vừa xảy ra…

Khoảng một tiếng sau, từ bên ngoài bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cốc… cốc… cốc…

Cùng lúc đó là một giọng nói trầm thấp quen thuộc:

— Em ơi, anh về rồi đây. Mau mở cửa cho anh.

Đó là giọng của bố em.

Mẹ lập tức đứng dậy, bước nhanh đến cửa. Bàn tay bà vừa định chạm vào tay nắm thì chợt khựng lại. Bố vẫn đang đi công tác xa, làm sao có thể về nhà vào giờ này được?

Một cảm giác lạnh buốt lan khắp cơ thể.

Mẹ từ từ lùi lại khỏi cánh cửa, hơi thở trở nên gấp gáp. Kii cũng đứng bật dậy, không ngừng nhìn chằm chằm về phía cửa như thể đang theo dõi một thứ gì đó ở bên ngoài.

Run rẩy, mẹ với lấy chiếc điện thoại đặt trên giường và gọi cho bố.

Chỉ sau vài hồi chuông, đầu dây bên kia vang lên giọng nói quen thuộc:

— Vợ gọi anh có chuyện gì vậy? Anh vẫn chưa về được đâu, chắc phải đến mai mới kịp. Vợ đợi anh nhé.

Mẹ gần như nghẹn giọng:

— Anh… anh vẫn chưa về sao? Vậy người đang đứng ngoài cửa là ai?

— Em nói gì cơ?

Giọng nói kêu gọi ngoài cửa dần trở nên khàn đặc hơn, tiếng gõ cửa thì đã chuyển thành âm thanh đập cửa một cách mạnh bạo.

— Có ai đó đang ở ngoài kia… Nó dùng chính giọng nói của anh để gọi em mở cửa…

Đầu dây bên kia im lặng vài giây.

— Vợ à, nghe anh này. Bình tĩnh lại. Tuyệt đối đừng mở cửa. Cứ ở yên trong phòng, em sẽ an toàn.

Sau đó, tiếng đập cửa và giọng nói bên ngoài vẫn kéo dài thêm một lúc rồi mới biến mất.

Đêm hôm ấy, mẹ em không hề bị thương hay mất mát thứ gì. Thế nhưng, những gì bà nghe và trải qua đã để lại một vết sẹo trong tâm trí. Cho đến tận bây giờ, mỗi khi nhắc lại chuyện đó, bà vẫn không thể quên được cảm giác sợ hãi ấy…

— Thôi anh đừng kể nữa… Chị Jien khóc rồi kìa. — Min vội lên tiếng ngăn lại.

Tôi quay sang nhìn. Jien thật sự đã đỏ hoe mắt, hai tay ôm chặt lấy Min như sợ chỉ cần buông ra một chút là thứ gì đó sẽ xuất hiện từ trong bóng tối.

Dù chẳng ai muốn thừa nhận, nhưng câu chuyện của Brian đã khiến cả đám nhóc chúng tôi sợ đến mất vía.

Những ngày bình thường, sau khi chơi xong, đứa nào cũng tự chạy về nhà. Thế nhưng hôm đó, không ai còn đủ can đảm để đi một mình. Đứa nào đứa nấy đều nằng nặc đòi bố mẹ Jien đưa về tận cửa nhà mới chịu.

Trên đường về, cả nhóm im lặng một cách lạ thường. Không còn tiếng cười đùa hay tranh cãi như mọi khi. Mỗi đứa đều thỉnh thoảng liếc nhìn những góc tối ven đường như sợ rằng chỉ cần quay đầu đi một chút, sẽ có thứ gì đó trực chờ lao tới.

Tối hôm ấy, tôi dám chắc rằng chẳng đứa nào ngủ ngon. Có lẽ bọn nó sẽ trùm chăn kín mít, khóa chặt cửa phòng rồi nằm co ro trên giường, cố gắng quên đi câu chuyện đáng sợ mà Brian đã kể lúc chiều. Thậm chí ngay cả tôi, người luôn tự nhận mình gan dạ nhất nhóm cũng không ngoại lệ. Tôi không thể ngăn bản thân nhớ đến giọng nói vang lên từ phía sau cánh cửa trong câu chuyện ấy.

Dù vậy, tôi vẫn nhất quyết không tin câu chuyện của Brian.

“Nhảm nhí. Làm gì có ma quỷ hay quái vật nào ở đây chứ… Tao phải tận mắt thấy thì mới tin.” — Tôi luôn tự trấn an mình bằng thái độ đầy hống hách như thế.

Đã vài tháng trôi qua kể từ ngày nghe câu chuyện ấy.

 Trong khoảng thời gian đó, đám trẻ trong vùng liên tục kể về những hiện tượng kỳ lạ mà chúng gặp phải.

Min quả quyết rằng có lần nó nghe thấy tiếng mẹ gọi mình giữa đêm khuya, dù đến sáng dậy hỏi thì mẹ nó bảo bà vẫn ngủ say trong phòng. Jien thì kể rằng dạo gần đây, mỗi lần ra ngoài, bố mẹ nó đều dặn phải khóa chặt cửa và còn thống nhất với nhau một mật mã để nhận biết lẫn nhau.

Tôi chỉ bật cười trước những câu chuyện ấy.

— Chắc người lớn chỉ đề phòng trộm cướp thôi. Còn Min, tao nghĩ mày bị ám ảnh quá rồi nên tưởng tượng ra tiếng mẹ mình đấy.

Tôi nói với vẻ như chắc chắn mình hiểu rõ mọi chuyện.

Trong mắt tôi lúc đó, tất cả chỉ là những lời đồn bị thổi phồng bởi nỗi sợ hãi của trẻ con và sự cẩn trọng quá mức của người lớn.

Nhưng rồi đến một ngày, những điều kỳ lạ bắt đầu xảy ra với chính tôi.

Hôm ấy, John — em trai tôi — xin phép được ra ngoài chơi với một nhóm bạn mới quen và ngủ lại qua đêm ở nhà họ. Tôi vốn khá dễ tính nên đồng ý ngay mà chẳng suy nghĩ nhiều, dù sao thì nó cũng đã mười bốn tuổi rồi.

“Không có nó ở nhà cũng hơi chán nhỉ…” — tôi thầm nghĩ.

Tôi mở cửa bước ra ngoài đi dạo quanh khu mình sống.

Hôm ấy, thời tiết đẹp đến lạ. Bầu trời trong xanh, gió thổi nhè nhẹ qua những tán cây. Tôi lang thang hết chỗ này đến chỗ khác, lúc thì hái vài bông hoa ven đường, lúc lại đuổi theo những cánh bướm đủ màu đang bay lượn trên đồng cỏ. Cuối cùng, tôi ngồi dưới gốc cây táo lớn gần khu đất trống để tận hưởng không khí mát mẻ của buổi chiều.

Được một lúc thì Min và Jien cùng vài đứa trẻ khác bắt gặp tôi. Chúng chạy lại ríu rít xin chơi cùng.
Thế là cả đám lại tụ tập như mọi khi. Chúng tôi cười đùa không ngớt, bày ra đủ trò chơi ngốc nghếch rồi kể cho nhau nghe những câu chuyện hài hước khiến đứa nào cũng ôm bụng cười.

Chẳng mấy chốc, mặt trời đã ngả dần về phía chân trời. Ánh nắng vàng cam phủ lên cả khu ngoại ô yên tĩnh.

Chúng tôi tạm biệt nhau rồi ai về nhà nấy.

Tôi cầm phần thức ăn tối mà hàng xóm tốt bụng đã chuẩn bị giúp mình, trở về căn nhà nhỏ. Tôi bật chiếc bếp cũ lên để hâm nóng thức ăn rồi mang ra bàn phòng khách.

Tivi vẫn phát những chương trình quen thuộc như mọi ngày. Tôi vừa ăn tối vừa chăm chú theo dõi màn hình, thời gian trôi rất nhanh.

Ăn xong, tôi dọn dẹp bàn ăn, tắt tivi rồi đi lên phòng chuẩn bị ngủ. Tuy vậy, tôi vẫn chưa buồn đi ngủ ngay. Chiếc đèn bàn vẫn sáng khi tôi mải mê chơi trò chơi trên cái máy điện tử cầm tay của mình.

Mãi đến khi đồng hồ điểm mười hai giờ đêm, tôi mới ngáp dài, đặt máy xuống rồi đứng dậy tắt đèn.

Chiếc giường của tôi nằm sát cửa sổ, nơi có thể nhìn thẳng ra khu rừng phía sau nhà. Ban ngày, đó chỉ là một khu rừng bình thường. Nhưng khi màn đêm buông xuống, những tán cây đen đặc chồng lên nhau khiến nó trở nên âm u và đáng sợ lạ thường.

Tôi vô thức liếc ra ngoài cửa sổ.

Bóng tối bao trùm tất cả.

Sâu từ trong rừng cây, tôi chắc đã thấy một cái bóng đen cao gần ba mét, đang lấp ló đứng ở đó. Nó bất động, đôi mắt sáng rực nhuốm đỏ đang nhìn về phía căn nhà của tôi.

Một cảm giác khó tả thoáng lướt qua khiến tôi vội kéo kín rèm lại rồi chui vào chăn, tự nhủ lòng mình rằng chỉ đang gặp ảo giác.

Tôi cố híp mắt trong sự dè dặt sợ hãi. Vừa lim dim được vài phút thì từ dưới nhà bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cộc… cộc… cộc…

Ngay sau đó là giọng nói vang lên:

— Anh hai, mở cửa cho em với. Anh hai còn thức không?

Là giọng nói của John.

Tôi dụi mắt, lồm cồm ngồi dậy rồi bước ra khỏi phòng, đi xuống cửa chính.

— Ủa? Mày không ngủ lại à, John?

Giọng thằng bé vang lên từ bên ngoài:

— Bạn em hủy kèo mất rồi. Nên giờ em phải tự đi bộ về đây nè, chán chết đi được. Anh mở cửa cho em mau đi.

Tay tôi đặt lên nắm cửa nhưng vẫn chần chừ.

— Là mày thật không đấy, John?

Bên ngoài im lặng vài giây rồi đáp lại:

— Anh hỏi gì kỳ vậy? Em đây mà. Mở cửa cho em đi.

Giọng nói nghe hoàn toàn giống em trai tôi.

Sự thúc giục có phần gấp gáp của nó khiến tôi hơi nghi ngờ. Nhưng rồi tôi tự cười nhạo chính mình.

Mình nghĩ linh tinh quá rồi.

Trời đã khuya thế này, việc nó sốt ruột cũng là chuyện bình thường.

Nghĩ vậy, tôi mở cửa.

John đang đứng trước hiên nhà.

Nó ngẩng đầu nhìn tôi rồi nở một nụ cười quen thuộc. Thế nhưng không hiểu vì sao, nụ cười ấy lại có chút gì đó gượng gạo khiến tôi cảm thấy không thoải mái.

Dẫu vậy, cơn buồn ngủ đã làm tôi chẳng còn tâm trí để suy nghĩ nhiều.

John bước ngang qua tôi, đi thẳng về phía phòng của nó.

Cạch.

Cánh cửa phòng khép lại. Ngôi nhà một lần nữa chìm vào im lặng.

Sáng hôm sau, vừa thức dậy, tôi sang phòng John xem thử nó đã dậy chưa.

Nhưng căn phòng lại trống không.

Chiếc giường bừa bộn một cách kỳ lạ. Chăn mền bị xới tung lên như thể có ai đó vừa lục lọi khắp nơi để tìm kiếm thứ gì.

Tôi nhíu mày nhìn quanh.

— Quái thật… Bình thường thằng oắt này ngủ nướng lắm mà. Hôm nay lại dậy sớm hơn cả mình à?

Nghĩ vậy, tôi bước xuống phòng khách.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng cạnh cửa sổ, quay mặt về phía tây, là hướng của khu rừng sau nhà.

Điều kỳ lạ là nó đứng hoàn toàn bất động.

Không cử động.

Không nói gì.

Và có thể là không thở.

Cứ như một bức tượng.

— John!

Tôi gọi lớn rồi chạy lại gần.

Thằng bé không hề giật mình. Nó từ từ quay đầu về phía tôi.

Trên môi nó lại xuất hiện nụ cười gượng gạo mà tôi đã thấy vào đêm qua.

Một nụ cười kì lạ khiến tôi cảm thấy vô cùng khó chịu.

— Này, mày sao thế? Sáng sớm đứng đây làm gì vậy?

— Có gì đâu, anh hai. Em tập thể dục ấy mà!

Tôi nhìn nó đầy nghi ngờ.

Rõ ràng tôi đã thấy nó đứng yên ở đó từ khá lâu, chẳng hề nhúc nhích lấy một lần. Thế mà giờ nó lại bảo mình đang tập thể dục. Nghe vô lý đến mức chẳng ai muốn tin.

Nhưng nếu không phải tập thể dục thì nó đang làm gì? Tôi cũng không biết.

Vì thế tôi chỉ nhún vai cho qua rồi tiếp tục công việc thường ngày, dù trong lòng vẫn còn vương lại cảm giác khó hiểu về hành động kỳ lạ của em trai mình.

Ăn xong bữa trưa, tôi lập tức chạy sang nhà Jien. Vừa đến nơi, tôi đã thấy Brian và Min cũng đang ngồi ở đó.

Không chần chừ, tôi kể cho cả nhóm nghe những hành động kỳ lạ của John từ tối hôm qua đến giờ.
Nghe xong, cả đám bắt đầu đưa ra đủ loại suy đoán.

— Anh John bị huỷ kèo nên không khoẻ hay sao? — Min bật cười.

— Hay là chơi bời chán quá nên ảnh cố tình pha trò thôi. — Jien góp lời.

Brian ngồi im một lúc rồi bất ngờ lên tiếng:

— Hay là… đó không phải John?

Nghe đến đây, tim tôi như hẫng một nhịp.

— Này, mày nói linh tinh gì vậy, Brian? — Tôi lập tức gắt lên.

Brian nhún vai.

— Thì em chỉ đoán thôi mà. Giống như câu chuyện em kể tháng trước ấy…

Cả nhóm bỗng im bặt.

Không khí trong căn phòng trở nên nặng nề đến lạ.

Tôi có thể nghe rõ nhịp tim mình đang đập nhanh dần trong lồng ngực.

— Đừng đùa nữa, chả vui chút nào đâu, Brian. — Tôi nhăn mặt tỏ vẻ khó chịu.

Jien thấy bầu không khí căng thẳng liền vội đổi chủ đề:

— Thôi nào, mọi người ngồi xuống đi. Em lấy bánh ra cho cả nhóm ăn nhé. Mà sao anh Aline không rủ anh John sang chơi cho vui?

Tôi thở dài.

— Thì tao thấy nó chẳng có vẻ hứng thú gì. Nên tao qua đây một mình.

— Vậy à…

Chẳng ai nói thêm gì về chuyện đó nữa.

Một lúc sau, đám nhóc lại quây quần quanh chiếc bàn nhỏ, vừa ăn bánh vừa trò chuyện đủ thứ trên trời dưới đất. Tiếng cười nói nhanh chóng lấp đầy căn phòng, nhưng riêng tôi vẫn không thể gạt khỏi đầu câu nói ban nãy của Brian.

“Hay là… đó không phải John?”

Dù luôn tự nhủ đó chỉ là một câu đùa ngớ ngẩn, tôi vẫn cảm thấy một nỗi bất an mơ hồ đang âm thầm lớn dần trong lòng mình.

Ăn hết đĩa bánh, tôi đứng dậy vươn vai cho đỡ mỏi vì đã ngồi quá lâu.

Tôi bước ra ban công tầng hai nhà Jien. Từ đây có thể nhìn thẳng sang căn nhà nhỏ của hai anh em tôi ở phía bên kia con đường.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng lấp ló ngay cửa sổ nhà mình, hướng mắt về phía nhà Jien.

Đúng lúc ấy, đám nhóc cũng ùa ra ban công.

— John ơi! Sang đây chơi với tụi này đi!

Từ xa, John đáp lại bằng một nụ cười kì quái rồi lập tức bước về phía nhà Jien. Chẳng mấy chốc, tiếng chuông cửa vang lên. Đám trẻ vội chạy xuống mở cửa.

— John à, cậu qua trễ quá! Bánh sắp hết mất rồi!

— Tiếc thật đó, nãy giờ vui lắm luôn!

— Mau vào trong ngồi chơi đi!

John bước vào nhà giữa sự chào đón nhiệt tình của cả nhóm.

Chúng tôi nhanh chóng ngồi thành một vòng tròn trong phòng khách. Tôi ngồi đối diện với John, vừa đủ để quan sát nó một cách rõ ràng.

Đứa nào cũng cười nói rôm rả, thi nhau kể những câu chuyện ngốc nghếch để chọc cả nhóm.

Chỉ riêng John là khác.

Nó ngồi yên lặng từ đầu đến cuối.

Thỉnh thoảng, nó mỉm cười khi nghe người khác nói chuyện, nhưng hầu như không tham gia vào bất kỳ câu chuyện nào. Cảm giác như nó đang âm thầm quan sát tất cả chúng tôi hơn là thực sự hòa vào cuộc vui.

Tôi vài lần định bắt chuyện với nó, nhưng rồi lại thôi. Không hiểu sao, từ sáng đến giờ tôi luôn cảm thấy có điều gì đó không đúng.

Dẫu vậy, nhìn vẻ mặt bình thản của John, tôi lại tự nhủ có lẽ mình đang suy nghĩ quá nhiều.

Hôm ấy, cả nhóm chơi đến tận chiều tối. Chúng tôi thay phiên nhau chơi điện tử, đánh cờ caro rồi lục tung đống đồ chơi của Jien để tìm trò mới.

Tiếng cười vang khắp căn nhà.

Nhưng giữa những âm thanh náo nhiệt ấy, tôi vẫn nhiều lần vô thức nhìn sang John.

Và lần nào cũng vậy.

Nó vẫn chỉ ngồi đó, lặng lẽ dõi theo mọi người bằng ánh mắt khó đoán.

Ting… ting…

Âm báo tin nhắn từ điện thoại tôi bất ngờ vang lên giữa lúc cả đám đang cười đùa.

Tôi tiện tay mở màn hình ra xem.

Người gửi: John.

Nội dung tin nhắn:
“Anh hai, em chuẩn bị về nè, ở nhà một mình buồn không haha.”

Tôi chết lặng.

Từng chữ trên màn hình như đóng băng trước mắt tôi.

Chậm rãi, tôi ngẩng đầu lên nhìn John đang ngồi đối diện.

Nó cũng đang nhìn tôi.

Rồi từ từ nở một nụ cười.

Một nụ cười rộng đến mức khiến tôi lạnh sống lưng.

Tim tôi đập thình thịch trong lồng ngực.

— Mày… đùa gì vậy, John? — Tôi bật cười gượng. — Đang ngồi ở đây mà lại nhắn tin bảo sắp về. Tính hù tao à? Không dễ đâu nhé…

Giọng tôi run đến mức chính tôi cũng nhận ra.

Những đứa trẻ khác nghe thấy câu nói ấy liền quay sang nhìn. Tiếng cười đùa trong phòng đột ngột biến mất. Không khí trở nên im lặng đến đáng sợ.

John vẫn ngồi yên.

Nụ cười trên môi nó không hề thay đổi.

Rồi nó cất tiếng.

Nhưng đó không phải là giọng của John.

Âm thanh phát ra méo mó và kỳ dị, như thể nhiều giọng nói đang chồng chéo lên nhau. Có lúc nghe giống tiếng người, có lúc lại hoàn toàn xa lạ, khiến không ai có thể hiểu được nó đang nói gì.

Cả căn phòng đông cứng.

Không ai cử động.

Không ai nói được một lời.

Tất cả chỉ biết ngồi đó, nhìn chằm chằm vào sinh vật đang mang diện mạo của John.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhớ lại câu chuyện Brian từng kể. Nhưng mẹ của Brian đã sống sót, bởi bà ấy không mở cửa cho hắn.

Còn chúng tôi thì khác.

Chúng tôi không đứng sau một cánh cửa khóa chặt.

Chúng tôi đang ở ngay trước mặt thứ sinh vật mang tên The Mimic.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhận ra một điều đáng sợ.

Suốt thời gian qua, tôi luôn tò mò về kết cục của những người không may rơi vào tay nó. Tôi từng nghĩ đó chỉ là một câu chuyện bịa đặt để hù dọa trẻ con.

Nhưng giờ đây, tôi không còn phải tò mò nữa.

Bởi vì câu trả lời đang ở ngay trước mắt tôi.

Căn phòng chìm trong hỗn loạn. Tiếng la hét vang lên rồi nhanh chóng bị nuốt chửng bởi nỗi kinh hoàng.

Tôi muốn chạy.

Tôi muốn hét lên.

Nhưng cơ thể lại cứng đờ, như thể mọi sức lực đều đã bị rút cạn.

Thứ cuối cùng tôi nhìn thấy là bóng dáng của sinh vật ấy giữa căn phòng, cùng nụ cười méo mó chưa từng thuộc về con người.

Và rồi mọi thứ chìm vào bóng tối.

Tôi cũng là một trong những nạn nhân của nó.

tg:@ngHongUyen

The food industry is absolutely abysmal. At least, I think it is. I’ve never worked at a restaurant that’s particularly “poppin’,” as the kids like to say. I’m basing my opinion solely off of this one… particular… diner.

We’re essentially just a rest stop for truckers. At least, we would be if any ever came through here. We see maybe one or two trucks a month, if we’re lucky. Even still, usually they’ll take one look at the place and peel off down that desolate highway.

Do you know how bad it is when not even truckers will eat at your establishment? Those guys essentially survive off of Slim Jims and pork rinds.

That doesn’t really matter to me, though. I took this job for the peace and quiet. I’ve been missing that peace more and more these days.

Customers are starting to become more frequent. I know, I know. That’s a good thing. Only… I just… I don’t know if that’s true or not.

See, I’ve been working this job for around 6 years now. Started right before Covid really took the world hostage. We used to get customers all the time before that whole shitstorm. Then we had to do the whole lockdown thing with the masks and the social distancing.

We don’t do DoorDash over here. I told Ricky a thousand times, “We. Have got. To do. DoorDash,” okay? Like, seriously. Or Uber Eats, or, I don’t know, man… something.

Anything that would actually help us sell a few plates.

He just wouldn’t have it. Told me, “Everyone’s too far away,” or “Food delivery services will lead to the downfall of civilization.”

Ricky was always a weird guy. He opened this place with his dad back before he passed. Not sure why they chose this location, but hey, at least there’s cellular service.

Which is really fucking weird, considering the highway is pretty much a complete dead zone for at least 30 miles in each direction.

Anyway, sorry, I’m rambling a bit. After COVID, the business really started to dwindle. We went from around 10-15 customers a day, all the way down to maybe 1 per day around the end of 2020.

Ricky was stressed to all hell around that time. He’d wander the restaurant, moping all day. Wondering what he was gonna do. Not knowing where he could turn. It was honestly depressing to watch.

I had to miss out on a lot of paychecks around that time, too. But what was I gonna do? Leave him? I was his only employee. Me and him were holding the business up on our backs.

When things started to look grim, I’d catch him a few times. Early in the morning. Turning the gas stoves on and dousing the flames.

“I’ll do it, I’ll fucking do it,” he’d tell me, threatening to flick his lighter.

Hell, I had to wrestle a jerrycan out of his hands a few times. All I’m saying is Ricky carried that lighter for a reason, and that man has never smoked a day in his life.

It got to the point where I was too afraid to even leave him alone. He literally lived in the diner. Slept in his office. He didn’t even have a car, which, now that I’m thinking about it, is kind of insane.

I never saw him arrive. Never saw him leave. It was like him and the restaurant were intertwined. So when he got desperate, I don’t doubt he went to extreme lengths to get things fixed.

After the stove incidents and the whole jerrycan fiasco, I think that’s when he really reached that level of desperation. He wasn’t moping anymore. That man was plotting… I just didn’t know what.

One day, I came into work to find him happier than he should’ve been. Kicked back in his office chair. Whistling to himself.

I honestly didn’t even feel like dealing with all that. I drove 50 miles to get into work today. Had to wake up at 4 in the morning. Couldn’t even listen to the Joe Rogan Experience because of the lack of cell service. All I wanted was to put my apron on… then maybe play on my phone a little since I knew I’d have no one to cook for.

I wiped down a few counters. Chased a few rats away with a broom. Oh, also, I had to bat away a particularly large spider. It made a sort of… metallic noise when it hit the ground. It ran away sounding like one of those spring-loaded door stoppers I used to play with as a kid.

Anyway, sorry, I can’t stop rambling. God, what’s wrong with me?

I had just began to sit down to scroll on my phone when Ricky stepped out of office, hands clasped behind his back, smug look already plastered across his face.

“….Well…” he inquired, leering over me like Michael Jackson performing Smooth Criminal. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

I sighed and slid my phone back in my pocket. I knew this was gonna be a long conversation.

“Ask ya what, Rich? Go ahead. I know you wanna tell me.”

He pushed his forehead back, pretending he still had hair there before sneering pridefully.

“You knowwww,” he drawled out. “Ask me why I’m so happy.”

“Why are you so happy, Ri…”

“I fixed it.”

He stared at me like he expected me to know exactly what he meant. I just thought this was another one of his manic episodes. Knowing him, ‘fixed it’ could range anywhere from fixing the leaky faucet in the bathroom or killing his ex-wife.

I pulled out my pack of Winstons and packed it against my palm.

“Fixed what? The leaky faucet in the…”

“The restaurant, kid.”

His eyes were frantic but excited. He looked like, like a uh, well, a crackhead, kinda. Pulling up a chair in front of me, he glared out the window and towards the highway.

“Our woes are no more. The vile, treacherous fingertips of despair no longer hold dominion over my soul nor body. I am a vessel of purity. A clean slate, with a clear conscience. Born again. Renewed. This establishment. This location. It is real, Don. I am real. You…”

He reached out to caress my face. I jumped back like he was a leper.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing? Don’t do that weird shit. I just got here.”

He drew his hand back, but I was still eyeballing him.

“You’re real… Right, Don?”

There were tears in his eyes, but he had a smile on his face.

I thought for a moment about his question. I honestly didn’t know how to answer him.

“You know what, Rick… I fucking hope so.”

Rick stood up and clasped his hands together before walking towards the back. He returned with a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. Apparently, he wanted the place spick and span for some “VIP guest” that was supposed to show up at some point.

We cleaned the restaurant top to bottom twice. I even shoveled the contents of the grease trap outside into buckets, which I then proceeded to dump on the ground about 300 yards from the diner. Then I had to clean the buckets. God, it was so hot that day. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It really doesn’t even matter.

What matters is that guest didn’t come until almost sundown. Hell, we didn’t see any guests, period. I was supposed to be getting off in a few hours. But Rick just wouldn’t relent.

“He’s coming,” “he’s on his way,” “trust me, he’ll be here.”

9 o’clock rolled around. Quitting time. I bid Ricky goodnight and was about to walk out the door when he stopped me. He placed his hand on my shoulder coldly.

“Don…” he whispered.

“Yeah, Rick…” I replied.

He stared at me blankly. No life behind his eyes whatsoever.

“He’s coming.”

I scoffed and tried to pull my arm away, but he tightened his grip.

“Trust me… you’ll want to see this. But also, if you leave, I’ll kill you.”

His eyes didn’t even flicker. He didn’t smile. No sign whatsoever that he was joking. I even tried to force a chuckle out of him by nervously laughing, but he didn’t budge.

My smile faded. I set my backpack down and walked back to the counter, sighing loud and long enough for him to understand how goddamned annoyed I was.

I played Angry Birds on my phone for an hour or two. Ricky just kept standing at the window… watching that desert highway with his hands clasped behind his back.

He never moved an inch.

11 o’clock rolled around, and at this point, I was already planning on just sleeping in my car. I had to be back at 6 the next morning anyway.

I gave it another hour before going to approach Rick at the window. I waved my hand in front of his face.

“Alright, boss man, I think it’s time we shut it down. What do ya say?”

No response.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go far. Probably gonna sleep in the car tonight.”

No response.

“Alright, welp… be seeing ya.”

I put my hand on the door handle and went to twist it. Ricky’s hand shot over and clasped around my wrist. I don’t know what kind of workouts that fucker does in his free time, but good lord, man… I mean, that shit actually hurt.

I was about to scold him until I saw him pointing out towards the dark desert with his other hand.

“…he’s here.”

I looked out at where he was staring. All I could see was blackness. Well, that and the glow of the neon storefront. But the longer I watched… the more he came into view.

He started off as a speck. Maybe a quarter mile out, emerging from the darkness. Then he grew taller. And taller. And taller. By the time he was 50 feet out, I realized why Rick said this guy was a VIP.

He must’ve been 8 feet tall. His arms swung at his sides as he walked. He wore a surprisingly clean blue suit, and he clutched a briefcase in his right hand.

Ricky finally released my wrist and basically pushed me away from the door while he held it open for our guest. The man smelled like chemicals and burning plastic, and his skin was almost unnaturally smooth.

He had to duck down to get inside, and even when he was inside, his head still almost touched the ceiling. Ricky looked ecstatic. Like this was some long-lost friend of his.

I hate when he’s like that because then he starts pushing me around like I’m his employee or something. Demanding I get drinks, snapping at me to ‘rev up those fryers,’ like, okay?

This guy was different, though.

He didn’t seem to want anything to drink. It was like, I don’t know… a business transaction or something. Like he was there for one reason and one reason only.

The first thing he did was calmly place his briefcase on his table. He dusted off some sand, which was annoying because, dude, I just cleaned that. But then he unlocked it… and he opened it… and I got to see what this guy had apparently just been dragging through the desert.

If I had to describe what the contents of that briefcase looked like… I’d say something like… mounds upon mounds of chewed bubble gum. Only veinier. I’d argue it looked a little slimier, too. The pulsations is what got me, though. Don’t even get me started on the smell.

Just seeing it made me wanna vomit, but the smell, Christ above… I could’ve passed out from those fumes.

I, for one, was about to ask him what the actual hell he just brought into our restaurant, but as soon as my mouth opened, Ricky stamped on my foot.

“I’ll take that,” he chuckled to the guest, ignoring my screams of agony and/or despair.

The businessman nodded in approval as Rick used his bare hands to pick up that… whatever that was from the briefcase.

He carried it to the kitchen as it dripped all over the floor that, yet again, I had just cleaned.

The meat touched the grill and immediately began to sizzle. Only, it didn’t really sound like sizzling. It sounded like… like… a thousand tiny screams.

I watched in disbelief while Ricky just kept flipping the meat and humming to himself like this was perfectly normal.

“Never ask them about the meat.”

He said it so… nonchalantly. Like it was some grand truth that everyone in the world knew, except me. But what made my ears perk up the most was one word. “Them.”

I asked him who “them” was, and the only answer he gave me was “our new clientele.”

The meat… shrank as he cooked it. The steam was like mustard gas to me, but Rick borderline seemed to enjoy it. Hell, he was inhaling it like this was some kind of foreign delicacy.

It went from about a foot long, maybe 8 inches thick, and crinkled down to no more than the size of a regular T-bone steak by the time it was done.

Rick served it to the businessman anxiously. Expectantly. Like he was a contestant on a MasterChef or something. I think he thought the guy was gonna eat it; I mean, hell, that’s what I thought he was gonna do.

Instead, he picked the meat off of the plate and stuffed it back into his briefcase. Then he smiled at Rick, satisfied as if he did eat it, before pulling his wallet out of his pocket.

He counted out 3 grand in hundreds and set it down on the table wordlessly. He then stood up, walked out, and disappeared into the darkness again, briefcase in hand.

I should’ve probably asked Rick what the fuck had just happened, but I was bordering on sleep-deprived delirium. All I cared about was finally curling up in my seat and maybe getting some sleep if I was lucky.

Thankfully, Rick was too busy dancing and throwing his money in the air to notice me as I walked out towards the parking lot.

I didn’t get the sleep that I hoped for that night. I ended up clocking back in the next morning running on 2 hours and like 6 cups of coffee as the day went on.

I did ask Rick about the whole “don’t ask them about the meat” thing, though. Apparently, it’s ‘classified information that only he can know.’ Apparently, if I ‘break the rule,’ he’ll ‘kill me dead.’

Whatever, though. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, I suppose. Plus, he wasn’t lying about these… people… being our new clientele.

Ever since that incident, we see at least 3 of them a week. The diner has been… strange, to say the least.

I still don’t know what exactly Rick did to “fix” this place, but I mean, hey, it’s working. Even if we don’t see many real customers these days.

It’s been a long 30 years. I’ve made some memories, learned some lessons, but most importantly, I became attached. Max was like the son that I never had.

I met him back in 1996. Sweet as sugar and as cute as a button. A little mischievous, though. But I think I taught him well, regardless. Just wish he’d… I don’t know… grow up?

He never really grew out of his immaturity. Who could blame him, really? I mean, his parents were hardly ever around. I was at his house 8 hours a day, Monday-Friday. Only time I ever even saw them was when they were paying me.

At first… it was mainly about the money. I was paid extraordinarily well for the work I was doing. 1500 a week, and all I had to do was just… supervise. Make sure Max didn’t kill any more pets. Keep him away from sharp objects. That kind of thing.

Don’t get me wrong, the kid was a riot. From the very first day on the job. His parents should’ve been much more stressed than they appeared. I mean, how? How do you look calm while your kid is actively crawling across the ceiling?

Not only that, but by some miracle of God, they looked, dare I say… energized. I’ve been watching Max for 30 years now. I’m not even 50, and I look like a 70-year-old.

After a while, though, I realized that you kinda just… learn to love him. Sure, watching him eat livestock so he doesn’t choke is a bit of a chore. Never seeing his reflection is… disconcerting. But you get over it. Life goes on.

I’ve celebrated Christmases with this kid. Not because I want to, though. God, no. I wanted to be home with my family. Oh, but when those parents call, I learned pretty quickly that it’s best you answer.

Broken bones and lacerations taught me that. But who was I to argue? I needed the money. That’s the thing, though. I don’t need the money anymore.

There’s enough in my account for me to live the rest of my life out on some desert island. Sippin’ margaritas out of coconuts. But they’ll find me. They always seem to find me.

Max hates it when I try to leave. After all the work I’ve done, he still bites. Poor little guy. He just doesn’t know any better. That’s another major conflict for me. It’s not that I don’t love my little Maxxy. It’s just… I’m tired, you know?

Two days off a week for 30 years, man. No vacations. No bonuses. Just supervision for Max and surveillance for me. When do I get a break?

That’s the conversation I was trying to have with his parents a few weeks ago. I came in on a Saturday, which, of course, proved to be a mistake when I found them bathing Max in a tub of pig blood while wearing owl masks. They were mad, but I just… I didn’t care. I was done.

I wanted to tell them as gently as I could, and at first, it seemed like they were understanding. They told me they knew he could be a handful and thanked me for my time and effort. I walked out without incident.

But then I stopped waking up in my own bed. I started just… appearing at their house with Max leering over me, teeth clenched and frothing at the mouth.

I mean, I think it’s been a few weeks. Maybe it’s been longer? A few months, maybe? It’s all the same. All I know is I haven’t seen his parents in a while, and every time I try to leave, there’s a brick wall behind every door.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’m losing my patience. We’re running low on pig carcasses. Max is getting hungrier and hungrier… I can see it in his eyes.

He’s biting more these days. It used to be almost playful, but now he’s breaking the skin. I have to physically pry his jaws away from my fingers and limbs, and he just keeps growling at me.

He’s also been watching me sleep a lot more recently. I try and stay awake, but he just… I don’t know. It’s like there’s something about this place that makes it impossible.

All in all, this experience has been okay. Just ready to get off is all.

Maybe one of these days. I’m actually kind of hopeful. Because a few days ago, I heard something that sounded like music to my ears.

Someone knocking at the front door.

I opened the door slowly, expecting the brick wall again, but instead… there was a young girl standing on the front porch. She looked… uneasy to see me, to say the least, but she introduced herself nonetheless.

“Hi, uh, I’m Emma… I was just reaching out about the babysitting job?”

I’ve gone back and forth about posting this because I know how ridiculous it sounds, but I genuinely don’t know how else to explain what happened to me. This happened a few months ago when I was staying at my grandma’s house while she was away for a few days. It was an older house, and at night it made all kinds of noises—pipes knocking, the floor creaking, doors shifting whenever the air conditioning came on. I was used to it, so when I heard my grandma call my name from downstairs around 2:13 in the morning, I didn’t think much of it. It sounded exactly like her. Not similar. Exactly. I actually sat up in bed and said, “What?” There was a few seconds of silence, and then I heard her again. “Come downstairs for a second.” I almost got out of bed before remembering that my grandma was staying with my aunt for a few days. I grabbed my phone and checked the last message she had sent me. She had texted me earlier that night saying she was going to bed and that she’d call me the next morning. I just stared at the screen for a minute, trying to convince myself I had imagined the voice. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. Slow footsteps. One step at a time. I locked my bedroom door and called my grandma. She answered after a few rings, sounding half asleep. I whispered, “Grandma, are you in the house?” She immediately said no and asked me why I was asking. Before I could answer, something outside my bedroom door whispered, “Why are you calling her?” I froze. I was staring at the bottom of my bedroom door because I could see a shadow underneath it. Someone—or something—was standing on the other side. My grandma kept asking me what was wrong through the phone, but I couldn't get the words out. Then the thing outside my door started knocking. Three slow knocks. My grandma suddenly said, “Don’t open that door.” I asked her how she knew what was happening. She went completely silent. Then the voice outside changed back into hers. “Sweetheart, open the door. It’s me.” I backed away from the door so fast I nearly fell off the bed. My grandma was still on the phone, and I could hear her breathing. Then the thing outside my bedroom started speaking again, but this time it sounded like me. “Grandma, I’m scared.” My blood went cold. It repeated it again, perfectly copying my voice. Then it started laughing quietly. I stayed in that room until sunrise, sitting against the wall with my phone clutched in my hand. At some point, the footsteps stopped. I never heard the door open. When the sun finally came up, I waited another hour before leaving the room. The hallway was empty. I checked every room downstairs and found nothing. The front door was still locked. Every window was locked. There was no obvious sign that anyone had been inside. I convinced myself it had been some kind of hallucination caused by exhaustion and fear. Then I went into the kitchen and noticed something that made my stomach drop. There were wet footprints on the floor. They started at the back door and led directly toward the stairs. I followed them upstairs. They stopped directly outside my bedroom door. There was one final footprint facing toward my bed. I called my grandma again and told her what I found. She was quiet for a long time before saying something that I still think about whenever I'm alone at night. She said, “I never called you from the house.” I told her I knew. Then she said, “No, honey. I mean I never said your name.” I asked her what she meant. She hesitated before telling me something she hadn't talked about in years. When she was younger, one of her sisters had died in that house. According to my grandma, before she died, her sister had a strange habit of standing outside people's bedrooms late at night and imitating their voices to scare them. My grandma said she hadn't thought about it in decades. I haven't stayed in that house since. But there's one part I didn't notice until the next morning. I had recorded the phone call with my grandma because I wanted proof that I wasn't imagining what happened. When I listened back to it, everything sounded normal at first. Then, about three minutes before the voice outside my door spoke, there was a faint whisper underneath the conversation. It was my voice. Quiet. Almost impossible to hear. It said, “Don’t let it know you can hear it.” I was asleep when the recording started. And I swear to God, I never said those words.

Dad smelled like burned hair and smoke, his face still covered in soot. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

“Is mom making pancakes?” I asked tiredly.

“Judy is. Your mom’s still asleep. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

We walked downstairs together. Judy was standing over the stove wearing an oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Max, Kayla, and Darren sat at the table. They looked just as tired as I felt.

Judy served up her pancakes, and, I won’t lie, they weren’t nearly as good as mom’s, but I gobbled them up regardless. Me and the other kids spent the rest of the morning watching cartoons.

The adults had an air of relief about them. Dad laughed with Jake. Mom and Judy conversed for a while over the world and all things in it. No one ever mentioned the previous night.

Well, Darren tried to. But his mom didn’t allow it. Jake shut it down, too. But it wasn’t awkward. Nobody had to force themselves to move on. We just… did.

Dad showered. Mom rested. The day went on without incident. At some point in the afternoon, we were packing our things into the car again. It wasn’t as urgent this time. If anything, it felt happy. I even found myself excited to finally get back to my own bed.

I slept most of the way home. When I woke up, I actually recognized my surroundings. The old convenience store. The house that burned down last year. Mom and dad held hands lovingly, but didn’t talk much.

We finally got home after the sun went down. Mom was a little hesitant to go inside, but Dad reassured her. She was free now. We were free. I had no idea what it meant, but I could feel his conviction.

Even still, mom made me sleep in their bed that night. Then every night for the next week afterward. Emmy, too.

Dad held me tight. Mom kept her arm draped over my chest. We ate a lot of pancakes in those following days. It kind of felt like Mom was trying to apologize for something, but I didn’t know what.

All I knew was she was putting her all into those breakfasts.

After a while, I was finally able to sleep in my own room again, albeit with the door open. We went back-to-school shopping. I went into 4th grade with an abundance of new clothes and the coolest backpack out of all of my friends.

Life went on.

One year without incident. Then two. Then three. I went through middle school. I graduated high school. I moved away for college a year or so ago. We never had to randomly leave the house again because of some mystery stalker, but dad never stopped looking over his shoulder.

Mom has a full head of grey hair now, but she never lost her beauty. Emmy recently started her last year of middle school. Dad just… he seems to always want to keep his mind occupied.

They never brought up what happened that night. They never brought up the road trip. We visited uncle Jake and Aunt Judy a few times over the years, but the visits were calmer. They were for holidays and special occasions. Not for escape.

I developed a pretty close friendship with Max. We’d talk on the phone all the time. Play video games together. Every time I visited, we were building with those LEGOS he loved so much.

Darren eventually went into the army. Kayla is in her sophomore year of high school now.

Well… she used to be.

They’re all dead now. Everyone except for Darren, at least. I hope that he’s okay after hearing the news. He should be coming home soon.

See, I’m writing this now because of a phone call I got from my dad. I had just gotten home from a long day of classes. I was ready to eat some ramen and unwind, but he called while I was checking the mail.

“Hey, Dan,” he announced solemnly.

“Hey, Dad, how have things been?”

He sighed.

“We’re fine here, buddy, but, uh…”

He paused.

“But what?” I asked expectantly.

“Jake’s house burned down, Dan. He, uh… he didn’t make it.”

He sounded like he was holding back tears. I was shocked.

“What?? What about Aunt Judy?? What about Max or…”

He interrupted.

“They’re… they’re gone, Dan. I’m sorry.”

The news hit me like a truck. I didn’t know Kayla all that well, but Max… Max was like a brother to me. An online brother, but still a brother nonetheless.

“But… no, that doesn’t make sense. Max was just texting me last night. He told me he’d come visit me sometime soon.”

I didn’t want to believe it. Max’s exact words were, “I’ll be seeing you soon, Dan-Man.” I mean, I guess that was the last text he sent me. I didn’t hear from him after that. But still, this couldn’t be happening.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dad choked. “Their funerals are next week. I know you’re busy up there with classes and whatnot, but it’d mean a lot if you could make it.”

“I… I don’t know what to say. Of course, of course. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Dad sniffled. I was about to comfort him when I heard a sound echoing from the background of his call.

knock knock knock

“Hold on, son, let me go answer the door.”

The line went dead. I stood there, still as could be by my mailbox, just… processing. I couldn’t believe what he had just told me. The phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from Dad.

“See you soon, kiddo.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples, attempting to block the tears as I slid my phone back into my pocket. I hadn’t even opened the mailbox yet. I was just… stuck… I guess.

I figured I’d just collect my mail, then go inside and start packing for the long trip home, but when I opened the mailbox… curiosity overwhelmed me.

There was a package inside, buried beneath my regular bills and magazines. It was gift-wrapped like a Christmas present.

I brushed the mail aside and pulled the package out first thing. It was pristinely wrapped. Someone had taken time with this.

I peeled back the tape and began unwrapping. At first, I didn’t recognize what I was seeing, but then it clicked.

It was Jake’s metal lockbox. The one from all those years ago with the pictures of mom and dad. I felt my heart drop a little.

I unlatched the lid and slowly opened the box. What I saw… well… that’s why I’m writing this now.

It was… my Superman stuffy. Dusty and stiff, but it still had my initials written in faded black Sharpie across the tag. But that’s not the thing that worried me.

What worried me… was the note tied around Superman’s torso, written in sloppy, obsessive handwriting…

“Found You.”

My grandmother told me about Heart Eyes when I was young. She said he only comes on Valentine's Day. He only kills couples. I didn't believe her. Why would someone only kill couples?

I'm Sophia. My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather passed a year ago. My grandmother raised me. She is my everything. I work a normal office job. I live a normal life.

Then I met Lucas. At a café. He was charming. A CEO. We exchanged numbers. Three months later, we were a happy couple. My grandmother was happy for us.

Valentine's Day was coming. She warned us again.

"Be careful, Sophia. Heart Eyes is real."

I laughed it off.

"Don't worry, Grandma. Nothing will happen to me."

The day arrived. Lucas booked a mansion for us — Ashford Hall. Private chef. Rose petals. A perfect night.

We arrived. We drank. We danced. We fell asleep in each other's arms.

At 2 AM, I woke up. The bed was empty.

I called Lucas's name. No answer. I walked to the bathroom. The door was slightly open. I pushed it.

Lucas was standing there — but his head was tilted at an unnatural angle. Blood dripped down his neck. His head was cut clean from his body. His eyes were still open.

I couldn't scream. I couldn't move.

A voice came from behind me.

"He didn't feel it."

I turned. A man stood there. His eyes were pale — almost white — like the color had been drained from them.

"Heart Eyes," I whispered.

"He was asleep," he said. "He never woke up."

I ran. I hid in the closet. I tried to call my grandmother. No signal.

I heard him walking outside the closet. I held my breath.

He stopped in front of the closet door.

I knew he could hear me breathing.

I burst out and ran down the hallway, my heels slipping on the marble. He followed — slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

I turned a corner. Locked. Another door. Locked.

I was trapped.

He stood at the end of the hall, watching me.

"Your grandmother warned you," he said.

"You killed Lucas."

He smiled wider.

"I did what I was told."

I grabbed a vase and threw it. He dodged — but it gave me time. I ran into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and turned.

He walked in slowly.

I lunged. He wasn't ready. I drove the knife into his chest — once, twice — until he fell.

He looked up at me, still smiling.

"I'm not the real one."

He died.

I searched his pockets. I found a folded note. On the paper:

"The real Heart Eyes is still out there. I was just following orders."

At the bottom:

"I will always be watching you."

\---
Obsession starts from tomorrow 👀

THE END

I saw the same car in my rearview mirror for 20 minutes. A black sedan with a cracked windshield. Same headlights. Same speed. No matter how fast I drove, it stayed behind me.

I turned into my street. It followed. I parked. It stopped behind me, engine still running.

I ran inside and locked the door. My hands were shaking.

My phone buzzed.

"You forgot your wallet."

I looked down. My wallet was still on the passenger seat of my car. I hadn't touched it. I hadn't left the house with it.

I looked out the window.

The car was empty. The door was open.

But someone was standing at my front door.

Holding my wallet.

I didn't open the door. I pressed my eye to the peephole.

A man stood there — pale, still, his head tilted slightly. His eyes weren't looking at the door. They were looking at the peephole. At me.

He smiled.

"You left this in your car," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm.

I backed away. My phone buzzed again.

"Don't open the door. He's not here for the wallet."

I looked at the screen. The message was from my own number.

I looked back at the peephole.

The man was gone.

But the wallet was on the doorstep.

When I opened the door to grab it, I saw something inside that I hadn't noticed before.

A photograph — of me sleeping.

Taken from inside my room.

In the corner of the photo, a reflection in the mirror. The same man. Standing behind me.

And in the photo, I was smiling.

I had never seen that photograph before.

And I had never smiled like that.

I looked up at the street.

The black sedan was still there.

The engine was running.

And in the driver's seat, the same man was staring at me.

He didn't move. He just waited.

I closed the door. Locked it. Checked every window.

When I looked out again, the car was gone.

But the photograph was still in my hand.

And on the back, a message written in ink:

"You'll see me again. You already have."

Obsession Chapter 3 at 9pm 🕘

Ms. Fiona Crum was the kind of person people in town mostly avoided, though everyone knew her name.

She lived up a hollow on the north end of Blackwood Ridge, and the local rumors pinned her as everything from a harmless soothsayer to a practitioner of heavy black magic.

Just as the sun dipped below the tree line, she came into the Hells Bells Motel looking completely undone.

Despite the thick summer heat, Ms. Fiona was sweltering inside a wool coat, with an object locked tightly under her arm, completely hidden beneath a stained linen sheet.

She checked in alone and demanded the most isolated room on the property.

She was carrying a rather heavy, ornate mirror--an unwanted inheritance from her late sister. It came with two strict terrifying rules:

"Never look into the glass after dark, and always have it covered by dark-thirty!"

Ms. Fiona followed the rules perfectly, yet the mirror was driving her mad.

Every single night she could hear it--a faint frantic scratching sound, clawing like something inside was trying to tear its way through.

Desperate for peace, she tried to destroy it. She swung a heavy hammer against the glass but it bounced off the surface without leaving a scratch.

Panic-stricken, she dragged it across town and threw it into a construction dumpster, driving away with a sigh of relief.

But she made a fatal mistake--she left it behind, uncovered, and when night fell, the mirror anchored itself back to her soul.

When she woke up the next morning, the mirror was resting against the wall in her hallway, wrapped once again in its stained linen sheet.

Realizing she couldn't break it or throw it away, Ms. Fiona knew she had to leave it covered somewhere so someone else would find it. She figured the best place to abandon it was at the Hells Bells Motel.

Her plan was desperate but simple; keep it securely covered, lay it face down on the dresser, and checkout at daybreak. She hoped that whoever cleaned or rented the room would uncover the beautifully ornate framed mirror, and claim it for themselves.

The mirror demanded a victim, and without knowledge to cover the mirror at dark-thirty its new owner would be sucked into the mirror's void with no way out.

Sterling dashed back into the lobby, took back the Room 4 keycard, putting the traveler in Room 12 instead, and slid his key across the counter. "There's been a leak in Room 4 that needs fixing, Sterling muttered, so it's out of commission for a bit." The dark entity had played his live pawn. Sterling refused to let the entity take the life of one of the motel guests--an innocent man.

The guest took the keycard, muttered a quick thanks, and vanished down the corridor at around 4 in the morning, completely oblivious to the narrow skin of his teeth he’d just escaped with.

At this hour, the lobby was clear with nobody in sight, so Sterling retreated into his small back room for some much-needed sleep. Lying there staring up into the shadows, he felt a quiet sense of relief. He'd managed to outsmart that damn entity with his move on the board, and saved the guest from an ugly ending. Satisfied he’d done his part, Sterling lay down on his cot and closed his eyes.

The room was dark and quiet, except for a dim crack of light seeping in where Scurf had nudged his way in from the lobby. The old cat leapt to his usual roosting place atop the chest of drawers. As both had drifted off , the temperature plummeted, turning the air so bitter cold that Sterling’s breath billowed out in thick white plumes.

From beneath the floorboards came a voice like wet gravel grinding inside a throat that hadn't breathed in a hundred years... dark, raspy and dripping with rage.

"Sterling. You cheated," it spat out. Sterling snapped awake. "I had that fool, and you pulled him off the board."

Sterling sat up in shock, and from up on the chest of drawers, Scurf went into high alert--arching his back, his fur standing straight up on end, and his yellow eyes fixated and glowing in the dark room.

​Right in the center of the small room, the old floorboards groaned under a dark, suffocating pressure from below. The dry oak split with a sickening crack, as a jagged, greasy black entity made itself known, rising up, growing bigger as it squeezed up through the hole—a foul-smelling mass of rot overflowing with pure, spiteful malice, as it kept spewing its venom:

"We are sick of you playing lord around here and bringing in uninvited guests the entity snarled, its stench thick enough to choke on. "We want this place dead, dark and silent--and I'm starting with your throat!"

Sterling froze, the blood running cold in his veins.

With a low guttural growl, Scurf, launched off the chest of drawers like a furry missile, slamming that mass of rotten trash mid-air. He landed square on it, his claws digging in like fishhooks and pinning the entity to the split wood while his yellowed teeth clamped deep into its foul, wet throat.

The old tomcat went barnyard wild—chewing, shredding, and ripping that hateful little bastard apart before it could ever lay a single claw on Sterling.

​With a final, gurgling hiss, the black entity dissolved into nothing.

​The moment it died, the oppressive chill vanished, leaving the room lighter and peaceful once again. The broken floorboards groaned, sealing themselves back up tight and smooth.

Sterling let out a slow, heavy sigh of relief, looking at Scurf sitting in the middle of the clean wooden floor, casually licking his chops like he'd just snapped a pesky housefly out of the air.

​"Good boy." 

Read Part IV here.

“How’s our boy doing?”

Ms. Amanda entered the room. I sat back in my chair and watched as she checked Detective Unangenehm’s vitals. She looked at the tray of food that had been placed in front of him and shook her head.

“Why do they keep bringing that in here?” she said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s taken care of,” I said.

She slapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t stay too late.”

“You got it.”

I watched her leave and I turned back to Unangenehm, mercifully comatose. He could wake up tomorrow or a year from tomorrow, but whenever he actually woke up, he was going to have a long road before he approached anything like a normal life.

Unangenehm had barely survived his blood clot. Steck had broken at least a dozen bones in his face when he’d thrown his service weapon into the detective’s face. Doctors had hardly believed he’d regained consciousness long enough to shoot the wayward officer, let alone manage the mechanics of walking over and putting a bullet in his head, but the forensics backed up my statement.

He was going to need a great deal of facial reconstruction, but when he eventually awoke they would call him a hero.

Steck had wound up being one of those self-solving problems. He was on desk duty after a questionable shooting after what should have been a routine traffic stop. The official narrative was that he’d snapped from the pressure of the investigation, his guilt finally becoming too large for him to bear.

The guilt I learned I had to be for an unknown period of time was Joshua. It turned out to not just be a thing he said, inflecting meaning in what more than likely hadn’t been random tones.

Joshua was his son.

Steck had been a widower, raising his son with the help of his ailing mother.

I put on a face every day I went to work. Every day I looked at myself in the mirror. Every day I spent sitting with the hero, Detective Unangenehm, waiting for him to wake from his coma.

Which was as often and for as long as I could. I couldn’t picture the shape anymore and perhaps that was because I didn’t want to. Copies were no doubt in police custody, even if they didn’t know yet that they had murder weapons.

It’s possible that I’ll eventually see one again, but I have the feeling copying one—even if I were inclined to do such a thing—would only be a copy, not an original, if that makes sense on any level.

I’ve been playing with the food on Unangenehm’s plate to pass the time. Nobody eats it and eventually somebody comes and takes it away.

He’s had a variety of meals, including soups, fish filet with broccoli and rice, something I’d guess was single-layer lasagna, apples and chicken with broccoli and rice, green beans casserole with sliced almonds, but most often, it’s sandwiches with chips. 

I eat the chips and it’s really just the building blocks of a sandwich and I suppose the patient can assemble it themselves or eat it piecemeal.

I’ve started putting the sandwiches together. At first I didn’t have a conscious reason why. It’s like I can feel Unangenehm in there, slowly swimming to the surface.

His doctors have him at a six on the Glasgow Scale, but I don’t know what that means. He responds to pain stimulus (you should see the look of satisfaction of this one doctor’s face when he sticks him with a pin—the cops would arrest her on site for assault) and he makes nonsensical sounds.

I was ready to jump put the window when I thought I heard him say, “Joshua.” But he didn’t repeat it and he’s been sedentary so long, even if he went coo coo for cocoa puffs, he’d be weak as a baby.

I’m distracting myself even now, thinking instead of paying attention to what I’m doing. I set aside the packet of mayo and lay the slice of bread just so and look at the sandwich.

It’s not right. But it’s close.

I think I’ll have it just right for Unangenehm’s first meal.

​It was past two in the morning, a quiet shift where the motel neon hummed right outside the lobby window. Sterling was sitting behind the front desk when the doorbell clinked.

​A traveler stepped inside, shaking rain off his jacket, looking pale and half-asleep. He walked up to the counter, pulled a soaked twenty out of his pocket, and slid it across.

​"Hey," the guy said, rubbing his eyes. "Fellow out by the ice machine told me you had a bed available. Said to ask for Room 4."

​Sterling’s hand froze over the registration ledger. ​His stomach dropped into a hard knot. Room 4 wasn't just a room. On the grid mapped out in his head—and on the board back in his living quarters—Room 4 was the exact square holding the line.

​"Guy by the ice machine?" Sterling asked, keeping his voice dead steady.

​"Yeah. Tall fella in a dark coat. Said Room 4 was the only one worth a damn tonight."

​Sterling didn't say another word. He tossed the guy a key envelope, told him to sit tight, and pushed through the heavy wooden door into his back quarters.

​The air in his back quarters room was cold enough to raise the hair on his arms. Sterling stepped up to the table and looked down at the board.

​There it was.

​Without a sound, without a trace, a black pawn had been pushed directly onto the square matching Room 4. Spook hadn't attacked Sterling's Bishop head-on. He’d slipped an innocent human life right into the line of fire.

​If Sterling kept his Bishop where it was to protect his own position, the poor bastard in Room 4 was going to take the hit. If he moved the Bishop to save the guy, his whole defense cracked wide open.​

Sterling stared down at the polished wood pawn, his chest tightening as the realization hit.

Tucked neatly underneath the base was a small, torn corner of notebook paper;, scrawled in thin, pitch-black ink was a single word:

"​Check."

​

Part 1

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/3pjlA6yALo

Part 2

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/g3LXpw7ZuX

Part 3

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/R319VfoEx1

Part 4

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/HpLq1gjR99

Part 5

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/vXpLanqpq7

Part 6

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/ACOsKcvJXq

Part 7

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/M9B9TEtpgo

Part 8

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/X6XmC0U2ge

Part 9

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/cUOXOmIb5v

Part 10

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/oiYVIRqnSv

Part 11

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/daAdTa6XR2

Part 12

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/XDs20zNnSN

Part 13

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/mLoxzuCwcQ

Part 14

https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/xeNlWiZ4u5

The lift doors slammed shut.

For three seconds, nobody moved.

Then Kevin slowly turned towards Dave.

Dave looked at us.

Then at the lift.

Then at his phone.

On the screen, one sentence glowed.

Suggested narrator: DAVE.

Underneath it, another line appeared.

Story transfer accepted.

Dave swallowed.

“I didn’t accept anything.”

Kevin stared at him.

“Dave.”

“What?”

“You have never successfully declined a terms-and-conditions box in your life.”

“That feels unfair.”

“You once clicked ‘allow all’ on a toaster.”

“It had Bluetooth.”

“It did not need your location.”

Dave looked down.

“Wasn’t me.”

The lift display lit up.

CORRECTION: IT WAS DAVE.

Dave’s face fell.

“Oh no.”

The complaint kiosk printed:

NARRATIVE AUTHORITY TRANSFERRED.

Then:

QUALITY WARNING.

Kevin pointed at the kiosk.

“Even the haunted complaint printer is worried.”

Derek stood beside Dave, reading over his shoulder.

“What happens if Dave narrates?”

Nobody answered.

Then Dave’s mouth opened.

He did not speak.

Not exactly.

Words came out of him, but they also came from the walls, the ceiling, the lift, the radiator, the complaint kiosk, and somewhere deep inside my own skull.

Dave said:

“It was a normal night.”

Riverside Court changed.

The lobby became calm.

Clean.

Warm.

Normal.

No black mould.

No cracked noticeboard.

No haunted kiosk.

No ghost refugees.

No duplicate Lindas.

No Ken.

No Kevin.

Just a quiet residential lobby with a reasonably unpleasant carpet.

Kevin looked down at himself.

He was wearing a hi-vis vest.

He stared.

“What the hell is this?”

Dave continued:

“Kevin was there, being normal.”

Kevin’s faded tracksuit vanished.

In its place appeared beige chinos, brown shoes and a polo shirt with BUILDING ASSISTANT embroidered on the chest.

Derek screamed.

Kevin screamed louder.

Linda covered her mouth.

Flat 3 dropped the frying pan.

Kevin looked at his shoes.

Brown shoes.

With beige chinos.

His face emptied.

“Kill me.”

Derek pointed at him, crying laughing.

“You look like you ask people to use coasters.”

Kevin grabbed his own polo shirt.

“Dave, stop narrating.”

Dave looked terrified.

“I don’t know how!”

The complaint kiosk printed:

COMPLAINT RECEIVED: KEVIN OUTFIT VIOLATION.

Kevin kicked it.

His kick made a sensible little tap.

He looked down at the brown shoes.

“I have lost all threat.”

Dave said:

“And Derek was clever.”

Derek straightened.

“Oh.”

Nothing happened.

Dave frowned.

“I said Derek was clever.”

The building remained unchanged.

Kevin looked at him.

“Even reality refused that one.”

Derek looked offended.

“I got out of an app.”

“You also subscribed to it twice.”

“Under pressure.”

Dave’s voice came again, louder this time:

“And Derek was clever.”

A pair of glasses appeared on Derek’s face.

He blinked.

Then immediately walked into the postboxes.

Kevin nodded.

“That’s about right.”

Linda stepped towards Dave.

“Dave, listen carefully. Do not describe anything.”

Dave covered his mouth.

His eyes widened.

The lift display changed:

NARRATOR MUST CONTINUE.

Dave’s hands were pulled away from his mouth by invisible fingers.

He squeaked.

The voice came out again.

“The building was definitely fine.”

The walls bulged.

Something behind them groaned.

Kevin stared.

“Never say definitely.”

“The building was probably fine.”

The walls settled slightly.

Then something knocked from inside the floor.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Dave whispered:

“Mostly fine.”

A crack opened in the carpet.

Black liquid bubbled up.

Derek pointed.

“Mostly fine has consequences.”

The liquid spread into letters.

DEFINE NORMAL.

Dave panicked.

“Normal is when nothing weird happens and everyone is okay and no one has to use the lift.”

The whole building shuddered.

The lift dinged angrily.

Kevin pointed at it.

“Even now, the lift’s offended.”

Linda’s clipboard snapped open.

A warning appeared.

DAVE NARRATION CAUSING REALITY SIMPLIFICATION.

Then another.

IMPRECISION DETECTED.

Linda looked at Dave.

“You have to be precise.”

Dave stared at her.

“I am not a precise person.”

Kevin gestured down at his beige chinos.

“We had noticed.”

The air rippled.

Dave’s words were still moving through the building.

Trying to make things normal.

Trying to make things fine.

The problem was Dave had no stable definition of either.

The lobby flickered between versions.

Clean lobby.

Haunted lobby.

Clean lobby.

Haunted lobby.

A version where Flat 5 had no spoon.

A version where Flat 3 smiled politely.

A version where Linda wore a customer-service headset.

A version where Derek had a certificate that said CLEVER BOY.

Kevin pointed at that one.

“No.”

The certificate burst into flames.

Derek looked wounded.

“Could have let me have it for a second.”

“No.”

The complaint kiosk printed:

NEW ISSUE: NARRATIVE REALITY COLLAPSE.

Then:

CAUSE: DAVE.

Dave whispered:

“I’m sorry.”

The lift display changed:

CORRECTION: DAVE WAS SORRY, BUT THAT DID NOT HELP.

Kevin stared at it.

“Brutal.”

Dave’s eyes filled.

“I’m trying.”

That made the lobby stop flickering.

Just for a moment.

Because it was true.

Not clean.

Not useful.

Not funny.

True.

The Publisher did not seem to like true when it came from Dave by accident.

The lights dimmed.

My phone buzzed.

So did everyone else’s.

A new message appeared:

NARRATIVE QUALITY BELOW THRESHOLD.

AUTO-ASSIST ENABLED.

Dave’s face went slack.

“No.”

His eyes turned black.

Not completely.

Just the pupils spreading wider and wider until they filled the whites.

His mouth opened.

The voice that came out was still Dave’s.

But polished.

Confident.

Narrator Dave.

“Everything had been Dave’s fault.”

Our Dave shook his head.

“No.”

But his mouth continued:

“He had always known this.”

The lobby changed again.

Every stain on the carpet became Dave’s name.

Every crack in the wall pointed towards him.

Every broken thing in Riverside Court slid across the floor and gathered around his feet.

Plant pot.

Toaster.

Smoke alarm.

Flat 5’s old parcel label.

A burnt pizza box.

A dead phone.

A bent spoon.

A cracked mirror.

A hospital tag.

A yellow smile badge from Cheerful Pines.

A broken clipboard.

Things Dave had done.

Things Dave had seen.

Things Dave had never touched.

All piling around him.

The polished voice continued:

“Dave was the kind of man who ruined things quietly.”

Dave’s breathing became ragged.

Kevin stepped towards him.

The brown shoes squeaked.

Kevin stopped.

Looked down.

“Absolutely humiliating.”

Then continued anyway.

The polished Dave voice said:

“He broke plants. He left ovens on. He ignored leaks. He took parcels. He said ‘wasn’t me’ until the world believed him.”

Dave whispered:

“Some of that’s true.”

Kevin reached him.

“Some.”

The voice continued:

“So when the residents needed someone to blame, Dave was useful.”

The pile of objects at Dave’s feet rose.

Not floating.

Climbing.

The broken things crawled up his legs.

The pizza box folded around one shin.

The plant stem wrapped around his wrist.

The smoke alarm pressed itself to his chest.

The yellow smile badge stuck to his forehead.

The bent spoon slid towards his throat.

Flat 5 shouted:

“Not the spoon!”

Kevin grabbed it and yanked.

It came free with a wet pop.

Flat 5 took it from him, horrified.

“This spoon has seen things.”

Dave’s polished narrator voice continued:

“Dave did not deserve saving.”

Kevin snapped:

“Wrong.”

The building paused.

The voice repeated:

“Dave did not deserve saving.”

Kevin grabbed Dave by the shoulders.

“Wrong.”

The walls shook.

The Publisher was trying to force the line through.

Dave’s mouth opened wider.

His jaw clicked.

“Dave did not deserve...”

Kevin slapped him.

Again, not hard.

Emotionally.

Dave blinked.

His eyes cleared for half a second.

“Ow.”

Kevin pointed at him.

“You do not get to narrate yourself as disposable.”

Dave’s lips twitched.

“That’s a big word for me.”

“I know. I’m proud.”

The polished voice surged again.

“Dave was comic relief.”

Kevin shouted:

“No, that’s me!”

Derek said:

“I thought you rejected that.”

“I did, but not for Dave.”

The objects tightened around Dave.

His body flickered.

A label appeared over him.

BLAME SINK

Linda stepped forward.

“No.”

Her clipboard glowed.

“Dave is not a blame sink. He is a resident.”

The Publisher replied through Dave:

“Resident function: absorb consequences.”

Linda’s face hardened.

“Rejected.”

The lift dinged.

The doors opened.

Inside was the blank page again.

The pen floated in the centre.

Black ink dripping.

The Publisher’s voice whispered:

“Improve the chapter.”

The pen flew out of the lift.

Straight towards Dave.

Kevin grabbed it.

Bad idea.

The moment he touched it, ink shot up his arm.

His beige outfit vanished.

Thank God.

His tracksuit returned.

Two trainers.

Faded.

Furious.

But words began writing across his skin.

Kevin tried to save Dave, but—

Kevin clamped his other hand over the sentence.

“No buts.”

The pen dragged forward, pulling him towards Dave.

Derek grabbed Kevin around the waist.

“Got you!”

Kevin looked back.

“You weigh nothing emotionally.”

Derek dug his heels into the carpet.

“I am full of carbs.”

Flat 3 grabbed Derek.

Flat 5 grabbed Flat 3.

Amanda grabbed Flat 5.

Linda grabbed Amanda.

Ken grabbed Linda.

The freed Lindas grabbed Ken.

George grabbed one of the Lindas.

The cutlery drawer opened and Maureen’s ghostly hand grabbed George’s sleeve.

The man in the printer shouted:

“I CAN’T GRAB BUT I SUPPORT!”

The whole building became one ridiculous chain of resistance.

The pen kept pulling.

Dave stood at the front of it all, half-wrapped in broken objects, mouth open, trying not to speak.

The Publisher whispered:

“Say it.”

Dave shook his head.

“Say the line.”

His mouth trembled.

Kevin shouted:

“Dave, say literally anything else.”

Dave looked panicked.

“I don’t know words!”

“Any words!”

Dave squeezed his eyes shut.

Then shouted:

“THE LIFT IS BAD!”

Everything stopped.

The pen froze.

The Publisher hesitated.

Kevin blinked.

“Surprisingly strong opening.”

Dave shouted again:

“The lift is bad and we should have used the stairs more!”

The building groaned.

The lift doors shuddered.

Dave kept going.

“I don’t know why we kept going in it! Every time it opens, something awful happens! Court! Hospital! Retirement home! Office! Weird page thing! At no point has anyone gone, ‘Maybe let’s not get in the murder cupboard!’”

Derek nodded violently.

“I’ve been saying this.”

Kevin shouted:

“You have been saying this for two chapters.”

Dave pointed at the lift.

“It is not transport. It is a vertical trauma machine.”

The lift display flickered.

UNFAIR CHARACTERISATION.

Dave shouted:

“No!”

The word hit the lobby like thunder.

The lift display cracked.

Dave’s voice grew stronger.

“It never takes us to Tesco. It never takes us to the car park. It never takes us anywhere with normal lighting and a meal deal. It just opens into emotional damage with buttons.”

Kevin looked genuinely moved.

“That’s poetry, mate.”

Dave turned towards the blank page inside the lift.

“And another thing. I am not the cause of everything.”

The objects around him loosened.

“I broke the plant. I left the oven on. I took the parcel. I denied stuff. That was me.”

The pen twitched.

“But I did not build the lift.”

The lift lights flickered.

“I did not make the ghost app.”

The blank page rippled.

“I did not trap Kevin.”

Kevin’s grip on the pen loosened slightly.

“I did not clone Linda.”

Linda nodded.

“Correct.”

“I did not steal Amanda’s voice.”

Amanda said softly:

“Correct.”

“I did not make Flat 5’s spoon weird.”

Flat 5 raised the bent spoon.

“Complicated, but accepted.”

“I did not create Platform.”

Dave looked at the page.

His voice shook.

“But I am here.”

The pen stopped pulling.

Dave swallowed.

“And I am trying to help.”

Silence.

Then the complaint kiosk printed:

STATEMENT QUALITY: IMPROVED.

Kevin smiled.

“Look at that. Structure.”

Dave looked like he might cry.

The Publisher did not.

The blank page inside the lift darkened.

The pen ripped itself from Kevin’s hand and flew back into the white space.

Words appeared across the page.

Dave’s narration was rejected.

Dave exhaled.

Then more words appeared.

Replacement narrator required.

Everyone stepped back.

Even Kevin.

Especially Kevin.

The pen hovered.

Searching.

It pointed at Linda.

Her clipboard snapped shut defensively.

“No.”

The pen pointed at Derek.

Derek held up both hands.

“Legally, I cannot be trusted.”

The pen pointed at Kevin.

Kevin pointed back.

“Try me and I’ll mispronounce every metaphor.”

The pen pointed at Amanda.

She shook her head.

“No, thank you.”

The pen pointed at Flat 3.

She raised the frying pan.

It moved on.

The pen pointed at Flat 5.

He held up the spoon.

It moved on faster.

The pen pointed at Ken.

Ken smiled.

“Choose me.”

Kevin stared.

“Why would you offer?”

Ken shrugged.

“I want to see what happens.”

“That is villain-adjacent behaviour.”

“Brother-ish.”

“Don’t.”

The pen hovered between us all.

Then turned.

Slowly.

Towards the complaint kiosk.

The kiosk printed:

NO.

The pen moved closer.

The kiosk printed faster.

NO.

NO.

NO.

COMPLAINT RECEIVED: UNWANTED CREATIVE RESPONSIBILITY.

The pen touched the kiosk.

The lights went out.

When they came back, the complaint kiosk was in the middle of the lobby.

A piece of paper slid from its slot.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

Kevin leaned down and read it.

His face changed.

“What?”

He tore the paper off.

It contained one line.

Dear Sir/Madam,

Linda’s eyes widened.

“Oh no.”

Another line printed.

I am writing to formally complain about the narrative direction of this incident.

Derek stared.

“The kiosk is narrating in complaint format.”

Kevin looked at me.

“This might be our finest hour.”

The lobby changed.

Not randomly this time.

Administratively.

Everything became evidence.

The broken toaster sat beneath a label:

Exhibit A: Unwanted Object Manifestation

The bent spoon:

Exhibit B: Cutlery Distress

Dave:

Exhibit C: Resident Under Duress

Kevin:

Exhibit D: Inappropriately Dressed Ghost, Corrected

Kevin frowned.

“Why bring that back up?”

The kiosk continued printing.

The respondent, hereafter referred to as The Publisher, has repeatedly imposed unsafe narrative expectations upon residents, including but not limited to: forced pacing, involuntary role simplification, near-erasure of supporting individuals, and unacceptable lift escalation.

Linda looked genuinely emotional.

“This is beautifully structured.”

Kevin nodded.

“Kiosk has bars.”

The Publisher’s blank page flickered.

The pen tried to write over the complaint.

The kiosk printed faster.

Furthermore, the lift has been permitted to operate without adequate risk assessment despite repeated incidents of supernatural misdirection, traumatic destination substitution, and one confirmed Linda factory.

Derek raised both arms.

“Yes!”

The lift display changed:

LIFT FUNCTIONING WITHIN EXPECTED PARAMETERS.

The kiosk printed:

Expected by whom?

The lift went silent.

Kevin whispered:

“Kiosk just bodied the lift.”

Dave wiped his eyes.

“I feel heard.”

The complaint continued.

Residents have repeatedly expressed a preference for stairs. These preferences were ignored, undermined or rendered impossible through hostile architecture, emotional stairwell manipulation and misleading biscuit claims.

Linda nodded.

“The biscuit claim was especially egregious.”

Kevin pointed at her.

“You paused.”

“I assessed.”

“You lusted for lift biscuits.”

“I did not.”

The kiosk printed:

Disputed.

Linda glared at it.

“Careful.”

The Publisher’s page shook.

The pen scratched:

The complaint was too long.

The kiosk instantly printed:

Objection: brevity is not a virtue when harm is complex.

Flat 3 whispered:

“It’s Linda as a printer.”

Kevin looked delighted and horrified.

The blank page inside the lift began to tear.

The Publisher did not like being forced into complaint procedure.

The kiosk printed:

Requested resolution: immediate suspension of narrator reassignment, restoration of resident autonomy, full disclosure of publication pathways, and installation of a lift warning sign using plain language.

The lift display flickered.

Then changed to:

LIFT — PRIMARY TRANSITIONAL ACCESS POINT

The kiosk printed:

Plain language.

The display flickered again.

LIFT — MAY OPEN INTO PROBLEMS

Kevin shook his head.

“Not strong enough.”

The kiosk printed:

Try again.

The lift display buzzed.

Then:

LIFT — PROBABLY CURSED

Derek clapped once.

Then froze.

“Was that consent?”

Everyone waited.

Nothing happened.

Kevin nodded.

“Acceptable clap.”

The blank page inside the lift darkened further.

The Publisher’s voice came through the walls.

“You are reducing engagement.”

Linda said:

“We are improving safety.”

“Safety reduces reach.”

Kevin stepped forward.

“Reach this.”

He kicked the lift.

Both trainers hit the doors.

The sign flickered.

LIFT — PROBABLY CURSED

Then added:

USE STAIRS IF YOU HAVE ANY SELF-RESPECT

Derek looked at Kevin.

“Did you add that?”

Kevin smiled.

“Maybe.”

The Publisher screamed.

The blank page folded in on itself.

The pen snapped in half.

Ink sprayed across the lift interior.

For a second, we saw something behind the page.

Not the Editor.

Not the Publisher.

A printing press.

Massive.

Black iron.

Old and wet.

Its rollers turned slowly, squeezing paper through with a sound like bones being flattened.

Pages emerged from it.

Stories.

Thousands.

Millions.

Each one with people trapped between the lines.

The Publisher had not been a person.

It was a machine.

A distribution engine.

A thing that took pain, polished it, printed it and sent it where it would hurt best.

The complaint kiosk printed one final line.

Formal complaint submitted.

Then:

Awaiting response.

The lift doors slammed shut.

The lobby went still.

Dave stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard.

No broken objects clung to him.

No label above his head.

No narrator voice.

Just Dave.

Kevin walked over.

Still himself.

No beige chinos.

Thank God.

“You did good.”

Dave looked at him.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Dave’s eyes filled.

Kevin pointed at him.

“One tear limit still applies.”

Dave nodded.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Then another.

Kevin sighed.

“Fine. Two because you insulted the lift.”

Derek sat on the stairs.

“So the kiosk beat the Publisher by writing a complaint?”

Linda looked proud.

“Complaints are powerful when correctly evidenced.”

Kevin looked at her.

“That sentence is going on your tombstone.”

“I do not intend to need one.”

“None of us intended half of this.”

Flat 5 inspected his bent spoon.

“It survived narrative dismissal.”

Flat 3 sat beside him.

“We all did.”

Amanda leaned against the wall, exhausted.

Ken watched the lift.

He did not look relaxed.

Neither did JON-001, who had reappeared near the stairwell without anyone noticing.

Which was unsettling, but at this point if someone appeared quietly without teeth, forms or a jar, I considered it polite.

JON-001 looked at me.

“You stopped the narrator transfer.”

“For now?”

He nodded.

“For now.”

Kevin groaned.

“Can we have one permanent win?”

The complaint kiosk printed:

REQUEST DENIED.

Kevin kicked it.

The kiosk printed:

EXPECTED.

Linda picked up the complaint copy and read it again.

“There will be a response.”

Derek frowned.

“From the Publisher?”

“From whatever handles complaints against the Publisher.”

Everyone slowly looked at the lift.

The cursed sign flickered.

USE STAIRS IF YOU HAVE ANY SELF-RESPECT

Dave raised his hand.

“Are we actually going to use the stairs from now on?”

“Yes,” said everyone.

The lift dinged.

Everyone shouted:

“NO.”

The doors opened anyway.

Inside was not a blank page.

Not a corridor.

Not a courtroom.

It was a mailroom.

An old one.

Dim.

Dusty.

Full of sacks.

Thousands of letters stacked to the ceiling.

Each envelope addressed in black ink.

The nearest sack split.

Letters spilled out onto the lift floor.

One slid into the lobby.

Linda picked it up.

Her face changed.

“What?”

She turned it around.

The envelope was addressed to:

RIVERSIDE COURT RESIDENTS

Underneath:

RE: FORMAL COMPLAINT AGAINST THE PUBLISHER

Kevin looked at the postmark.

It was dated thirty years in the future.

Derek leaned in.

“What does it say?”

Linda opened it.

Inside was a single page.

She read aloud:

Dear Sir/Madam,

Kevin whispered:

“Oh, we’re through the looking glass now.”

Linda continued:

Thank you for your complaint. Unfortunately, the Publisher ceased operations before your complaint could be processed. Responsibility for all unresolved narrative harms has been transferred to Archive and Legacy Systems.

JON-001 went very still.

The page continued:

Please direct further correspondence to: The Library.

The lift doors opened wider.

Beyond the mailroom, shelves appeared.

Endless shelves.

Not like the witness archive.

Bigger.

Older.

Every shelf filled with books.

Every book moving slightly, as if breathing.

From somewhere inside came the sound of pages turning by themselves.

Then a voice whispered:

“Overdue.”

Kevin stared.

“No.”

Derek looked at him.

“Library?”

Kevin’s face was grave.

“Worse than lift.”

Dave whispered:

“Should’ve used the stairs.”

Kevin nodded slowly.

“Mate, at this point we should’ve moved to a bungalow.”

The lights in the mailroom went out.

One by one.

A book slid across the lift floor and landed at our feet.

The cover was blank.

Then words burned into it.

THE KEVIN FILES

Underneath:

UNAUTHORISED EDITION

The book opened.

A page turned.

Then another.

Then stopped at a chapter title none of us had seen before.

Final Chapter: Fire Safety and Other Lies

Linda frowned.

“Fire safety?”

The stairwell alarm began to ring.

Not the lift.

The stairs.

Red light flooded the lobby.

The cursed lift sign flickered.

Then changed.

STAIRS COMPROMISED

Kevin closed his eyes.

Derek whispered:

“No.”

Smoke curled under the stairwell door.

The Library whispered from inside the lift:

“Return the book.”

The fire alarm screamed.

Dave looked at the lift.

Then the stairs.

Then Kevin.

“Both are bad now.”

Kevin nodded.

“Character development for architecture.”

The book at our feet turned another page by itself.

A sentence appeared in fresh black ink.

They had spent so long fearing the lift that they forgot every building needs a way out.

The stairwell door began to burn.