r/anxietypilled

That's what they call them.

"The Sun Swellers".

Sounds pretty badass for some creature that's the result of earth roasting like a rotisserie chicken. I personally would have given them a more fearful name, just so we're constantly reminded of what's happening. Not that I could list you any, I'm not a very creative person.

None of these scientists can really do anything about it. We aren't capable of producing a ship strong enough to withhold being that close to the surface of the sun.

We aren't even sure what these fuckers look like, just that they are MASSIVE. I imagine giant leeches that suction onto the side of the sun we can't see, and move to the other side when it's about to show itself to Earth. They don't want to be seen, which creeps me out even more.

It's been about a week or two since we found out about these things, and we found them by "listening" to the sun. I won't bore you with the details, considering I don't know them much myself, but basically the sun sounded different compared to how it used too. And they did some math and concluded that there must be giant lumps of something hiding on the surface.

We don't know if they're feeding, giving to the sun, or even mating on the sun. But we know that they are responsible for the sun swelling. Thinking about this is stressing me out all over again. My thoughts are scattered, and I need a drink to calm my nerves. I walk over to my fridge, navigating through the mounds of garbage that line my trailer. The smell is sickening, and my nose is begging for mercy.

Once I wiggle my way through, I grab a beer from the fridge and sit at the kitchen table. This shit is fucking embarrassing. I thought, sipping on my beer. It's not my garbage lining the hallways, It's my mothers. She got into a pretty gnarly accident a couple years ago, paralyzed her, got into a coma, woke up, and ever since she came home she's turned into some sort of hoarder. I try to take out the trash, but she yells at me when I do.

I can't leave her, she won't last on her own. I love her so much, but it destroys me to see her like this. I stand up and walk outside onto our porch. The cold night winter air fills my lungs and it has never felt so good. The last winter, huh? I thought, sipping my beer. The scientists estimated that the sun would grow large enough to cook the earth in about 2 days.

And that estimate might be wrong. I got no job, but I do consider myself smart. By my math, we have less than a week. We might only have a day, possibly even hours. The rate of the sun's expansion is rising so fast, that it's impossible to actually know. I don't blame them for trying to instill some hope in us surviving somehow. But I've come to peace with the truth.

I worm my way back to my couch, I move a garbage bag out of the way, and sit down. I flicker on the TV, and switch it to the news channel. My blood runs cold. I watch as the news shows hundreds of thousands of tiny black pods descend upon the Earth. Some don't manage to reach, and get caught in an orbit, giving Earth a black ring. The obviously panicked news anchor explains that these pods came out from behind the sun, and shot directly towards us.

The atmosphere isn't burning them up, which twists my stomach even more than it already was. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as the screen switches to the news anchor himself, sweating profusely but swearing that everything is okay. I scoff when he says that, and right as I go to change the channel, the power cuts out.

Great, they hit the powerlines. I get up with a groan, and my back tweaks, causing a louder groan. I peek my head down the hallway.

"Are you alright mom?" I yell out.

Silence.

"Mom?" I yell again.

Nothing.

My eyes go wide and I start to scamper over, turning around halfway through to get a flashlight. tumbling over mounds and mounds of trash. Although it's a short distance, I'm out of breath by the time I reach her door. I practically kick the door down and run in worriedly, shining the light in her face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you boy?" My mom grumbled, setting down her book.

"Me? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Even though I was a grown man, I flinched at the look she gave me.

I cleared my throat.

"Sorry, but why didn't you say anything when I called your name? You fuckin' scared me!"

"I didn't hear ya." She said, picking her book back up.

I scoffed and walked out of her room, going to check on the breaker next. A giant boom followed by a shockwave that shakes the trailer and sends me flying into the piles of garbage nearly makes me piss myself. I quickly throw the trash off and sprint right back to my moms room opening the door.

"Fuck off boy, they're just choppin' trees nearby. Let me enjoy some literature before I burn to a fuckin' crisp!" She didn't bother to look at me.

Chopping trees down when the world is gonna burn in a couple hours? Unlikely.

"God forbid I care about you..." I mumbled, shutting the door and walking away.

Fuck the breaker, I'm just gonna go outside. The stench is getting to me and I'm gonna vomit if I spend another minute in here. I grab my coat and boots, swing the door open and step outside, slamming it behind me. Just so the universe knows I'm upset. I reach into my coat pocket and take out a cigarette. I bring it to my mouth and as I try to convince my dying lighter to light up one more time, I see something in my peripheral dart. I glance over but see nothing.

Just a rabbit. I lit my cigarette and chucked my lighter into our dumpster. Could refill it, but I don't really care at this point. I lean against the banister and take a drag. I take out my phone to scroll on Instagram, but then I see it again. But this time it did it in front of me. I stared upwards and glared at the tree that I knew it was behind. Without taking my eyes off the tree, I walk backwards towards the door, open it, and reach for the shotgun just off to the side.

"Mom, stay inside okay?" I yell, knowing she probably isn't listening anyways.

I grasp the shotgun, and shut the door behind me. It still hasn't moved. I slowly walk forward, but stop about 10 feet away.

"Show yourself!" I yell, and steady my shotgun.

I hear the snow crunch behind the tree as whatever it is shifts around. But before I can say anything, it darts behind another tree, this one only about 5 feet away. The fear that now took over my body is almost indescribable. I didn't even see what it was, but just the thought of anything being that fast scared me.

I started to retreat slowly back towards my trailer. I noticed that the night sky was now turning to day. It was only 3 am, and the sun wasn't in the sky. I started trembling and right as I glanced upwards, I heard snow crunch, and then a warm sensation started to drip down. I felt like I was peeing my pants, but when I glanced down to my stomach, all I see is a giant claw mark, gushing blood. I fall to my knees. I fumble for my phone and manage to dial 911 before tumbling down into the snow.

I couldn't hear what the lady on the phone was saying, was it even English? The snow around me became soft and pillowy, it had never felt so comfortable. My thoughts, as well as my vision, became muddled. Yet, there was still a noticeable voice in the back of my mind. Slightly muffled by the sirens in my head lulling me to a final slumber, but it was still there, screaming at me to help my mother. It would come for her next. I knew that, yet... all I wanted to do was sleep.

But I couldn't.

We were all gonna fucking die anyways, but I'll be damned if I let my mother or myself die to this fucking creature from space. As I crawled vigorously to the steps, I noticed the snow around me was beginning to melt slowly, and I glanced up to the sky turning to a dark orange colour. I gritted my teeth and stood up, my body was failing, but I can't let it. I went up the stairs, one hardly fought step at a time. I tried to yell for my mother, but nothing came out other than blood. I slammed open the door, and stumbled towards her bedroom.

Navigating the trash piles now was harder than ever. My blood was pooling on the slippery plastic bags, causing me to faceplant into the mess. I can't bring myself to stand, so I drag myself across the garbage. Something sharp in one of the bags snags on my open wound, and cuts it open even more.

The pain is unbearable, but I must keep going. It's not until I reach my mothers door that I look back and realize that my intestines are dragging behind me. The sight freaks me out, but I got to hold on. Inside the trailer it's boiling, and the trash is cooking, the smell makes me vomit on the floor.

I hear a window smash, as I desperately reach up to the handle and open her door. I can only watch as my mom kicks and screams against the thing as it drags her out of the window, the broken glass that was left slices her throat open as she is dragged away. I barely even react on the outside, but on the inside I was sobbing.

I crawled all the way here for jack shit. In my last attempt to spare myself from cooking, I use all of my strength to heave the shotgun underneath my chin. I pull the trigger but hear a click. I forgot to put a shell in, and they're all the way back at the front door.

I manage to actually let out a sob, as I drop the shotgun while my eyes start to close. The heat is starting to cook my skin, and I can see it char. All I can do now is go to sleep, and pray that I see my mother again.

I know I said I came to peace with it, but I'm terrified.

August Hancock rested in his favorite chair, remote hanging loosely in his hand. It had gotten late enough in the evening that the local television stations had slipped into static, the black and white specs dancing across his screen. He didn’t mind, he always found the sound calming.

August had been living on his own for so long now, any amount of noise was welcome. Phone and internet companies hadn’t quite reached his neck of the woods which left him relying on his spotty at best cellphone service for contact with the outside world. Running a hand through his salt and pepper hair, he sighs deeply. He argued with his kids about even having the phone, thinking it wouldn't get good reception up here anyway. Now it was just a reminder that no one calls.

He'd complain about how isolated the house felt at times, but he preferred solitude. He could live without amenities if he had peace and quiet. After his wife died, day to day life started to feel too busy. The city, once full of life, now felt like it was moving too fast. When everything was sorted, no one wanted the house. No one could live there after Angelas stroke. Him and the kids were getting home from one of their camping trips, him having them unpack the car while he headed in to tell her they were back. She wasn't much of a camper, perfectly happy to stay behind when him and the kids wanted to "rough it." He knew something was wrong when he saw her laying down in the middle of the kitchen.

The doctors reassured him she didn't feel anything, not that it made going back to the house any easier. That was their last real camping trip that August could remember, any after felt more like going through the motions. The kids had been forced to grow up, the magic was gone. He made sure they all got shares, using his portion to buy a cabin on his favorite mountain. He was grateful the sale could cover giving them each a nest egg while still being able to afford somewhere minutes from his favorite memories. Close to the places he took the kids when they were younger, listening to the rivers he taught them to fish in. He missed when they loved this place as much as he did. 

August contemplated flipping channels, now eyeing his cellphone sitting on the coffee table. He could feel the weight, the itch to check if any of them had called or texted.  A futile ritual. As usual he has 0 notifications, choosing to blame the lone bar of reception the phone was showing. It was always easier to blame the cell towers then face the truth. He sent a few small messages telling them he was thinking of them, loved them, and hoped he'd see them soon. Not waiting to make sure the messages sent, he locked his phone and tried to distract himself with domestic duties. Collecting old dishes and a few pieces of trash, he walked into the kitchen to deposit it all in the sink. His stomach let out a weak growl. Taking a hungry man TV dinner out, he gently removed the packaging and set the timer. He cracked open a can of Rainier and drank deeply. He was determined to have a good night. August had never been the kind of guy to let himself get lost in his own head.

He walked over to his coat rack, feeling around his pockets for his cigarettes. The kids would never forgive him for starting up again. It had always been a point of contention for him and Angela, and they'd all been so proud of him when he finally quit. But he was an old man now, and people deserve a vice. He’d been a good husband, but a husband he was no more. August promised himself for the hundredth time he’d tell Angela he was sorry when he saw her in Heaven. Joking to himself that if anything it would just bring them back together faster. The kids always loved to tell him the cigarettes would kill him someday. The ding of the microwave bringing his thoughts back from glowing fluffy clouds and halos.

He shoveled chicken fried steak into his mouth at lightening speeds. It'd been a long time since he ate for pleasure and not necessity. He tossed the tray once it was empty and began the tedious process of putting his winter layers on. The snow might've just started, but the temperatures dropped weeks ago. The lowest they'd been in decades. He wasn't worried, the only difference it made for him would be a few extra wild animals coming around because they're desperate for food. He was always careful and was comfortable with local wildlife. The animals were one of the big reasons he was excited to live in the woods. Checking the front was locked up for bed time, he headed to the back porch for his night cap. The house itself didn't have much curb appeal, but he didn't care. He bought the place for the view from the large back deck that overlooked a sheer drop off. At the bottom, you could see the lush native foliage as it traced the narrowest part of the river and winded around the bend of the gulch. The snow ever so slowly burying anything green. Soon it would freeze, but for the time being he had the usual soundtrack of its gentle trickling. August leaned back in his lounge chair and snubbed his cigarette out. He tilted his head taking in the full map of stars; it didn't matter how long he lived here, he loved that view. He felt so much closer to nature out here where it wasn't polluted by street lights and urbanization.

While tracing a silly new constellation, August realized he could hear something out of harmony with the otherwise peaceful evening. He couldn't place it, even after cupping his hands around his ears to increase their sensitivity. A thrumming. Not loud, but constant. Cocking his head, he began to wonder if it was some type of engine or aircraft. He stood, leaning over the deck to take a look at his drive way from around the side of the house. He expected to see a vehicle approaching, but all he saw was his Ford truck and trees. A chill ran down his spine as he noticed the sound was getting closer, a feeling of claustrophobia beginning to rise as he realized the noise was surrounding him. The more he paid attention, the more he realized that there were no other sounds; no insects or critters. How? August couldn't remember the last time they had silence like that. Even in the winter, there was life. All he could hear was the water and the ominous thrum.

He felt silly being so afraid. He thought of camping trips past where he'd comfort his kids, scared by an unusual noise in the night. Wishing there was someone there to comfort him. He considered going inside to grab his phone, just pick one of their numbers and call...but then the loud creak of a tree caught him off guard. August did a 360 looking for the source of the sound, feeling silly for letting it startle him that much. He took a deep breath  telling himself he was being anxious for no reason. It was just him up here, wasn't it? August leaned against the railing, facing his open back door. He could see his empty driveway through the front window. His deadbolt locked in place. Why was he so on edge? Everything was safe. The weird humming had finally stopped, hopefully having passed by and on its way far away from him. He began to relax, leaning back further back against the handrail to stretch. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply to hold the smell of the frozen forest in his lungs.

A rapid, high-speed thrum-thrum-thrum again. August realizes why the sound is so familiar. Its like the flapping of birds, but louder than he'd ever heard before. He feels a sudden breeze and before he can open his eyes there's blinding, hot pain in his neck. He staggers, almost falling flat before getting his feet under him and making for his back door. Did someone throw something at him? Where is it? What hit him? His mind is running wild, one foot in front of the other as he rushes to get inside. A warm, wet sensation spreading down his back. Only a few feet to go, he feels giant hands wrapping around his shoulders, hooking his armpits. The nausea is immediate, the sense of vertigo as his feet leave the porch. He is screaming, eyes burning as the wind blinds him.

It's chaos, his sensory organs struggling to process all the different stimuli. His vision is hazy, all he can make out is what looks like two giant scaled hands on either side of his head. They swallow his shoulders, almost locking his arms in place. Below him he sees the snowy tops of trees rushing by. August tries to fight, but it's like a child trying to get out of an adult's grasp. The hands are solid and only squeeze harder as he tries to pull them away. The armored flesh scratching his finger tips as he claws desperately. The smell is overwhelming, earthy and tinged with old rot. It burns his nose and churns his stomach. He worries that if he's squeezed any harder, one of his shoulders might dislocate from the pressure. The pain causing him to panic, he doesn't realize the creature is approaching a dead tree at dangerous speeds. Above him a screech so loud he thinks it will blow out his ear drums. A bird? Is that even possible? He begins to wonder if it's just a dream when suddenly he is stationary, legs hanging listlessly in the air. The worst pain he's ever felt in his life. He looks down and realizes he's been impaled on a bare branch, the wood emerging like a malformed limb. Slick, and sticky with pieces of offal. The immensity of his suffering is enough to make him delirious, he doesn't realize the claws that carried him here have finally let go. He barely has time to process the agony before he feels a sharp, sudden crack to the back of his neck. Unlike the first one, this one lands solidly. He feels like a puppet with cut strings. The haziness in his eyes starts darkening, the sensation in his limbs beginning to fade. The tree creaking around him as his killer leans down to check if he's still moving, two black eyes staring at him. The cold indifference of nature in physical form. The last thing he feels is the curious beak of the giant Shrike exploring his limp limbs, his last thought a simple prayer for the lord to take him before the bird begins its meal.

"A shrike's larder (or pantry) is a grisly food cache where the predatory songbird impales its prey—such as insects, rodents, lizards, and other small birds—onto thorns, sharp twigs, or barbed wire."

Hello friends! Thank you for reading ❤️ As a teenager, I loved writing stories. I had a ton of misc stuff on an old hard drive the other day and felt inspired. On 12/12/2012 I was hit by two cars as a pedestrian and physical therapy/recovery kept me from writing. Its been a long journey getting everything it took from me. Creepcast and TalesFromTheCreeps has been a big inspiration, can't thank y'all enough for the stories.

I loved Kaley. Of course I did; she was my wife. But when we made our vows, we said in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. But we never said through thick and through thin. And the thing is, when thin came, I guess we weren’t ready for it, cause that’s when the cracks began to show. It wasn’t her fault, nor was it mine. I think we tried our best, but nothing prepares you for the ways that life can go wrong.

 

I remember the day that Alice was born. She was extremely premature and only just over 2 pounds at birth. She was on oxygen and round-the-clock care for the first 2 months of her life. One of the most stressful experiences of my life, up until that point. Kaley and I had tried to do everything right before she was born. Of course, I helped, but more so than me, Kaley did everything she could, at times to the detriment of her own physical or mental health. Nothing mattered more to her than her baby. And when she was born, I remember Kaley in tears, as her child fought for every breath just to stay alive. After everything she had done, she’d tried so hard and still Alice was teetering on a knife-edge of her own mortality. And I remember when we finally got to take her home. Kaley and I would spend hours next to the crib, staring at her in awe. Through all the trials and tribulations, she was here, she was home, she was healthy, and she was perfect. All of it was worth it in that moment just to look at her face. 

 

I got to leave my job after that, on a technicality. I’d been on the force for the majority of my life and managed to cut a deal that I’d only return should they require my services. Since peace had formed amongst the planets, the force was more precautionary than necessary. Given that most of our calls were domestic missions tasked to us by higher-ups who wanted nothing more than for us to poke around for intel to feed back to them, my services were less than necessary. Kaley was the brains of the operation; her job was more important, and after Alice’s time in the hospital, I don’t think either of us could stand the thought of Alice growing up without one of us there, should she need it.

 

She was an incredible girl, you wouldn’t believe. She said her first word at 8 months old and began walking by 10. By the time she started nursery, she was reading at a 2nd-grade level and by the end of first grade had also randomly started picking up other languages that she heard around. I can’t take credit for any of it, though I raised her; the brains came from her mom. She was a born extrovert, kind-hearted and caring. In the 6th grade, she got moved up to 7th and was still the highest scoring in the class. Kind, smart and funny too. She had it all. She was the perfect girl. I couldn’t have been more proud, and I know Kaley couldn’t have either. She would’ve made an incredible woman. She could’ve changed the world. 

 

We were two weeks from her 16th birthday when it happened. It would have been a day like any other, but I suppose that applies to every day in history. They could be like any other day, boring and unremarkable, if nothing happened. But something always happens. 

One of her peers showed up to school that day, late but without the intention of attending class, so what does it matter? Late enough for classes to be in session. Intentional, I’m sure. He showed up with multiple firearms and a hard goal to destroy as much as was physically possible. No one would have guessed. That kind of thing hadn’t happened in over 200 years. He attacked with neither thought nor prejudice; whether students or teachers, they were all targets to him. The shooter was found in a classroom on the top floor with a large slit across his Adam’s apple, a pen knife in his hand and a smile on his face. I don’t know what his intention was, and frankly, I don’t care. The only thing that matters is what he did. Alice was found in her classroom in what can only be described as tatters. Her arms still extended out on either side of herself as she tried to shield a number of her peers behind her body. None of them made it.

 

And like that, the brightest light of my life had been snuffed out. It broke me, and for years after that, everything changed to Kaley and I barely scraping by. We stopped talking to each other, or acknowledging each other’s existence for a little while. Isolation just felt more comfortable I guess. I found a little solace in believing that Alice was with her grandparents now, getting to meet them for the first time. They passed only a year before she was born, and I knew they would have loved her. I don’t find myself believing in religion, nor an afterlife, but I did then. It was the only place I could find something to hold on to and believe that there might be anything to be optimistic about. I’d take any silver linings I could get. I suppose I had become somewhat accustomed to grief, and though the feeling was painful, it was, in a way, a little familiar.

 

I remember when Alice was born, the overwhelming pride I felt to be told “she looks like her father”, but it soon became a curse. I know every time Kaley looked at me, all she could see was her daughter, and I don’t blame her for the resentment that slowly grew. She had it much worse than I did, and she didn’t find herself any peace within the following years. She had endured so much before Alice was born, and so much more after. She’d stayed at her bedside, feigning sleep for days after giving birth, just to be sure that Alice would be ok. She’d made job sacrifices and stretched herself so thin as Alice had grown up, just to be sure that she would always be there for her. She had given Alice everything she had, and I know it only hurt her that much more now. Instead, when she searched for even the smallest shred of peace, she would find only resentment. I had to leave, she said she needed the space. I found a little box apartment nearby, but no way to fund it. I found myself many nights, sitting upon my little apartment window ledge, looking down at the distant traffic below and waiting for the bravery or the stupidity to jump. I often wondered if the fall would be enough to kill me. If I could die on impact as quickly and painlessly as possible, but I was too much of a coward to find out. After a second month of failing to pay my rent and arguing with the landlord, I ended up job searching again. I was turned down by my old machining job, and after another month of searching for something new, I gave up and shortly after found myself offering to re-enrol, full-time, in the force once again, if only for the money. That’s why, in a way, it felt like a blessing at first when, after only a week of being re-enrolled, I got the offer to join a team headed to Hecta. 

 

They hadn’t been heard of in a long while, but they used to be the bleeding edge of technology. The one planet for only the upper echelon. Only the couple million who could afford it resided there, along with the few mega companies that basically owned the solar system. Supposedly, or at least as far as the rumours were concerned, it was as close to paradise as humanity had come. That’s what all the news said, all the advertisements, posters, and what have you. We were expecting the trickle-down effect, that the virtual intelligent assistants, or the perfected healthcare, or any other of their innovations would have made their way across to us. But at the end of the day, they were all rumours that remained unsubstantiated, and we had to assume they never came to fruition. It was either that or embrace the reality that, despite their existence, we would never be privileged enough to see it. That the upper echelon spat upon the existence of those below them, and couldn’t give a rat’s ass to share their advancements with anyone outside of their perfect circle. We’d all given up on that long ago. I mean, the last one we’d heard was that they had supposedly invented bliss, or something like that, in some technical jargon. But that was almost a century ago, and now the rumours that persisted years later were the only legacy Hecta had. I think we all knew it was too good to be true.

 

Still, for one reason or another, the higher-ups wanted a team to go check things out. It wasn’t my job to question my orders, and so I never bothered reading into it that much. As soon as the orders came in, I jumped at the opportunity. I needed some time away, and it was at the very least a distraction from life’s events. Plus, it came with free food and a bed. Good enough for me. I packed my bags, and I was on my way within a few days.

 

I hated travelling, always had. People seem to think that microgravity sounds like some fantasy experience, like flying, like a dream. I hate it. Just to escape your home’s gravity, you have to be punched straight up into the sky, with enough force to break free from the grip of whatever planet you’re escaping. You feel your stomach drop and your spine compress as you gyrate your tongue inside your mouth, praying you don’t accidentally bite or swallow it. You can feel your organs being shifted and twisted inside you like clothes in a dryer, as you’ll pray in your own mind for it to stop. 

And just as soon as you do, you’ll get exactly what you wanted, as your own weight disappears beneath you, in a way your senses don’t understand. Your equilibrium balances, and your stomach comes to rest, only for you to suddenly feel worse than before. With no gravity, your vestibular system begins to panic, as you feel your own chyme begin to creep its way up your throat in search of an escape. Your instincts no longer know which way is up because up doesn’t exist anymore, and instead, you sit in a permanent state of vertigo. 

 

As we began to drift through space on our slow journeys, everyone else always wanted to quickly unclip from their seats and begin to float around. It’s hard to control, as you’ve never experienced anything like it. Your muscles aren’t used to being in such a situation, and even attempts at a light touch will send you flying across the room and crashing into the wall or any objects in your path. It’s funny to experience the first time, but after dozens of trips just like this, I’m sick of it and want nothing to do with it, and so I’d never unclip from my seat unless I had to. Instead, I chose to watch, deadpan as the younger groups on the force floated past me, colliding with each other and laughing in pain as they did. I wish I had it in me to feel as carefree and joyous. A little part of me envied their carefree attitude toward the trip, but it was quickly squashed by my overwhelming irritation with their antics. 

Sleep wouldn’t come easily during that trip. If my state of mind wasn’t already enough to keep me restless at night, it didn’t help now that I couldn’t lie down. There is no down. You won’t realise until it’s taken from you, but there’s such an immense sense of relief when you lie down and take the weight off your bones. But when your bones don’t have weight to begin with, the days are the same as the nights, and they’re infinitely less restful. So, by the time the yellow-painted horizon appeared in the windows of the ship, I was more than ready to embrace gravity once more. 

 

But if liftoff seemed bad, descent was always worse. I feared it a little bit. One of my first missions, and first descents, we were halfway into the journey, slicing through the atmosphere at almost 20,000mph, when I went into cardiac arrest. One of the most intense sensations of my life, like my entire chest was caving in, gasping for air, a sucking breath of oxygen that I couldn’t quite manage. No medical team, no medical attention. When you’re free-falling in re-entry, the rules are you stay in your seat, or you die. There’s a reason they strap you into those chairs like your life depends upon it. It does.

 

I didn’t make it to landing and passed out a couple miles off the surface of the planet. The next thing I remember is fading back to reality, as a team of my crewmates unbuckled my chair and let me crumple onto the floor like a limp mannequin. Convulsing and in agony as I proceeded to expel, and shortly after, choke on my own liquified lunch. Turns out I might be prone to that sort of thing, more prone than others. I should have been fine, according to my medical results, I was well within safe parameters, and it had never happened again since. But apparently, hurtling down to earth in a barely controlled free fall really pushes the limits of what your body can take.

 

Finally, the deceleration burn hits, and the whole craft begins to slow. Like standing in a downward-moving elevator as it reaches its destination, you feel your whole skeleton slump in your seat as it tries to maintain its original momentum, only to be stopped by the tight straps of the chair. It’s painful, but it means it’s over soon. The whole craft shook with the impact as it finally touched down on solid ground once more, now over a hundred million miles away from where it took off. It’s a clunky, uncomfortable and unpleasant journey, but it does the job, and for that at least, I’m thankful. It used to be that the squad would sleep on the ship, but for a domestic mission like this, there was really no need. Not to mention that our craft, in particular, had the majority of its accommodation built into the walls and ceiling, anticipating sleeping without gravity. And so it was, time to pack up your shit and step out into a new world. 

 

Our welcome was warm, kinda. I feel like warm welcomes, or warm in general, denotes being alive. Maybe a humantouch. We were indeed welcomed, but by what was closer to a microwave on a Segway than a person. Clearly, it was meant to be human adjacent, with a head, arms and a body that stretched to the floor, where it met two parallel wheels upon which it balanced. It greeted us and led us off the ship and towards the airlock, all the while chattering and making conversation with the group like it was an old friend. It was an odd little thing, almost comical in nature, standing about four feet tall with the video of it smiling and talking playing on the screen that was its face. Despite the fact that it knew who we were and why we were there, it still decided to act as our tour guide, spewing facts and stories about Hecta to anyone who might be listening as we left decontamination and began to un-suit.

 

All of it was this self-aggrandising script about how Hecta shouldn’t have been able to be colonised. How humanity persists against the odds and how Hecta is a testament to the human spirit. Bullshit, I say. The only useful information was knowing the atmosphere is toxic, and I think “don’t go outside, or you’ll die” would have been infinitely more tolerable than the 30-minute spiel it continued with as it led us through the halls to the city. The doors opened, and we were permitted to step out of the cramped corridors we’d been led through, and into the city. At this point, thankfully, it finally stopped talking and allowed us to take the sight in quietly. 

 

The city appeared as a great glass cavernous room that must have been miles wide. We were hundreds of floors up, looking down upon an entire city of greenery all encased inside a giant fish bowl. Large sky-scraping buildings pierced through the dense foliage at the bottom, stretching up towards the glass that contained them. Layer upon layer of floors extended around the entire perimeter of the bowl, like never-ending balconies the width of a room, all the way back to the one we were currently standing upon. We all pressed ourselves up against the glass in front of us, turning our heads from left to right as we tried to take it all in. 

 

After an impatient moment from the little robot, we got herded into an elevator and shot down to the ground floor. The doors opened, and I was immediately struck by the rich scent of wet soil and rain. The whole place was warm and humid, like we were in an enormous greenhouse. A far cry from the cramped shell of our ship, and the overly bright and sterile white halls that we had been led through. Whatever warmth our guide had lacked, this place easily made up for. It was eerie, though. It would have seemed that whatever hunches our higher-ups had were right, as in a greenhouse the size of a megacity, not a single person could be seen anywhere. From the wide walkways amongst the trees to the hundreds of windows stretching all the way up the buildings, everywhere was completely empty of humanity.

 

We were led towards a towering white building where we would apparently be staying. We were all staying on the same floor, our rooms all adjacent to each other in this makeshift hotel. My room was massive. Bigger than my entire apartment back home. There was a massive window on the far wall that looked out upon the greenery of the city outside, my own oversized bathroom and all sorts of appliances scattered around. I set my things down in the corner and sat down on the edge of my bed, letting the full relief of the act wash over me. Far better than microgravity. 

 

I was visited by a number of automated characters in the next few hours, bringing me food, passing on messages or coming in and scanning me for medical checks. Each of them was a different colour, and I had to assume for different purposes. The one who brought my dinner was white, much like the one who greeted us at the landing. And the medical one, slightly on the nose, was light green with a white cross on its chest. And then there was the other one, who visited me towards the end of the night. Just as I was lying down to relax for the evening, my door beeped, and it came rolling in slowly to stop at the side of my bed.

 

“Mr Barnes?” It said.

I didn’t turn to face it at first, “yeah?”

It reached out an articulated claw and tugged my sleeve. I put my book down and rolled over in my bed to face it. It was a whole foot shorter than the others and a pastel pink. A girl. 

“What’s your home planet like?” She asked shyly, assuming she was able to feel shy.

“Shit. What do you want?”

“Why?”

“Cause… It’s hard to explain.”

“Why?”

“God, I don’t know. It just is.” I sat up a little in bed, “That’s just life. Why are you asking me this?”

She went silent for a second as her screen turned ponderous, “I don’t know… Just!” She smiled, looking pleased with herself. 

“I don’t know?” She continued smiling, playing dumb? Or maybe she was. “Why’s it bad?”

“Cause, bad things happen. You know, you try, and turns out theres not a damn thing you can do about it. Turns out life just sucks, and that’s it. Hate to break it to you.”

Her pixelated brow furrowed, “Oh… Imagine if it wasn’t though!” Her same childish smile returned, “Imagine if things were great forever, and you were always happy!”

“Well wouldn’t that be fucking peachy.” I sighed, laying back down on my bed and retrieving my book.

“I’ll see what I can do!” She beamed, her hand clinking against her screen in a salute before she raced back out of the room on her wheels, brimming with excitement. 

 

In training, we’re taught to sleep lightly when on the job. You need to be ready to awake at any moment, in the event of danger. But I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. The bed was unforgivingly comfortable, and after my lumpy, shitty little mattress back home and days upon days of sleeping without gravity, it all made that bed all the more comfortable. So I fell hard into sleep and slept the deepest I had in a long time. I didn’t awake till I felt my room changing, and I sat up coughing and spluttering as the sweet-smelling smoke filled my room, till I looked over to see the same pink machine’s smiling, innocent face looking up at me as spots began to cloud my vision and my thoughts turned to static. Then everything went black. 

 

I awoke in an auditorium. Kaley was shaking me awake. Crap, I fell asleep. Did I miss it? I looked up to the stage. No, ok, good. The students were just finishing filtering their way into the back of their seating area, as a man in a mortarboard stood up on stage. But his speech didn’t matter to me; I was scanning the audience while I waited, looking for the girl who sat closest to the stage. And there she was, front and centre just like always. Top of her class, top of the school, first student to ever score 100% on everything and first to have done all that, after having moved a year ahead when she started college. Friends with every single person on her course, and all her teachers. Sitting there in that auditorium, I have to look back and remember her entire life leading up to this point. My girl, my proudest achievement. 

 

But I can’t. I remember that everything happened, but I don’t remember it happening. I remember that she was born, 40 weeks to the day. I remember that she was the perfect weight and born without complication, and I remember that we took her home with no other issues. 

I remember that her first word was Dad and I remember when she started school. I remember how everything happened, but I have no memories. I’m trying to force myself, but I just can’t, and I don’t know why. I try as hard as I can, but before I have a chance to think about it further, Alice is on stage giving her speech. 

Of course, the whole speech is dedicated to me. I remember that I’m her favourite, despite not remembering why. Kaley, sitting next to me, nudges my arm as my name is mentioned, and I can feel the warmth spreading throughout my chest. The warm, sweltering sensation of pride. I could feel my brain being flooded with warmth and emotions, in never-ending waves. It’s intoxicating. It’s overwhelming. It hurts. 

 

My heart is racing, beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free from me, harder and harder till it ceases completely. I can’t breathe, or think, or see. Everything turns blurry as the world begins to turn white. I wretch and cry out in pain as my chest feels like it’s being crushed, my ribs cracking, and my lungs slowly being flattened as oxygen eludes me. 

 

With a gasp, I awoke in a black room. A machine next to me is beeping rapidly in parallel with the panicked state of my tired heart. That’s new. I shifted my stiff limbs slightly, feeling the smooth metal table I lay upon flex and stick beneath me. My muscles tensed as I tried to writhe upon the table, seeking any means to diminish the pain in my chest. 

 

A light appeared from behind me, as something opened the door and entered the room, just outside my field of vision. Then a voice.

“Mr Barnes, please relax.” It said, as a blue light began to slowly sweep over my body from head to toe. I tried to reply, but as I moved to open my mouth, I became abruptly aware of the large tube that blocked the way, extending down my throat. Instead, all I could do was groan in reply. My head was swimming, and as I opened my eyes to see nothing more than blurry half-shadows of movement on the wall in front of me. 

A cold, metallic claw extended out from behind me and gently patted my head as the machine offered a less-than-soothing “there, there.”

I don’t know what it was doing, but it worked. I could feel the pain slowly begin to dissipate, and my breath finally began to return.

“I’m sorry you had to awake. We’ll assist your sleep again soon.” It told me, before squeaking its way back out of the room. The door closed, and I was plunged back into darkness.

 

With a muffled moan, I rolled myself over, tangled in tubes and wires whose purposes were unknown. My whole body was light and numb. My vision was blurry, and I spent a few minutes just blinking my eyes till things finally began to sharpen up in my vision. Beside my table was a large machine, now beeping slowly since my heart had resumed its natural rhythm. With shaking hands, I gripped the large pipe that extended from within my throat and began to pull. The tube was thick, about an inch in diameter and resisted by design. I could feel its barbs dig into my oesophagus as it steadfastly refused to budge, and I soon found myself gripping it with both hands and pulling as hard as I could. I could feel the pressure of whatever flowed inside it increase in a desperate attempt to remain inside me. Tearing at my throat with its little spikes, it slowly and surely began to slide. I found myself gagging as the tube slid out from within my stomach, like a handkerchief from a clown’s sleeve, hand over hand, I tugged at it till it slipped free. It fell free onto the ground, writhing as though it were alive, as it continuously pumped out this lumpy beige sludge onto the floor. Now hunched over the edge of the table, I wretch as my stomach convulsed, expelling the same lumpy slurry onto the polished silver floors.

 

The tubes in my nose were easier to remove, though no more pleasant. As I pulled them free from where they sat in my trachea, they became smeared in my previously evacuated vomit, only for it to be dragged up with the tubes into my nose, both burning my nostrils and causing me to gag once more. Ignoring for the moment the extra two tubes extending from my forearm, I swung my legs over the side of the table in preparation to stand, only to find yet another disappearing into my gown between my legs. With gritted teeth, I prepared myself to pull the last tube from within me. Thankful for my body’s numbness, the tube finally slid free, dripping a milky white substance from its tip that I didn’t want to question, nor think about. As I prepared to stand, the door opened once more for the little pink automaton who entered the room.

 

“Mr Barnes, you’re leaving?” She asked, innocent as before. 

“What did you do to me?” I slurred, only realising now how unfamiliar I was with my own body’s motion. 

“I asked if this was what you wanted? You consented, I don’t understand.” She said, her face turning to confusion.

“I’ve read your file, Mr Barnes. I know about you. I know about all of you. Don’t you think you would all benefit from the program? We can make you happy. That’s all I want. That’s what we’re here for. Wouldn’t you rather live in a dream? You know you deserve to.” She smiled up at me.

 

Her words stumped me. Was she right? What was left at home for me? No house, no wife, nor daughter. No money or joy, no ease nor peace, I remembered when Alice was born. I remembered the panic, the sleepless nights, the exhaustion and the fear. I couldn’t say it was easy, nor that I would have ever wanted it to be that way. Maybe this little pink smiling machine was right. Maybe this mess of tubes was right. Natural? Absolutely not. But preferable? Probably. I could live out the rest of my days, being unconsciously fed, without pain, while I’m pumped full of neurotransmitters. I guess it says something when that sounds like a pretty sweet deal. To survive the rest of my days, living every fantasy I had ever had. To die, in a dream, but with my wife and with my daughter.

 

I remembered when we finally got to take Alice home. Through the trials and tribulations, she’d made it home. We had hated every second of it, watching her fight with the little strength she was born with, just to keep breathing. And I remembered how she grew up. A lesson learned early, from the day we took her across the threshold, we knew there was nothing more important in our world than Alice. Her first few weeks of life were ones I never wanted to relive, but without them, would we have known to cherish her life every day as much as we did? In my dreams, everything had gone to plan. She was born without a hitch and grew up much the same. But when nothing bad ever happened, every day was as the last, uneventfully perfect.

 

I stood up, “I think I’d rather go home.”

“Mr Barnes, please. Your emotional equilibrium is unbalanced; you’re not being rational. Trust me, this is for the best.”

“No, I think I’d like to go. How long have I been asleep for? Where’s all my shit? Where are we?”

“It has been 209 hours since last we spoke.” She sounded so matter-of-fact, “I don’t understand. Is this not what you wanted?”

 

I was sick of her shit. I slid off the table, as I ripped off the two IV tubes connected to my arm and tossed them to the ground, letting the blood and oozing white liquid of the IV converge with the ever-growing puddle of pulpy sludge still being pushed out of my feeding tube onto the floor. The little pink robot quickly turned to the open door, scanning the reader beside the door and causing it to slowly close. Unsteadily finding my footing, I kicked her rectangular body back towards the door. Her wheels spun fast in a gyroscopic panic, trying to catch her falling body and right herself, but it only sent her crashing into the doorframe. The falling door slowed as it began to crush her body beneath the weight of its motors, allowing just enough time for me to slip under the gap. She let out a last stuttering plea as she once again tried to reassure me that it was for the best, before the door’s strength won over and finally met with the ground, leaving her crushed body on either side of it. I took the key from her hand that remained on my side of the door and began my egress.

 

Wherever I was, it had no signs. All the halls looked the same, pure pearlescent white and overly lit like a dentist’s office. I didn’t know if there was any security, and I didn’t care to find out. With my now open canula punctures bleeding out on the floor, like a thread in the labyrinth, the dripping red line would only lead them straight to me. My only ally would be speed.  I started opening doors at random in hopes that any of them might have been an exit. The first few next to me all had members of my squad in them. Tangled in tubes and wires, fed and catheterised, and smiling in their dreams. At least they were happy, I guess. With every new hall I encountered, the more the rooms were all the same. New people, curled up on tables, emaciated and sedated. And with each new room, they only seemed to get thinner and thinner. Older, more wrinkled, tangled in their own hair and grime. I guess when you’re in another world, you don’t care what happens to your body in this one. Some of them appeared to have mould growing on them, others with withered arms and legs or peeling skin. Many seemed to have developed arthritis, as their joints bulged out of their matchstick limbs that had slowly bent into wrong angles after years of neglect. Finally, I found an elevator. It didn’t go to ground, so I just went to the lowest floor they had and prayed I would find my way from there. 

 

The doors opened to an expansive black room. It was filled with shelving-like structures stretching up into the blackness above and all the way to the back of the room, where I saw a little white light. I had to hope it was a means to an exit, so I started walking. I saw rows upon rows of shelves stretched past me, littered with bodies. They were old, beyond age. Their faces sunk so deep within their own wrinkles that they had long since disappeared. Their limbs were disfigured as though they had turned to dust inside themselves, and now only existed as a puddle of skin being pumped full of dopamine. The only thing more unsettling was the machines that sat beside each body, steadily beeping alongside their hearts that still persisted. The whole room stank of rot, and I soon found myself running towards the light at the back as soon as the coordination to do so returned to me. An elevator, thank God. It finally delivered me out onto the ground floor, and I flew straight to the front door.

 

I was in a new building, was near the one we had entered, and I managed to find my way back the way we had come. Up the elevator, through the. halls and back to the airlock. Our tour guide was waiting for me, telling me I shouldn’t be leaving and quickly trying to lock the door to where my suit awaited me. Before he had the chance to, I grabbed him by his little box head and caved it on the corner of the empty front desk. Not fast enough, as an alarm started blaring throughout the building. There was movement echoing from down the halls, but I didn’t want to stick around and find out from whom or from what. I’d have to be quick. I knew I couldn’t survive the atmosphere without my suit, and I would need a second to suit up and do a pressure seal check before I could step out into the open. A time sink that I was sure my automated and lungless adversaries would not be in need of.

 

By the time I was suited up, I could hear them on the other side of the door. I didn’t have time to check the pressure seals; I’d just have to hope that I’d done everything right. Airlock open, slipped out the side and closed it behind me. It’s hard to run in a space suit. It’s even harder to run when your brain has been hijacked for the past 3 days. Pair that with a sandstorm and the gripping fear that your suit might not be airtight, and it’s much worse. Dust and debris was pounding against the glass, oppressively drowning out the sound of my own thoughts with every clumsy step. I was gasping for air as I ran, only to fall to my knees in desperation for oxygen. The tank’s half empty. Fuck. Should’ve grabbed a fresh one, but too late now. I turned to glance back at the airlock behind me, just to see the hatch turn and the door begin to open. A massive pointed leg, like that of a spider, pierced out of the darkness as a black shadow, the size of a large car, loomed in the void behind doors, waiting hungrily for them to open. A massive body with too many legs, waiting eagerly to claim its prize.

 

With one last sucking breath, I forced myself back onto my feet and off towards the ship one last time. The hatch was open, waiting, begging for me. But my legs were tired, and I barely had the strength to fight the winds that were doing everything they could to force me off my feet. Slowing to a stumble in the yellow fog of the storm, forcing one foot in front of the other was all I could do as the ground began to thunder at the heavy and ceaseless footsteps of my captor closing in behind me.

 

I fell forward, swept away by the force of the wind, removing my feet from under me, as I landed face-first on the open hatch to the ship. Even in the deafening sound of the storm, I heard the crack, now watching as the spiderweb of splitting glass expanded before my very eyes. I clawed my way up the landing of the ship and up the side of the door to slam my fist down on the button to close it. With a squealing mechanical lurch, the door began to close on its slow-moving pistons, just as a sleek black tendril extended out from the sandy mist beyond the threshold to grab me. Holding onto the door for my life, I kicked and fought, all the while watching my visor’s weakness spread, and spread.

 

With a thud, I hit the floor. I looked down at my foot, still held in the unforgiving grip of the being that had ensnared me. Though, its prize had escaped, and its limb was severed as the door closed completely, now left, a writhing stump without purpose. I sat back against the wall with a deep sigh as I laughed to myself. I pried its cold metal tendril from my ankle and made my way to the ship’s airlock to finally be able to remove my visor. I couldn’t wait for takeoff, as I strapped myself in tight to the seat at the cockpit and prepared for liftoff.

 

It was almost blissful, feeling the weight of Hecta slip away to nothing as the ship finally broke free from its grasp. I’d escaped.

I thought of my superiors back home. I’d have quite a story to tell them when I returned. What happened to Hecta after that was up to them, but I didn’t plan on returning.

I thought of Alice, and for the first time in a long time, remembered all of my favourite moments we had shared. I knew now that was how I should choose to remember her. Not of how she died, but of how she lived, and I found myself smiling.

 

And I thought of Kaley. I loved her still, and I knew I did. I wanted to see her now, more than anything. I had spent so long focused on what I had lost, I forgot who I still had. I couldn’t even remember the last time I told her I loved her. That’s the first thing I planned to do when I got home. I wanted to enjoy life again. Real life, and it started now. As the atmosphere disappeared from under me, and my weight with it, I unclipped from my seat and embraced weightlessness.

Still on mobile. Sorry.
Okay. I lived another night. I think we’re going to be leaving early, despite some reservations from some of the family. I’m writing things as today unfolds rather than just trying to remember details at the end of the night and struggling to get service. It’s around 9:56 now, I woke up with my stomach in agony at around 9:30 and came to the living room to make coffee after. My dad then had me throw on my suit to find his phone.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the incident with my Dad’s phone.
To preface this, I used to be a commercial diver/ underwater welder. I spent a lot of time doing construction, welding, and salvage work. I’d say a quarter of my adult life was spent under water in pitch blackness just feeling around.
My dad was stepping on the fishing boat yesterday and his phone fell into the water. I was dolled up because Thomas and I were doing our engagement pictures, so my dad decided to wait for today to ask me to retrieve his phone. It’s a good 5 years old Google pixel phone, so my dad wasn’t wildly concerned with getting it back in a working condition.
Thus, having to jump in the cold water within 30 minutes of waking up. I spent half an hour doing lil free dives searching for it until surprisingly, I found it. We threw it in some rice and then put it outside to bake in the sun.
That’s about all I got for now.

Okay, it’s about noon, and something strange happened.
We were all hyped about finding the phone. But, excitement ended and Thomas decided to go to the dock by the sleeping cabin for some more fishing. We call it “Bass Alley” due to always catching bass over there.
My grandma’s dog, Mango, followed him over. She’s always following one of us around, being a golden retriever puppy.
I decided that since I was soaked anyways I’d sit on our float-a-mat (giant floating foam mat) in the water and try to get a tan.
After around fifteen minutes, Thomas came back and said that Mango swam to the island across the bay.
My mom offered to get the kayak and go over there to get Mango to chase her back, but my dad abruptly shouted “No.” in an exasperated tone.
He saw our look of concern and said “She swam over there, she can swim back on her own. Just stay put and call her.”
Thomas felt guilty about not keeping a closer eye on her, so he ended up getting on the stand up paddle board and making his way over there. My dad warned him to stay in the water in case of wild deer and snakes and ticks, then followed him from the island as he paddled over. Watching from the rocks and the dock.
Thomas was gone for only a minute when the house phone rang.
My mom ran to the old land line and picked it up.
“Hello?” She asked, confused.
She gave a couple of “uh huh’s” and sat in mostly silence.
“We’re on it! Thomas is on the way over.” She said before hanging up.
“Who was that?” My dad asked.
“Someone called saying they had Mango on the other island.” My mom responded coolly.
“Who?” My dad asked, sounding a little angry.
“I’m guessing new neighbors? I didn’t think to ask since we know where she is and Thomas is already on the way…” Mom responded, growing annoyed.
My dad walked over and grabbed the phone, pressing some buttons with each press giving a metallic“Boop” noise.
My dad stared at the phone in his hand before dropping it on the dining table and rushing out to the deck.
“What’s going on with you.” My mom mumbled under her breath.
I walked over and grabbed the phone, trying to see what had my stoic dad so hysterical.
I looked down to see his number on the screen.
I walked out to see my dad on the deck holding the bag of rice, one arm inside the zip lock.
He pulled out his phone and tried turning it on.
Still not working.
Exasperated he dropped the phone in the rice and ran over to the other side of the island, yelling “Thomas” over and over.
After a couple calls, we saw Thomas over the bend in his Kayak with a happy puppy swimming beside him.
My dad’s posture changed immediately. Whatever had him strung simply unwinded, letting him take a relaxed breath.
After standing slumped, he finally asked “How’d it go?”
“She was just on the shore. I called her over and she happily jumped in and followed.” Thomas laughed.
“Did you see anyone?” My dad asked, almost in a whisper.
“You mean the seagulls or the snakes or the bugs or the deer? Just the gulls. They sure had a lot to say too.” Thomas joked, beaching his kayak and taking his life jacket off.
My dad seemed more content hearing that, and proceeded to come inside and pour himself a shot of tequila.
Thomas and my mom were out on the deck with the dog, laughing about the whole scenario.
I went to the kitchen and joined my dad in a shot of tequila.
I finally got the courage to ask.
“Dad, what’s going on?” I asked shakily.
My dad took another shot.
“Whatcha mean baby girl?” He asked casually.
“I mean, the noise, locking the door, the fact you were the one who called the cabin…”
My dad just laughed.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I called up when we got to the marina, that’s why I was on the re-dial. It just reminded me I had to check my texts from my boss. You’re goin crazy there, Kristi.” He teased.
It sounds reasonable but I’m still skeptical. As I said, I’m not sure if this is actually a horror story. But still. It’s strange, right?

Okay. I failed keeping track. ADHD, right? It’s like 1 am now. We went to civilization today, aka the Harbour. We ran out of surf sides and got these worse knock offs called “Cottage Springs”.
It was remarkably normal, until the fireworks.
Yesterday was Canada day, so there was only the giant pack of fireworks left. It was like $60 Canada dollars so $45 American, and I was gonna splurge because YAY I’m an adult and can do fireworks but my dad was super against it. Kept saying it’s gonna be an extra long ride home because we’re trying to find walleye and it’ll be dangerous having them out that long in the sun. Super lame. I grew up in Arizona and fireworks were banned so I was excited.
After, we got fish and chips at this place and it took over an hour for our drinks because ever server called out and the cook was taking orders and finally I showed him my bartending license and was like “I’ll make drinks for the tables if you comp my fams drinks” and surprisingly he said sure so I got a mini bartending gig for the 2 hours I was there. Marina gigs are funny like that. I work one in the states and the only question they asked me during the interview was “can you open a beer?”
After I said yes, I got my schedule.
Sorry, side tracked. I went a little heavy drinking tonight and got brave. I swear I’m getting to that. Thomas is next to me helping me out because he saw stuff too. I wasn’t alone tonight. He “babysat” me since I was feeling some type of way. Please ignore spelling errors. I’m scared and intoxicated.
So, we get home. My dad lied about the fishing trip. We just went straight back where he kept drinking and my mom prepped beef stew for the night. My Grandma talked about how she loved all grandkids evenly except one, Lori, which I found hysterical.
My mom walked my Grandma back to the sleeping cabin as Thomas, my Dad and I went fishing. I’ll drop my sick fish in the comments. But, we got close to the shore of the island across the bay. So close, we had to trim the motor up and paddle over. The fish there were GIANT. Thomas caught a pike the size of my leg.
This is not important. Sorry. Just giving time-lines.
What mainly happened was an hour or so ago, and now Thomas has a knife and we barricaded our room. My grandma is still in the sleeping cabin but she has the dogs and a phone so it’ll be okay.
I told my parents I was going to party hard tonight. My dad was already 10+ tequila shots in and I had around 7 of the Canadian version of Surf Sides. I was feeling GREAT.
We played some games until my parents went to bed, and Thomas agreed to watch me. We went skinny dipping in the dead of night and left our clothes on the boat like the drunken idiots we are/ were. We sat in the living room, playing dice games and talking, until we heard something on the deck.
Thomas, also being intoxicated, started telling ghost stories not realizing I was already stressed and anxious.
I mostly laughed them off, since we’re both fans of creepcast and heard them all.
But, we were both drinking and decided to stake it out.
A few years back, there was a raccoon my drunken uncle and dad were CONVINCED was a badger and they tried to catch it. They prepared for a battle. Net, knives, flash lights, even a stun gun. It ended up being a baby raccoon living on the porch that we happily accepted as family. It stayed on the island for YEARS.
So, Thomas and I assumed it was its offspring and we’d be able to laugh about it later.
We turned off all the lights and laid on the living room floor, crouched being the table waiting for the glowing eyes to come to frame.
In case you didn’t know, human eyes don’t reflect the way animal eyes do. It’s something they teach you in survival training. If eyes catch a glare, it’s safe to shoot.
And we waited for that glare.
Until our “badger” came on our porch.
Except, it wasn’t a badger.
It was Thomas.
Same shirt as him.
Same pants as him.
Same hair and face.
Just walking up.
Sitting on the deck where my dad was sitting the night prior.
Staring inside.
I managed to grab a pic on my phone.
We locked the doors and army crawled back to our room where were together now.
We’re both drunk and are convinced it was at least a PERSON there.
Thoughts? Should we dip tomorrow and show my parents or is this just a drunken prank by possibly new neighbors?
If it can upload, I’ll drop pics of Thomas and what we saw outside. Please give me advice on terrified and will also be posting this is the advice Column of Reddit.

The lake on my brother's property has no bottom.

Me and my brother live on twenty-five acres out in the middle of nowhere. He inherited it when our dad passed. Our mom and stepdad had already died a few years back, so it's just the two of us.

When I say out in the middle of nowhere I really mean out in the middle of nowhere, a thirty-mile drive to the nearest grocery store, forty to the nearest big city. But we like it. It's nice and quiet.

My brother Carl is an artist. Not an artsy artist, he does design work for big companies out on the east and west coast. Does all his work on a computer, he can work from pretty much anywhere that's connected to the internet. Now it costs quite a bit to get internet in the middle of nowhere, but it's possible, and he can more than afford it.

Me? I'm Jake. I'm a shiftless, no-good lazy layabout. At least that's what my stepdad always said. My bio dad, when he wasn't being an abusive drunk, would say pretty much the same damn thing. That's fine. I've made my peace with it. I keep busy by taking care of the place. Doing the lawn care, the maintenance, painting. All the crap work that needs to be done.

We have a pretty simple life.

The strangest thing about this place is the lake. Well it's actually just a glorified pond. It's about eighty feet across, and almost a perfect circle. Sinkhole, I'd guess. It's way out on the edge of the property past the gazebo. Officially it's known on the maps as Lake 224, but everyone calls it Gaspar's Lake, after some fella that lived here like a hundred years ago.

The water is unbelievably clear, way more clear than I would have ever expected. And deep. The thing is, I have no idea how deep it is. I heard rumors in town that it's bottomless when we first moved out here but I paid it no mind, but you can't see the bottom at all.

One summer, I had a fella from the state fish and game department come out and stock the lake with fish. I thought I'd do some fishing that fall, but it just didn't take. Don't know how, or why, but come fall there wasn't a fish to be found. Didn't make any sense. If they'd died, I'd have seen them floating, right?

Another thing is the light. Sometimes at night I could swear I see a glow come up out of the water. I got a nice little setup. I'd sit at the gazebo until late in the evening grilling bratwurst and sipping cold beer from the cooler. But on the way back, that glow. A color that's just not right, you know? Not bright or anything, you can just barely notice it, but it's there.

Anyway, my brother doesn't care about any of that shit. He's got no sense of adventure, no curiosity. He's all about deadlines, meetings, and products. Sometimes he'll fly out from the local airport on a puddle jumper to go see a client and leave me out here for a week or two. You'd never get me on one of those tiny single-engine planes. I kind of get the feeling he's embarrassed of me, but whatever.

He flew out to North Carolina or maybe it was Virginia one week and I had the place to myself. So I called up Earl - he's my drinking buddy - I called up Earl and said to him we're gonna find out how deep Gaspar's Lake really is.

He brought over his jon boat and I'd say about three hundred feet of half-inch nylon rope. We were going to be real scientific about this. I tied a cinder-block to one end and we marked off the rope in ten-foot sections.

He backed his truck up to the water and we got the boat in, and headed out to the center of the lake, and dropped the cinder block over.

I figured it'd bottom out at fifty feet or so, but shit no, that rope just kept flying right on out.

Fifty feet, hundred feet, hundred and fifty, just kept going.

"Maybe we should tie it off?" I asked.

"Yeah, that, uh that's probably a good idea." He replied.

We got the free end of the rope tied off round the cleat and watched the rope keep spilling out.

Every bit of the rope played out and the boat resonated with a loud "thunk".

I pulled the rope a bit up out of the water and could feel the weight of the cinderblock on it.

"Earl." I paused, "Earl there's not any fucking way this lake is three hundred feet deep." I said.

"No fucking way." He nodded. "What the actual shit."

"We got to get more rope." I said.

"My uncle's got a full industrial spool of half-inch nylon rope. A thousand feet. There's no lake anywhere around here that's a thousand feet deep." Earl replied.

I grabbed the rope and started to pull it up, it was going to take a minute or two to pull it all back on the boat. Earl started winding it up as it came in. I got about fifty feet of it onboard when it just stopped. Like just dead stop.

I leaned back and pulled harder.

Nothing.

It felt like the cinder block had gotten caught under a ledge.

I wrapped the rope around my forearm and gave it one good heave.

"Hung up on something?" Earl asked.

"I guess so." I started to say, when the rope tugged back. Hard. Threw both me and Earl off balance enough the boat flipped over.

The water went over my head and I sputtered, righted myself and broke the surface. Earl came up right beside me and let out a loud "God damn it." We struggled to get the boat set right but we got it.

That's when I noticed the cleat had snapped right off. Rope and all had gone down into the lake.

So, three days later, me and Earl were back again. We spent all afternoon setting it up. Got an electric motor to pull the rope back up and a pulley system at the end of a boom winch. It almost looked professional, bolted there in the back of his truck. Almost.

Earl grinned and smacked our Jerry-rigged setup on the side. "I always knew those machine shop classes I took would come in handy."

He backed up the truck, and swung the winch over the water. It extended about ten feet out. I tied off another cinder block, no shortage of those around here, and tossed it in. We watched the rope run and run, the spool spinning freely. We had it set up so it would spin in one direction, but not the other, so we could winch it back up.

The rope spooled out faster and faster.

Two hundred feet.

Three hundred.

"It's still going." Earl said, incredulity in his voice.

Four hundred.

"No, fucking, way." I said.

Earl stopped grinning around six hundred.

By eight hundred neither of us was talking anymore.

The spool kept spinning all the way to the end.

Four minutes after I tossed the brick in, it ran out with another loud thunk. Hard enough the truck rocked backwards a bit.

"Jesus, Jake, what in the actual fuck is going on here. That's a thousand feet of rope."

"I have no earthly clue, buddy. There's no way it's a thousand feet deep."

"I ain't got no more rope. Like I guess I could order some." Earl said, but was interrupted by a loud groaning coming from the winch.

Something was pulling on the rope. I could hear the strain in the fibers. The truck was practically vibrating.

Then the front end of the truck started to rise up a hair.

"Oh shit Jake! It's gonna take my truck!" Earl yelled as he ran over and hopped in. He started the engine and began to pull away when all of a sudden all the tension let out of the line.

I went over to the winch and turned it on and the rope began to wind onto the spool. It took a lot longer to pull it all up than I thought it would, but then I saw, and smelled, the cinder-block.

It was covered with a dark, glistening slime. Something the color of rotting leaves mixed with oil, and it stank like, God, I don't know a squished bug mixed with kerosene.

I cut the line and let the brick drop back into the water. No way in hell I was touching whatever that was.

Earl pulled his truck up away from the edge, got out and came over to where I was staring at the water.

"A camera." He said.

"What, like an underwater one?" I asked.

"Yeah, I know a guy. He's got an underwater rig, a little robot submarine. He uses it to inspect bridge pilings, dams, and culverts for the state. It's rated down to fifteen hundred feet, but it usually doesn't get used that deep. Got lights and a camera, you can drive it around." He said.

"Sounds like a plan." I said. "But Earl," I paused. "Isn't this more than a little bit weird? Like even for around here. Maybe we should call somebody, I don't know, like an official?"

"Jake, this is the most interesting thing that I've been mixed up in since farmer Brindle's two-headed goat got loose in the dollar store. Look around, nothing happens around here."

I nodded. This place wasn't known for its excitement.

"I'm gonna call him, get it out here." He said.

"I've got an old VCR we can hook it up to, record what we find." I replied.

Earl nodded. "Good idea."

The next couple of days passed without incident. I spent the time power-washing the garage. I know, high excitement, but it's got to get done.

Earl pulled up in his truck the next afternoon. It really was a pretty cool setup. The sub was about four feet long and had lights and a camera on the front that could be panned around remotely. We tied it off to the winch with the nylon rope. It had its own coil of cable for the camera that we sat on the tailgate.

"I made sure it had a full charge." Earl said, manhandling it out of the truck. "It'll give us at least a couple of hours."

Getting it in the water took longer than it should have. The thing was heavier than it looked and we kept second guessing which end was supposed to go in first.

"I think the camera end goes in last." I said.

"That don't make any sense, how's it gonna see anything pointed at the mud?"

"I didn't say pointed at the mud, I said last. As in, we lower it in tail first."

Earl looked at me. "That's the same thing."

We went back and forth on it for a while before we figured out it didn't matter, the thing would right itself once it hit the water. We felt pretty stupid about that.

"Alright, easy now." Earl said, as we walked it to the edge. It was awkward, no good place to grip it. "For God's sake Jake don't drop it, that thing probably cost more than my truck."

We got it in without dropping it. Barely.

Earl picked up the controller and we watched it bob there for a second, listing a little to one side, and then it straightened out and sat there humming quietly.

"Okay." Earl said. "Down we go."

Three hundred feet down it was dark enough that we snapped on the lights fully bright. All it showed was the rough stone on the side of the sinkhole. The water was still crystal clear.

Around four hundred feet the walls changed. I almost missed it.

"Earl, hold up. Can you back it up a little?"

He reversed the sub and we both leaned in toward the monitor. The rough pitted limestone we'd been watching for the last ten minutes had stopped. What replaced it was dark and smooth. Almost glassy.

I looked at Earl. He looked at me. We both looked at the monitor.

"That ain't natural." I said.

"No." He said. Just that.

We stayed there a minute, both of us staring at the screen. The sub's lights caught the dark surface and threw back a dull reflection. Whatever it was, it went down as far as we could see.

Earl's hand was still on the controller. "You want me to keep going?" he asked.

I should have said no. "Yeah." I said. "Keep going."

At eight hundred feet the walls just disappeared.

The sub drifted out into open water and I realized I'd been holding my breath. The sinkhole had been feeding into something else the whole time: a cavern. The sub's lights didn't reach the far walls, didn't reach the bottom. Just open black water in every direction, and the hole we'd come through sitting in the ceiling like a drain in reverse.

"Earl." I said.

"Yeah." He said.

Neither of us said anything for a minute. The sub just hung there in the dark, lights cutting maybe thirty feet in any direction and then nothing.

"God," Earl said quietly. "I wish I'd brought some beer."

I laughed. Couldn't help it. Then stopped.

"Keep going down?" I asked.

He already was.

"Can you point the lights down?" I asked.

Earl adjusted the controller and the sub nosed down slowly. The lights swept across what I thought was the bottom of the cavern and I squinted at the monitor. Something was down there. A tangle of shapes, thick and dark and piled on each other like cable left in a heap. "What the hell am I looking at?" Earl said, mostly to himself.

The sub drifted lower. The shapes resolved a little. Thick as tree trunks, some of them. Thicker. Coiled loosely over and around each other, tapering at the ends, widening in the middle. Some of them were moving. Drifting, kind of like seaweed.

"Earl."

"I see it."

One of the big ones began to uncoil. It peeled away from the mass and as it moved it revealed a surface beneath it. Dark and rounded and covered in a texture I couldn't make sense of at first. It was dark and bumpy like an old avocado. I was still trying to figure out what I was looking at when it split open down the middle.

It was an eye. Had to be twenty feet across. The iris was the color of old bronze and the pupil was shaped like a triangle, and it was looking up at the sub.

My stomach dropped straight out of me.

Then the rest of them started moving. All of it, the whole mass, coming apart into individual shapes. Eyes on every surface, opening. Mouths too, rows of teeth catching the light, opening and closing on nothing. The cables, the arms, whatever they were, filled the cavern below us.

The monitor went dark.

"Shit Earl we have got to get the fuck out of here." I screamed, but Earl seemed frozen.

I grabbed Earl's arm. He was still staring at the monitor. "Earl. Earl we have to go. Right now."

The surface of the pond began to swell and boil. Whirlpools and waves churning around.

He blinked. Came back. We ran for the truck.

We dove in and Earl started it up, but we didn't make it twenty feet before the back end lifted. It had come up fast. Nothing that big should be that fast.

The tires left the ground and Earl screamed something I couldn't make out over the sound of the frame starting to give.

I had opened the door and jumped out without even thinking about it. The ground came up quick and I landed with a wet crack as my ankle snapped.

From the ground I could see the truck maybe thirty feet up, wrapped in something that looked like a giant black and glistening worm, being pulled toward the water. Earl was still in there. I know because I could hear him screaming. Then the roof caved in to the sound of shattering glass and metal forced beyond its limit, and then I couldn't hear him anymore, as the truck sank beneath the water.

The VCR had landed a few feet away. I don't even remember Earl throwing it.

I told the paramedics I fell off a ladder.

Anyway, now I don't know what to do. My brother's due back in two days and the sheriff keeps coming around asking about Earl. The state inspection fella wants his submarine back and I don't know what to tell him. All I got is this busted leg and the video we took, and I'm not sure who I need to show it to. I think I'm going to call the governor. Maybe the press? Should I call the FBI? What should I do?

Hey guys Kristi here again. I am tagging this now as a journal entry because like, once again I don’t know if this will end up being a horror story but lemme tell ya. THINGS HAVE GOTTEN WEIRD. Reception is still spotty and once again I’m on mobile so, I apologize for any formatting issues.
I had some drinks and went to bed and my dad locked the door. Which was weird because he NEVER locked the door, I mean, we’re on a secluded island in the middle of a lake in Canada. Not exactly a neighbor-hood. And earlier that day we heard a strange noise and my dad started acting weird.
He got weirder when we went to bed.
I’m not sure if it’s the same for all of you, but after drinking a lot, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night the SECOND my body isn’t drunk anymore and I feel the need to down gallons of water. I’ve never asked if this is a normal thing or if it’s just because I never really drink, but still.
It was one of those situations. I woke up at around 2:45ish and used my phone flashlight to make my way down the hall and to the kitchen to get some water.
When I was in the kitchen, I looked up and saw my dad sitting in the living room in the pitch black of night. No fan on no lights on. Just him sitting there staring into the kitchen.
I jumped and was like “Dad, what the fuck?”
And he said nothing.
Just continued to stare, flashlight light hitting his glasses and causing a glare.
He just held his finger up to his mouth in a “shh” motion.
I was thoroughly creeped out so I made my way back to my room with my water, figuring he was drunk and maybe he and my mom got into it again.
But as I was making my way back down the hallway…
I heard snoring.
Snoring coming from my mom and dad’s room.
Except, my mom has never snored.
Now, I originally thought to go investigate whatever was going on in the living room, but my survival instincts told me to just go to bed.
That I must be drunk and that I’m sleep walking and imagining things.
And so I did. I said “fuck that” in my head and went back to bed.
When I woke up, I was definitely groggy and hung over.
I made my way back down the ball into the kitchen where everyone was making fun of how hard I partied the night before.
So, trying to make light of the situation, I joked and said something along the lines of, “At least I wasn’t sitting in the pitch black doing nothing but staring.”
Everyone just looked at me confused.
Thomas said a joking “That’s true. Didn’t go all freaky Nikki on us.” And chuckled.
My dad just said “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
I laughed and said “I was teasing you about last night. You just sitting here in the dark staring into the kitchen.” And went to point at the chair he was sitting in, only to see that chair was replaced with a table.
There was no furniture besides the table on that wall of windows facing the deck.
My mom looked at me with concern.
“You really did tie one on last night huh?” She laughed.
But my dad and I didn’t.
I looked at him and he looked at me with a scared expression.
Thomas chuckled, oblivious to the tension, and asked if I took Benadryl and was sleepwalking again.
I just laughed and said “Guess so.”
After a brief silence from everyone, I looked at my dad and asked “You really weren’t out here last night?”
He looked down and whispered a “nope.”
Then after fidgeting his feet he said “You must’ve dreamed it. Let’s go fish.”
He got up abruptly with his poles and tackle boxes, Thomas following him down the dock.
I accepted it as a weird dream and heading back to put on something other than PJs.
I got to my room and started changing when I saw it.
My glass of water. Sitting next to my bed.
Undeniable proof I wasn’t dreaming.
That’s when it hit me.
There were chairs on the deck outside near the grills.
There was a glare.
I felt sick to my stomach as I walked back out the room, trying to gather the courage to walk back into that kitchen and look out the living room.
When I finally did, my family was there, waiting for me with a hat and getting ready to go out fishing.
I’m trying to convince myself it was a bad dream, but what are the chances I’m in actual danger here? Maybe my dad is pulling a joke on me. He’s always done stuff like that. I’m tempted to set up my phone and record around the house tonight, but equally as terrified I’d see something I won’t be able to forget.
I’ve always made jokes about how dying in horror movies is from people being stupid, and I’m here seeing myself fall into that same curiosity that those people get in those movies. Should I just leave it be? Should I go looking?
Ugh. SOMEONE PLZ GIMME SOME ADVICE HERE IM GETTING A LIL FREAKED OUT AND AM STUCK HERE TIL THE SIXTH!!

CW: vomit, cannibalism

Carver’s Challenge:

Test your skill, endurance, and love of BBQ with our six-pound platter of the gods.

A goliath sandwich on the biggest bun we could rustle up, with a pound of our famous pulled pork, a pound of smoked brisket, a pound of coleslaw, and your choice of sauce, served with half a dozen Inferno wings and a full pound of crispy fries.

Finish this colossus of a plate in 45 minutes and win our official I CARVED THE COMPETITION challenge tee, a spot on our Wall of Fame, and a waived bill for your efforts.

Think you’re worthy?

$39.99 (if you lose)

A picture of the monstrous plate sat underneath the description. My mouth watered at the thought of the savory sauce and tender meat. I looked over my shoulder to see the Wall of Fame, decorated with six photos under the large heading. Only six photos. Only six people vanquished Carver’s Challenge. I was here to be lucky number seven.

“Welcome to Carver’s BBQ Shack!” A cheery brown-haired young woman wearing a black CARVER’S BBQ shirt approached my table. “My name’s Gracie, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you started with something to drink?” She placed a glass of water in front of me.

I smirked. “I’m good with the water, thank you. I’m actually here for the challenge. Gonna make the Wall.” I gestured over my shoulder.

Gracie’s eyes gleamed at the words. “Another challenger, aye? Third one this week. Hope you do better than the others.” Her smile widened and she jotted something down on her notepad. “Sauce for the sandwich?”

“Inferno,” I said without hesitation. No use doing the challenge if I wasn’t going the whole nine yards.

Worry flashed across her face. “Are you sure? No one’s finished an Inferno sandwich yet. Hottest a challenge winner’s gone so far has been Carver’s Special.”

I stuck to it. “I’ll take the Inferno.”

She scribbled it down and looked back with a smile. “I’ll be back in a bit with your challenge, then. Good luck!” She turned to head to the kitchen and I sat back, mentally preparing. About four pounds of sandwich, a pound of fries, and six wings, all drenched in the restaurant’s infamous Inferno sauce. How bad could it be? I had never actually attempted a challenge such as this, but I'd seen enough Man v. Food and eaten enough Tabasco in my lifetime.

Minutes went by. I sipped my water, taking in the restaurant’s ambience. Carver’s BBQ Shack was a great pig out spot, literally and figuratively—pigs were all over the menus, walls and T-shirts, and their pulled pork was famous. Every breath through my nostrils made my mouth water. It was still a relatively new place, little more than a hole in the wall, but its reputation was growing fast. The literal mountain of meat was a large part of that, attracting gastric warriors from all over to test their mettle.

The low blues music and restaurant chatter was interrupted by the door swinging open and a loud, brash voice: “Carver’s Challenge, here I come!” A young man, blond and baby-faced, swaggered in, an entourage behind him. One of the guys next to him held a video camera, panning it around the restaurant then back at his friend. People turned to look at the group briefly, then went back to their meals and chitchat.

“Four of us,” the loudmouthed leader said to the hostess, a mousy high-school girl. I groaned when she led the group to the table right next to mine. They made a whole scene of sitting down, cameraman recording the entire process. The leader whipped off his sunglasses, draped his jacket over the chair, and sat down, smirking into the camera.

“What is up guys, Jeremy ‘Iron Belly’ Miller here at…” He paused so the cameraman could do another pan, “…Carver’s BBQ Shack. This one’s been on the radar for a hot minute. Six people have won the challenge here, and I’m going to be lucky number seven today.” I rolled my eyes and scowled when I saw the camera point at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gracie strolling up to them, pad in hand. Before she could get a word out, Jeremy blurted, “One Carver’s Challenge, please, Pilot Light on the sandwich.” She scribbled, and as she attempted to take drink orders he interrupted her again. “Get ready to see this face on the Wall of Fame.” He flashed her a smarmy smile and ordered a round of Coronas for his table.

I couldn’t believe the guy. Marching in here with all of his bravado and then picking Pilot Light. The five homemade sauces were another staple of Carver’s: from mildest to hottest you have Pilot Light, Campfire Smoke, Carver’s Special, Sweat Maker, and Inferno. Of course, he was going to have some Inferno on his wings next to the Pilot Light sandwich. As was I, a fact that Gracie unfortunately remembered.

“Looks like we got ourselves a duel here,” she exclaimed, looking Jeremy in the eye before shrugging at me. Dammit. She turned and strolled back into the kitchen, ignoring the whistle from one of Jeremy’s friends.

With her gone, the gang turned toward me and I had the camera in my face before I could react. “You’re also taking on Carver’s Challenge?” Jeremy inquired, sneering. I nodded. “What’s your name, man?”

“Mike.”

Jeremy got up and plopped down in the chair next to mine, wrapping an arm around me. “Well, Mike, best of luck to ya. Hope to see that handsome face next to mine on the Wall of Fame after dinner!” I leaned away from his arm and gave him the best don’t-talk-to-me look I could muster. He had none of it, though. “Any pointers, Mike?” The guy yapped at me for what seemed like eternity before Gracie, another waitress, and Rich came out, trash-lid-sized platters in their hands.

Rich Carver was the owner and head chef of Carver’s BBQ Shack. He was a big man in every sense of the word: tall, big-boned, a bit too well-fed, with a personality to match his stature. His voice boomed across the restaurant. “Ladies and gentlemen, the next 45 minutes may live in infamy. My humble little shack’s about to be a battlefield. Not one, but two gladiators are going into the meat colosseum this evening.” Many heads snapped toward my table, where Jeremy still lingered. The cameraman watched Rich intently, recording the speech.

Gracie and the other girl approached, putting the plates down. “Pilot Light…” Gracie said, nudging one of the giant platters toward Jeremy, “…and Inferno.” She placed the other in front of me. Jeremy’s eyebrow raised at the word and he looked at me curiously.

Carver’s Challenge was daunting, to say the least. The sandwich was the biggest I’d ever seen, both in diameter and height. Pork, brisket, coleslaw and sauce oozed between the gigantic bun slices. Next to it were the six wings and the nearly overflowing pile of crisped fries. I eyed the ketchup bottle sitting next to the five Carver’s sauces in the middle of the table. The harsh smell of the Inferno emanating from my sandwich and the wings burned my nostrils.

Rich sauntered over and put one meaty hand on Jeremy’s back and the other on mine. “Our brave challengers tonight are…” He looked at Jeremy, then turned his head at me.

Jeremy shot out of his chair and struck a pose. “I’m Jeremy ‘Iron Belly’ Miller. You can find me on YouTube at Iron Belly Challenges, and soon on Carver’s BBQ Shack’s Wall of Fame!” He looked down at the plate and threw a few punches out. His friends whooped. Gracie rolled her eyes.

“And you?” Rich directed his boom at me.

“Mike,” I said flatly.

“Mike who?” Rich pressed.

“Just Mike.” Rich’s enthusiasm I could handle—every time someone attempted the challenge he made a big deal of it. I’d seen videos where the pat on the back he gave the winners nearly knocked them out of their seats, and the losers were subjected to one bad joke or another. But much of my excitement for the challenge was deflated by Jeremy’s loud mouth and the camera in my face

“Well, Just Mike, I hope you’re hungry,” Rich started up again. “Iron Belly and Just Mike, are you ready for the most delicious pain you’ll ever experience? Sure to satisfy and bust your guts?” He smiled broadly and produced a digital timer from his KISS THE COOK apron. It was set for 45 minutes. Jeremy enthusiastically nodded. I locked eyes with Rich and nodded as well, the excitement returning. Delicious food, eternal glory, and a chance to show up this clown? It was challenge time.

A few people from other tables had begun to crowd around us. Rich took a seat in one of the other unoccupied chairs, quickly glancing around the restaurant. Gracie leaned down and whispered something into his ear before disappearing to the back with the other girl. I unwrapped my fork and knife, my weapons against the plated foes before me.

“45 minutes on the clock… FIGHT!” Rich pounded the table with a fist the size of the sandwich.

I immediately dove in, picking up the behemoth sandwich and sinking my teeth in. It was heaven and hell together on a bun—immaculately tasty and agonizingly hot, both from the freshness and the sauce. Carver’s Inferno was a jet fuel of a sauce, combining habanero and cayenne into a blend straight out of the seventh circle. One bite in and I could feel the first beads of sweat on my face. But I had a challenge to take on so I stuffed my face with another bite.

More and more droplets of sweat formed as I chewed, my jaw working its hardest. The sandwich was pure sensory overload. And I was only two bites in. A fleeting thought that I’d bitten off more than I could chew entered my mind, but I kept on chewing anyway. I took a slug of water, swallowed, and commenced my attack.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeremy analytically studying his plate and drenching the pile of fries in ketchup. After a moment of hesitation, his hand skimmed past the sandwich and went for a wing. He held the drummie up for the crowd to see before biting into it. I could see his face scrunch up as the Inferno went straight to his head. He quickly grabbed a handful of ketchup-covered fries and shoveled them into his mouth, chasing with a gulp of Corona.

I immediately followed his lead and upended the ketchup bottle over my fries. Seemed like a viable strategy—bite of sandwich, bite of fries, rinse and repeat. I took another bite and was once again assaulted by the capsaicin. I was sweating bullets, my face as red as the ketchup. And the sandwich didn’t seem to be getting any smaller. I took a glance at the clock: five minutes down, forty to go. There was plenty of time.

Jeremy was tearing through the wings like a termite through wood. Five of them were down, little bones stacked at the edge of his plate. He was breathing deep, doing his best to look unfazed but the sauce had him in its grasp. The pile of fries on his plate had a sizable dent and his beer was nearing the bottom. With a look of steely determination, he tore into the final hellish wing, stripping it bare and holding the bone up.

He swallowed, sighed, and looked Rich in the eye. “No problem,” he said with a sputter. A few people cheered. Rich guffawed.

Cocky prick. I couldn’t be outdone by him. Tears formed in my eyes as I tore back into the sandwich. The heat was relentless and the amount I’d already eaten felt heavy in my stomach. I grabbed some fries and stuffed them in, my jaws mixing everything together like concrete. My heart sank when I looked at the plate—the sandwich looked maybe half done. And I still had my wings to contend with, as well as the remaining fries.

Jeremy looked to have calmed down some, a few bites into his sandwich. His red flush had gone down and he seemed much more at ease, enjoying what remained of his meal. The realizations hit me as hard as the Inferno: one, that the Pilot Light sandwich was a strategic decision rather than an admission of weakness; two, that Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller was going to handily clear Carver’s Challenge; and three, that I was struggling bad. He had it all figured out—blitz and suffer through the wings early on and then casually pick apart the colossal sandwich, enjoying Rich’s creation to its fullest. He was coasting, and I was in hell.

I continued forward, though, pushing as much of the sandwich into my face as humanly possible and doing my best to ignore the pain. The giant thing got smaller and smaller. I was in a frenzy, an eating berserker. I was drenched in sweat and could barely see through the tears. My mouth was on fire. More sandwich. More fries. Chewing. Pain. Swallowing. Repeat. The crowd cheered. I splashed my face with my water. 25 minutes in. Light at the end of the tunnel—two more bites of sandwich.

Jeremy shot out of his chair, gave Rich a salute and the audience a bow, and popped the final bite of sandwich into his mouth. The room exploded into applause. Rich clapped him on the back and handed him a beige I CARVED THE COMPETITION shirt. Gracie snapped a picture of him with the empty platter. Jeremy’s friend trained his camera on me. And then every eye in the place fixed on me and the reality of everything sunk in. My frenzy subsided, and I felt every bit of what I’d eaten. I was a mess of sweat and tears, mouth aflame and stomach full to the brim. But still, I soldiered on.

Going for it, I crammed what was left of the sandwich into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks like a squirrel. I could barely chew, mouth opening with each jaw movement to the disgust of the onlookers. I had slowed to a crawl, the pain almost unbearable. I felt sick. After a few agony-filled moments, I forced the huge glob down, felt it slide down to my bowels. And then my stomach betrayed me.

What happened next was the greatest humiliation of my life. I doubled over in pain, leaning over the handful of fries and six Inferno wings, and began to heave. I fought it and the first heave was dry. The faces of the crowd turned to shock. Rich got up and bolted to the back with a speed uncharacteristic of a man his size. Jeremy’s eyes widened. Then it happened. I heaved again, and Rich Carver’s infamous sandwich made its way back onto the plate.

A few people covered their eyes, some pinched their noses, and others looked away. I could feel more coming, and the pungent smell just made me sicker. I had rendered the rest of my challenge inedible—the six wings and fries were covered in bile and bits of semi-digested meat. Rich barreled out of the back, a bucket in hand and Gracie behind him. Luckily I was able to hold the rest back until he got to my side. Sticking my face in the bucket, I let the rest out, retching and retching. The crowd thinned out, a few morbid onlookers staying to watch my challenge’s tragic end.

Rich stayed next to me, gently rubbing my back until the heaving stopped. After what felt like ages, I found enough strength to pull my head out of the bucket. The platter was gone and poor Gracie was scrubbing the table, shirt pulled up over her nose. Rich shooed away the remaining spectators. Only Jeremy and his goons remained, sitting at the table next to me drinking their Coronas and gawking.

Rich tried to lighten the moment. “Didn’t care for my food, huh?” he joked.

The four guys next to me began laughing like hyenas. I couldn’t take it anymore—I pushed out of the chair, shouldered past Rich and stormed out of Carver’s BBQ Shack. On my way out, I slapped two $20s on the host stand, startling the mousy hostess. Rich was a nice enough guy and likely would have comped this challenge loss given the circumstances, but I didn’t want his pity. I wordlessly ran to my car, tore out of there, went home and sobbed until I fell asleep.

The next few days were spent numb and blurry. Lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, occasionally watching mindless cable and changing the channel every time a Carver’s commercial aired. I barely ate—the very thought of food made me upset. After a few days, I ventured back out into the world. I immediately regretted it.

I was at the grocery store, scouring the produce section and steering clear of the meat, when I heard a voice behind me. “Are you Just Mike?” I turned to see a kid of about 13 or 14 staring at me. His eyes lit up when he saw my face closer. “Holy shit, you are.” He raised his voice and began gesturing. Two other kids, another boy and a girl, ran over.

“Can I help you?” I said, voice quavering.

“You’re famous, dude!” the first boy piped up, voice slightly cracking. “Just Mike the pukey guy from Iron Belly Jeremy’s channel!” I went pale.

“Can I get a selfie?” the second boy asked. Before I could react he whipped his phone out and took a picture.

I dropped my basket and ran out of the store, tears in my eyes. As much as I didn’t want to look, I had to see Jeremy’s video now. When I pulled up YouTube, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Front page, an edited thumbnail of an astonished Jeremy imposed onto a still of me, face red and twisted, with half my sandwich on the platter.

IRON BELLY CHALLENGES -- CAN JEREMY DEFEAT THIS GUT-BUSTER BBQ CHALLENGE? COMPETITION CAN’T HANG!

Over 200,000 views.

I was mortified but had to see it. Hand shaking over the mouse, I clicked. Various shots of Carver’s BBQ Shack filled my screen, inside and outside, with Jeremy providing a voiceover. “Last week I shattered a spaghetti-eating record, this week it’s time to pig out on some pig! We’re here at Carver’s BBQ Shack…” his annoyingly braggadocious voice narrated. It cut to an interview with Rich where the big man talked about his love for food and described the challenge.

JEREMY vs. CARVER’S CHALLENGE popped up, extravagant red font against a black screen. From the cameraman’s POV, Jeremy and his cronies strutted into Carver’s and sat down, the annoying voiceover continuing. I could see myself in the background, glancing at the camera with a scowl. I winced seeing the shot zoom in on my face. Jeremy continued to narrate, voiceover interspersed with his on-camera banter, “See this guy here? Remember him, he’ll be attempting the challenge too.” He then rattled off his strategy for the challenge over shots of them ordering, the camera lingering uncomfortably long on Gracie. “Think I got what it takes? Stay tuned for the challenge.” The video cut to an ad, thankfully not another Carver’s commercial.

The next several minutes of video were a highlight reel of the challenge with minimal voiceover. Rich’s booming introduction was captured, with zoom ins on both of our faces when our names were announced. The majority of the footage was Jeremy eating with a dramatically narrated recap, but the shot would occasionally switch to me, always with a snarky or condescending comment. “He’s trying but that Inferno sauce is no joke.” “Poor guy’s on fire right now, not in a good way.” “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

The shot cut to his final bite and victory antics. WINNER: JEREMY flashed onscreen. I was already having a hard enough time watching, but the next part turned my emotions to white-hot anger.

“I completed Carver’s Challenge, but we still gotta check up on Just Mike over here. He’s looking pretty desperate.” A closeup of my final defiant bite. “Is he going to do it?” The shot lingered as I chewed, swallowed, heaved, and retched, not missing a single detail. A zoom in on the puke-covered plate, a shot of the disgusted audience, me with my head in the bucket. “I may have carved Carver’s Challenge, but Just Mike was on the receiving end. Better luck next time, pal.”

I couldn’t watch anymore. I slammed my laptop shut and let out a scream of rage, tears streaming down my face. 200,000 views. Kids recognizing me as “Just Mike the pukey guy” in the grocery store. A hatred I’d never felt before filled me, burning hotter than Carver’s Inferno. Hatred toward Rich Carver, whose stupid fucking challenge did this to me. Hatred toward Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller, whose video will never let me live it down. My anger gave way to a detached numbness, the wheels in my head began to spin, and I realized the things I needed to do next.

A few weeks later, I sat in my car on the side of a country road, Jeremy’s newest video winding down on my phone. After finishing a sundae the size of his head from a diner in middle-of-nowhere Illinois, he looked into the camera and teased his next challenge before signing off. And what do you know, it was another BBQ place. His next destination was St. Louis, about four hours from here, and according to his social media, he’d be attempting the challenge the day after tomorrow. I would deal with Jeremy in due time, but right now the priority was Rich.

It was a quiet Saturday night, a little after 10pm. Carver’s was open 11am-10pm Monday through Saturday. Rich would likely be finishing his prep work right about now, ambling out to his red pickup, stopping at LiquorMart, then heading home. I had been following Rich for about a week, staking out Carver’s from a nearby strip mall lot. The guy practically lived at the restaurant—he was there open-close every day of operation, and didn’t leave his house on his one day off. I looked at my watch: 10:13pm. He would be getting back soon, back to the home I sat half a mile down the road from.

I got out of my car, zipping up my jacket and grabbing a backpack off the seat. It was a cool night, clouds blocking the moonlight and stars. Not a streetlight in sight for miles, and even better, not a single passing car. I walked at a steady clip, head on a swivel, but nothing. The night was eerily silent, my footfalls the only sounds. Until my stomach let out a loud growl. The thought of the tasks at hand somehow overpowered the hunger I felt—the last substantial meal I’d had was midday the day before. Water, the occasional protein shake, and granola bars had made up my sustenance since. I was starving, but had to focus. Rich would make a good meal for me soon enough.

Soon enough, I was walking up the long driveway toward the cook’s house. It was a simple, unassuming one-story with a detached garage and front porch. His red truck was nowhere to be found. I took in my surroundings before walking up the porch and clutching the doorknob. To my surprise, it opened right up with a slight creak. This was going much easier than anticipated.

I entered, shutting the door behind me. Looking around, I realized that Rich Carver had no reason to batten down the hatches. The house was filled with junk—empty liquor bottles and Carver’s takeout boxes, crumpled up newspapers, little trinkets and doodads. I entered his small living room, complete with a La-Z-Boy, small side table, oversized TV, Miller Lite Girl poster, and more shit everywhere. The room was a pigsty—fitting for a guy whose claim to fame was pig.

The kitchen was jarring by comparison. It was similarly small, but much more upkept. Not a stain on the stovetop, not a dish in the sink, not even a scuff on the tile floor. A lot could be said about Rich Carver, but there was no doubting the guy’s passion and love for all things culinary. A dim light was on over the stove, enough to see around the room. I gently opened one of the cabinets and peered at the various cooking gadgets. A block of fancy-looking knives caught my eye.

The sound of an engine snapped me back. I peeked around the corner and saw lights through the living room blinds that soon dimmed. A truck door slammed. I fished around in my backpack, looking across the living room to the doorway. The door started to creak open. I crouched back into the kitchen and found what I was looking for. Heavy footsteps thumped their way in. I was expecting to hear the plop of a large body collapsing into a recliner, but the steps kept going. Going in my direction. He was coming to the kitchen.

Before I could scramble away, Rich rounded the corner. BANG. The surprised look in his eyes glazed over and he tottered back, crashing to the ground with blood trickling out of his forehead. The bottle of vodka in his meaty hand shattered on impact. My whole body shook with adrenaline as I put the pistol back in the backpack and began to fish out a large tarp. Blood was beginning to pool on the tile around his head.

I grabbed him by one of his legs and pulled with all my might. He was one heavy sonofabitch but eventually I got him onto the tarp and rolled it up, making sure to spritz up the blood. Even in death Rich Carver needed a spotless kitchen. Dragging him through the house to the door was a Herculean labor—I might as well have been pulling his truck. After an eternity of the hard physical labor, I got him to the garage, the door opening just as effortlessly as the house’s front.

Firing up a flashlight, I looked around the wide, empty garage. Various tools adorned the walls, a couple workbenches and more junk. I flicked the light from spot to spot, wondering what would be best for the gruesome undertaking about to begin. An axe? A hacksaw, maybe? The light landed on an electric circular saw. Bingo.

I quickly searched Rich’s body before preparing it: his wallet with a few bills, license, credit card and Carver’s business card, a pack of Marlboro Reds with two remaining, some pocket lint, and a set of keys. A house key, a truck key, and a few I didn’t recognize. Likely a key for the restaurant and a lockbox within. I pocketed the keys as an idea flashed through my head, but I quickly dispelled the thought. I had a challenge to win.

I’ll spare you the gory details of dismantling the big man, but one thing was certain: cutting through bone wasn’t easy. I threw his various appendages into trash bags—I’d deal with them later. The softer bits were the priority. I filled a few Ziplocs with various pieces and reentered the house, stepping over the clutter to get to the kitchen. Rich’s passion for food was very beneficial to me—within a few minutes of looking, I found a meat grinder and kitchen scale.

I never claimed to be a good cook. I could make a mean microwave burrito or frozen pizza, but nothing fancy. But with the head chef and owner of Carver’s BBQ Shack’s home kitchen at my disposal, anything was possible. I worked throughout the night, grinding the meat and cooking it stovetop in some fancy oil from Rich’s cupboard and generous amounts of Carver’s Pilot Light. As the first rays of Sunday’s sunlight peeked through the window, I began to plate my redemption.

Two pounds of Rich Carver on a bun, topped with a pound of various vegetables from the fridge and Pilot Light. About a pound cut into small bites, drizzled in Inferno. A pound of fries from the freezer, air-fried to a crisp. I set a timer for 45 minutes, and dug in. As much as I hated to admit it, Jeremy had a point. I attacked the Inferno bites first, quickly taking them down in between handfuls of fries and gulps out of a milk jug from the fridge. The fiery ordeal was done in a matter of minutes, much less painful than last time. It was smooth sailing from there.

Visions of my humiliation flashed through my head as I took the sandwich bite by bite. It wasn’t quite Rich’s famous pulled pork, but it had a certain flavor to it. Plus, you could probably make cardboard edible if you put Carver’s sauce on it. His voice echoed in my head as I ate: Didn’t like my food, huh? I could see the image of him clapping Jeremy on the back so hard it almost knocked him from his chair. Jeremy. I wondered how he would fare in this round of Carver’s Challenge.

I could feel myself filling up but I was nearing the end. I was going to do it. The frenzy I felt back at the restaurant overcame me once more and I tore, chewed, and swallowed my way to victory. With a grin on my face that widened when I saw the timer, I popped the last bite. I had defeated Carver’s Challenge in 24 minutes, a minute faster than Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller.

The trek back to the car was slow and bloated, but I was triumphant. It was time to hit the road, but I had a couple pit stops to make. First: back to Rich’s house. Garbage bags in the trunk and a few pounds of ground Rich in a cooler. I did a once-over before I left, making sure the kitchen was as spotless as he normally kept it. Next was Carver’s BBQ Shack. Ignoring the CLOSED sign, I fumbled with Rich’s keys until the door opened, looked around a bit, and left with what I came for. I slipped my hard-earned I CARVED THE COMPETITION shirt over my head, and then broke a certain framed Wall of Fame photo over my knee.

That was just the beginning of my business with Jeremy. Cooler in the back, bags in the trunk, it was time for a road trip. I punched St. Louis into my GPS and pulled out of Carver’s for the last time, not looking back. Jeremy’s next, and final, challenge would be of my making. I was going to find him.

Carver’s wouldn’t open back up until tomorrow. I had a head start—no one would notice Rich’s absence for now. But they’d catch on soon enough. Whether I found Jeremy or the authorities found me first, this would all be over soon. Something shattered in me after Carver’s Challenge, and there would be no walking away from the things I did and would soon do. No return to normal life. I decided I would turn myself in after I finished up with Jeremy, confess it all. No one would talk about Just Mike puking into a bucket anymore—I would be immortalized as the man who truly carved the competition.

I just hope I can get Carver’s sauce on my last meal.

I've been writing horror stories online for about four years now. Nothing famous, I have a small following, and I'm happy. A few hundred people who read my stuff and leave comments. I enjoy it. I enjoy the interaction.

One of my favorite parts is replying to comments. It feels good. Someone takes the time to tell you they liked something you wrote, you take the time to say thanks. That's the deal. I've always done it.

I have a habit of staying in character in the comments. If someone asks what happened to a character, I'll answer like they're a real person. If someone asks whether the house was haunted, I'll tell them it was worse than haunted. Readers seem to enjoy it.

There was one reader I started recognizing early on. Not because he commented often. Because he always commented first. Different stories. Different subjects. Different usernames around him. But somehow, every time I posted, there he was. NeonNihilist.

Sometimes he'd just write a sentence.

"The basement door wasn't locked."

Or:

"He heard it before the phone rang."

Things that weren't in the story. Or weren't in the story yet.

I figured he was just good at predicting where I was going. Some readers are like that. They pick up on patterns. They understand the genre. It didn't bother me. I actually liked it. It felt like having a conversation with someone who understood what I was trying to do.

I started replying to him. Staying in character, of course. If he wrote "The basement door wasn't locked," I'd reply: "It was never locked. That's what he didn't understand." He'd reply back. We'd go back and forth. It became a thing.

Over time, I noticed he was always right. Every prediction he made came true. Every detail he pointed out was important. Every character he said would die ended up dying.

I told myself he was just perceptive. Maybe he'd read enough of my work to know my patterns.

I was wrong.

I started noticing the replies I didn't remember writing about six months ago. I'd check a post and see that I'd supposedly replied to a comment. Replies I didn't remember writing. I thought I was just tired. I work a full-time job. I write late at night. Sometimes I'm sleep-deprived and I don't remember everything I do.

But then I read one of the replies. A reader had asked: "What happened to the photograph in the end?" My account had replied: "She found it again. In her own house this time."

I didn't write that. The story I'd posted didn't have a photograph. It was about a woman who hears knocking from inside her walls. There was no photograph in that story.

I checked the timestamp. 3:12 AM. I was asleep.

I changed my password. I enabled two-factor authentication. I stopped worrying.

But the replies kept coming. It took me longer than it should have to notice the pattern. The replies I didn't remember writing only appeared beneath NeonNihilist's comments. Sometimes he would ask a question. Then my account would answer it. Hours later I'd log in and find a conversation I didn't remember having.

I started scrolling through my older stories. NeonNihilist had been there the whole time. Years worth of comments. Hundreds of them. Most were normal.

Then I found one under a story I'd posted two years ago.

"The ending is weaker than the first draft."

At the time I'd laughed and ignored it. Now I couldn't stop staring.

I checked another comment. A story about a man who finds a locked room in his new house. NeonNihilist had written: "The key was always in the drawer."

I'd written a story about a locked room. There was no key. There was no drawer.

I checked another. A story about a woman who keeps receiving letters from her dead husband. NeonNihilist had written: "The seventh letter was the one she shouldn't have read."

I wrote that story. There were seven letters. The seventh one was exactly what he'd described.

I never published that version. I'd changed the ending. The seventh letter was never in the final draft.

I started reading every comment NeonNihilist had ever left. Years of predictions. Years of insights. Details that weren't in the stories. Details that were in versions of the stories that I had written but never posted. Details that I had only thought about.

I opened a new document. I started writing a new story. I didn't have a plot in mind. I just started typing.

Two hours later, I checked NeonNihilist's profile. He had made a new post.

It was a screenshot of a story draft.

A story I was still writing.

The post was dated three days ago.

I opened my current draft. The one I'd been working on for weeks. The one I hadn't shown anyone.

The cursor in my document was currently sitting at the bottom of page 39.

The screenshot was from page 44.

I haven't written page 44 yet.

I stared at the screen. My heart was pounding. I didn't know what to do. I checked the comments on NeonNihilist's post. There was only one.

From my account.

It said: "He's not going to finish this one either."

I didn't write that.

I checked the time. It was posted an hour ago.

I was sitting at my desk.

My hands were on the keyboard.

I don't remember typing it.

I messaged NeonNihilist.

Who are you?

Seven minutes later, I got a reply.

That's what I've been trying to figure out.

I stared at the screen. What do you mean?

Another reply appeared immediately.

You're the one writing about me.

I clicked on his profile again. For the first time, I noticed the account creation date.

Four years ago.

Six minutes before I posted my first story.

I checked the post again.

There was a comment from NeonNihilist I didn't remember seeing before.

"You're almost caught up."

My stomach dropped.

Then I noticed something I'd missed.

The timestamp didn't say "4 days ago."

It said "in 4 days."

Many see silence as torture.
For myself, it is a death sentence.
To be able to hear my heartbeat, means they are already too close.
I feel their approach like a stampede of cattle, shaking my body like an earthquake.
I lunge for some form of noise.
TV, radio, my phone. Anything!
As soon as sound litters the air and flows as though it is pollen in the air.
I feel the beasts slow and tire.
Noise, any noise is a lullaby.
They yawn revealing rotted teeth and gums before resting so peaceful as though they are not reapers.
They reek, the smell of cheap booze and cigarettes imbedded into their matted, dull fur.
One tries to fight the lullaby, always.
I hear him scratching at my door.
I see his shadow leak in through the bottom of my door.
His heavy breathing like a horrid chime each second.
He scratches and scratches before letting out a frustrated sigh and collapsing outside my door.
I have stared them in their blood shot eyes, seeing the vessels pop in real time from some attempting to push through the trance.
They are rabid beasts, something designed to kill when someone is completely alone.
I know I am not their first, I see fake nails lodged into their backs and various colors of hair jammed in their teeth like seasoning.
Noise keeps them away.
The louder the sound, the higher the dosage.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that it was poisoning me as well.
Every moment, awake or asleep, sound must be the air I breathe.
The companion that guards me as the beasts patiently circle.
I am never alone.
Not in my bedroom.
Not in my sleep.
Not in the shower.
Not in the car.
Never in my home.
Noise may keep them away.
How long will it keep me together?

I got the security cameras for my fortieth birthday. My wife said it was a stupid gift. She said we lived in a safe neighborhood. She said I was being paranoid. She was right. But I installed them anyway.

The cameras cover the front door, the driveway, and the backyard. I check the footage every morning while I drink my coffee. It's become a routine. A habit. I don't even think about it anymore.

I noticed the figure on day twelve. The backyard camera catches the whole yard. Fence on both sides. A small shed in the corner. Woods behind the fence. The footage from 3:11 AM showed something standing near the shed. I paused it. Zoomed in.

It was tall. Thin. Dark. Just standing there. Not moving. I stared at it for a long time. It didn't move in the footage. It didn't move on the live feed when I pulled that up either.

I checked the footage from the night before. Same spot. Same time. Same figure. I checked the night before that. Same thing. I checked the entire week. Every night at 3:11 AM, the figure appeared. It would stand near the shed until 4:03 AM, then it would disappear between frames. One second there. The next second gone.

I didn't tell my wife. I told myself I was being paranoid. I told myself it was a trick of the light. A reflection. A tree branch. I told myself a lot of things.

I started staying up. I'd sit in the dark living room with the laptop open, watching the live feed. Every night at 3:11 AM, the figure would appear. Just standing there. Not moving. Not looking at the house. Just... present.

I started noticing things about it. It was always facing the same direction. Not toward the house. Toward the fence. Toward the woods behind the yard. I wondered what it was looking at.

I checked the footage from the other cameras. The front door. The driveway. The figure never appeared on those. Just the backyard. Just near the shed. Just facing the woods.

I asked my neighbor about it. He's lived next door for twenty years. He said he'd never seen anything unusual. He said the woods had always been quiet. He said it with a look on his face that made me think he was lying. I asked my wife if she'd ever noticed anything in the backyard at night. She said I was spending too much time on those cameras. She said I needed to relax. She said it with a tone that made me stop asking.

I didn't stop watching.

I started marking the dates. Every night it appeared. Every night it faced the woods. Then I started noticing the changes. Small at first. Almost unnoticeable.

On night 23, it was a foot closer to the fence.

On night 27, its head was slightly tilted. Like it was listening.

On night 31, its arms were stretched toward the woods. Both of them. Fingers extended. Almost reaching.

On night 39, it was standing at the fence line. Right up against it. Still facing the woods.

I took a walk out there one afternoon. The woods were quiet. Too quiet. No birds. No animals. Just the sound of my own footsteps. I walked for about twenty minutes before I turned back. I didn't go into the woods again.

The figure kept appearing. Every night. Different positions. Different postures. But always facing the same direction. Always facing the trees.

Then last night, I checked the footage. 3:11 AM. The backyard was empty.

I scrolled back. The figure had appeared at 3:11 AM as usual. But at 3:41 AM, it had turned. For the first time in all the footage I'd watched, it had turned. It looked toward the house. Then it disappeared between frames. It never came back.

I stayed up until morning. I watched the live feed. Nothing.

I spent three hours staring at the footage from the night before. Then I noticed something I should have seen weeks ago. The figure never once looked at the house. Not even when the porch light came on. Not even when I walked into the yard one night, stupidly brave, and stood twenty feet from it. Not even when I shouted at it.

Whatever it was watching wasn't here.

I don't know why it left. I don't know what made it turn. I told myself it was a good thing. It was gone. The thing that had been standing in my backyard every night was finally gone. I should be relieved.

I'm not relieved.

I woke up this morning and checked the footage from last night. Something was standing near the shed. Facing the house. Standing exactly where the other one used to stand.

The first creature is gone. Something else took its place. And now it's looking directly at the room I'm sitting in.

I rewound the video to see when it appeared. It was there at 3:11 AM. But it started moving at 3:47 AM. One step toward the house. Then another at 3:48. Another at 3:49. I kept watching. The camera never showed it reach the house. It just disappeared between frames.

I checked the front door camera. Nothing. The driveway camera. Nothing.

Then I checked the backyard feed again. The shed was empty. The yard was empty.

But something was standing directly in front of the camera. Close enough that all I could see was a dark shape. Looking into the lens. Looking past it. Looking at me.

And for the first time since I bought these cameras, the image wasn't recorded footage. It was live.

part 3

I heard a ding just as the car door slammed shut. It was a sound I was all too familiar with. Youtube had sent me a notification, the WeatherBoys posted a new video. The title alone made me drop my hand from the key that was just placed in the ignition. ‘We Barely Escaped a Forest Fire - We Saw Something Strange Within the Flames’ filled the bubble on my lock screen. Clicking the phone with my pointer finger, the video started playing instantly. Shock and curiosity grew within me. 

A cheerful interview with Mr. Roy was cut abruptly, replaced by roaring flames outside a car window. Every so often a gasp would escape my mouth as I watched in horror. The whole scene looked like something straight out of a nightmare. Then, near the end, something appeared from within the flames. Danny and Trevor had clipped the end and edited the various copies into the video multiple times. With each new clip the speed got slower and more zoomed in, a green circle added around what they were trying to make us aware of. 

“Do you see that guys? I saw it with my own two eyes. The creature was some kind of amalgamation of animals. I couldn’t get a full look at it since I was trying to…stay alive…but I’ll tell you what I saw. It looked like a deer, bear, and some kind of wild cat or wolf were all pieced together like some sort of sick jigsaw puzzle,” Danny’s voice came through the speakers on my phone. 

“I didn’t really get a chance to see it since I was focused on saving Danny, but looking back at the video I took gave me quite a scare. All I know is I’m glad we made it out of that mess,” Trevor was sitting on a hospital bed with various bandages covering his skin. 

“If anyone else has seen anything like this, you have to let us know. I can’t help but think there’s something incredibly wrong…” Danny’s voice sounded rough, like he’d swallowed a handful of nails. 

With that last line the video ended and I was thrown into a deep and uncomfortable silence. Instead of feeling afraid, I felt even more compelled to head south. The apartment was hopefully still in one piece, since I hadn’t been notified of anything related to fire damage. Plus, there was the convention that was happening near the college that I was planning to go to. A part of me hoped that maybe I would run into Danny and Trevor, but doubted that would be the case since they were actively in the hospital. 

What fascinated me even more was the prospect of this monster. Maybe it really wasn’t just some random force of nature that senselessly killed my friend. Maybe there was a bigger picture that I was missing. So many strange things were happening in my life, and even stranger things were happening in the world around me. For the first time in a long time I felt truly and utterly excited. Even if it turned out to be a hoax or some false hunt for Bigfoot, at least in this moment I could stave off the depression. 

“I hope Mr. Roy is okay,” I said aloud. The boys hadn’t mentioned anything about him after the interview was cut short. 

The car engine roared to life as I turned the key. The gear shift moved easily, and soon I was driving off towards the highway that cut through the middle of town. I rolled the windows down letting the cool breeze slip into the car. Thankfully I was smart enough to tie my hair back before driving. It surely would have ended up in my eyes or mouth if I hadn’t. After twenty minutes or so the cityscape traded itself for fields of yellow and green. Soon after, the highway brought me to the entrance ramp of a freeway, something I had minimal experience driving on. 

The death grip I had on the steering wheel relaxed as I got more comfortable at higher speeds. Every so often cars would pass around me and I would once again tighten my fingers. Instead of music I listened to podcasts that I had queued up before I left. Distracted driving was not an act I wanted to be doing, especially so far from home. Keeping my brain entertained with stories was helping to ease my anxiety. 

When I hit the border of Indiana and Kentucky, the scenery changed abruptly. The air was thick and smokey, rolling across the land like an immense fog. Everything that was vibrant was now tinted by shades of grey. When I made it near the Louisville area I had to stop for gas. The locals were quite nice, most of them sporting ‘country’ accents. They all seemed to ask me the same question once I’d spoken. 

“Are you a Yankee?” They’d ask with a southern drawl. 

“Nope. I’m not from New York. I’m from Indiana,” I’d reply. 

After filling up my car, I headed inside the gas station to use the bathroom and grab a coffee. When I came back out with the warm styrofoam cup in my hand, the phone rang. Pulling it out of my pocket, I held the phone between my shoulder and ear so I was still able to use one of my hands. It was my Mom, asking how things were going. I had to bite my tongue, almost telling her of the smoke that I was experiencing. If she knew of the fire that had happened, she’d have told me to turn the car around. 

“Everything is going good, Mom. I’m just stopping for gas. Actually, I’m about ready to get back on the road,” I said. 

“Okay, good. I’m glad. Well, I don’t want you talking on the phone while you’re driving so I’ll let you go. I love you, Laurel,” my Mom replied. 

It took me a little over seven hours to complete the drive. When I got into Knoxville, the city itself seemed fine. The smaller towns that surrounded it, and the rural areas were what seemed to take the brunt of the fire. The fire stations that I had passed by all looked like ghost towns. The firemen and women were still hard at work. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help, but also felt nervous being in an unfamiliar area. 

Moving into the apartment was easy. I had only brought a few suitcases and had already been chatting with my new roommate for at least a few weeks now. She was starting college in the fall like I should have been, and was surprised that I wanted to move in so soon. Right off the bat I told her that I wanted to experience life in Tennessee for a few months before attending the winter semester. Once I’d explained why, she seemed somber and understanding. 

“Thanks for helping me bring my stuff in, Bella,” I slumped back on the couch. 

“No problem, girly. Glad I could show you a taste of my southern hospitality so early on,” Bella chuckled. 

“Got any suggestions for my first official day here? I was planning on going out tomorrow, since the conference is on Saturday,” I said. 

“You could always go to Market Square. It’s got a lot of cute businesses and restaurants. You’ll probably love all the sculptures they have there. Oh! And sometimes they have live performances,” Bella’s voice was filled with enthusiasm. 

“Thanks, that sounds like a great suggestion. You have classes tomorrow right?” I asked. 

“Yeah, and I have track practice too. Since that’s how I got the scholarship, I need to make sure I’m keeping up appearances.” Bella sighed heartily. 

“You’re planning on going to med school eventually, right?” I asked.

“Yup, you’ve got it. Boy, am I setting myself up for a lot of sleepless nights and debt,” Bella laughed. 

“Oh goodness,” I replied. 

Soon after our conversation died out naturally, I excused myself for the night. I had already called my mom as soon as I arrived, and now I could just focus on myself. After a long and much needed shower, I slipped into my new bedroom. It was plain and littered with my suitcases in various states of unpacked. As soon as the bed was cleared off I slipped in, before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

—

When the plane touched down on the tarmac my body was jolted awake. For a moment, I didn’t remember where I was or what I had seen just a few hours ago. Then, it all came flooding back like a burst dam. The fissure in the Earth, the screams that had accompanied it, the dread and anxiety. 

How many people had died? How many people were stuck in places where they could not be helped? How many were injured? Had Joey and I not been on the plane, could that have been us down there? Could we have been sucked into the pocket that had opened up within the ground?

I shook my head, my brain awakening fully. My stomach was gnawing at me from the inside, the emptiness of it excruciating. Looking over to my right I saw that Joey too, had passed out during the flight. Drool was leaking from the corner of his partially opened mouth. He looked like a giant sleeping child. 

“Joey,” I said softly. “Wake up, we made it.” 

“Nnngggghhh,” Joey groaned. 

“Seriously. Wake up, we need to de-board soon.” 

“Five more minutes, Mom…” Joey’s voice trailed off. 

I shook Joey’s shoulder until his eyes snapped open. He blinked a few times trying to clear the sleep from his vision. A few moments after that, we were walking through the airport headed for baggage claim. While we waited by the carousels, I pulled my phone from my carry-on bag and turned it back on. Dozens of notifications filled my screen, to the point where it was overwhelming. 

“So it wasn’t a dream…” I said aloud accidentally. 

“No, no it wasn’t,” Joey sighed. 

“I don’t even know what to do or how to feel at this moment. So many people must have died. All I can think is that I’m glad none of my immediate family lives in the area. The selfishness of that thought makes me feel sick.” 

Not waiting for Joey’s reply, I spotted my bag and went to grab it from the moving belt. Once both of our suitcases were collected, we exited the airport. The smoke that hung in the air deepened my sense of dread. San Francisco wasn’t the only place to be experiencing devastating forces of nature. I’d completely forgotten that I’d seen there was a forest fire in Tennessee within the last few days. It seemed coming to this convention was more important than I realized. 

Something truly awful was happening, and it wasn’t just a localized incident. I know nature does what it wants, but it usually ebbs and flows. Within the last couple of months she’s truly bared her fangs. Instead of nature, what’s happening felt like a punishment. It felt like anger and retribution. The land, the animals, the weather, nothing was right anymore. What was next, and why? I just couldn’t understand.

The hotel that Joey and I were staying in was within walking distance of where the convention was being held. Once we made it there and checked into our rooms, I showered and went to bed early. My brain was unable to process what had happened in my waking hours, and decided to attempt such a feat in my sleep.

I dreamt of giant holes opening up from within the Earth. Holes filled with angry, wriggling, masses of flesh crawling over each other. Spilling out from the pit like a conscious mudslide, a sentient spewing of magma. The gooey, moss bound collection of creatures all cried out in unison. Howls, wails, croaks, chirps, neighs, snorts, they all yelled for the same thing. Something…I couldn’t remember.

What was it that they said, what was it that they wanted? 

The next morning came all too fast. My phone going off awoke me with a start. The dream slipped away from me with each passing moment, like a word on the tip of my tongue. The more I tried to remember, the farther away the memory went. It took me a while to realize I was in the hotel, somewhere in Knoxville. 

Joey was in the room next door. I needed to make sure he was awake too. Slipping out of my room and into the hall, I knocked three times. The door opened just as I was reaching for the fourth. Joey’s hair was sticking out at odd angles and there were indents on the side of his face. He must have slept well. 

“Morning, Gabs.” Joey yawned and stretched simultaneously. 

“Can you be ready in an hour?” I asked.

“Sure thing,” Joey replied. 

Turning on my heel, I walked back to my door and re-entered the room. When the lock clicked closed behind me, I headed to the bathroom and started working on my appearance. Makeup was essential for covering the bags under my eyes, and I had to do something about my own bird's nest of hair. If I were going to be standing on a stage in front of countless people, I had to look my best. Even if I didn’t feel my best. 

The trip from the hotel to the convention center took only about ten minutes. Even though I was frowned at by everyone but Joey, I wore a mask as we walked. The smoke from the fire still hung in the sky like fog, and I wanted my lungs to inhale the least amount possible. When we made it through the revolving glass door, I took the mask off and slid it into my purse. 

“Still nervous?” Joey asked.

“Not really, not anymore. For some reason, I feel oddly calm.” I sighed, “Thanks for checking on me.” 

“Anything for my partner. We’ve been through it all, together.” Joey lifted his hand for a fist bump, and I obliged. 

“Gabby!” Someone shouted from within the sea of people. 

Joey and I looked at each other with confusion before my eyes started to wander around the large room. I scanned the area with curiosity, waiting for a familiar face to jump out at me. That was when I landed on the crewcut sporting a giant grin. I had seen that face just a few weeks prior. As he stepped from within the crowd, I noticed the bandages covering various places on his body. My eyes scanned the area around him, finally landing on the mop of red hair I was searching for. Even though they both looked like hell, I couldn’t help but smile. 

“Daniel, Trevor! What are you guys doing here?” I asked them with surprise in my voice. 

“We were filming another video with Mr.Roy, did you get a chance to watch our newest upload?” Daniel asked once he got closer. 

“Nah, sorry. I haven’t had a chance. With all the earthquakes we were having in Cali, I haven’t had much down time.” I sighed, a frown forming on my face. 

“You’re gonna want to watch it. Do you remember what we talked about, the last time we were together? The moss?” Daniel waggled his brows. He tried to wink but it looked more like he had gotten something in his eye. 

“Stop making that face, you’re gonna hurt yourself, kid.” Joey spoke this time. Chuckling loudly as Daniel made a sour face this time. 

“Cut me some slack man, I don’t know how to wink properly. I was trying to be sneaky,” Daniel laughed. 

“Why do you and Trevor look like hell?” I asked. 

“I’m telling you, seriously. You NEED to watch the upload,” Daniel emphasised. 

“Alright lets go somewhere we can sit down,” Joey said. 

The duo that made up the WeatherBoys walked in front, while Joey and I followed close behind. We weaved through the massive crowd that only seemed to grow bigger before we finally found a mildly secluded area. I felt bad making the boys walk so far, Trevor was limping. Just what had they gone through? What was so important that they made their way here to find me? When we had met a few weeks prior, I had mentioned coming to the convention only once. What a great memory, I thought to myself. 

Pulling up their youtube channel on my phone, I put one of my earbuds in and handed the other to Joey. Daniel and Trevor sat in the chairs across from us, watching our facial expressions intently. I saw the snippet of Roy’s interview, I saw the fire, and then… I saw the creature. A shiver passed through me as I thought of the whale/fish ratking and my odd dream from last night. There was something that I was missing, something truly important. 

“Did you get a good look at it?” Joey asked me in a hushed tone. 

“Yeah, I did. It was hard to see at first but when they slowed the videoclip down, it looked the same. It even had the weird glow when being caught on camera, just like what we saw on the beach.” I shook my head, leaning forwards onto the table. 

“Is this the moss you were talking about? The one that’s been appearing on the animals and growing across the ground in places where it shouldn’t be possible?” Daniel asked. 

“Danny and I watched this clip hundreds of times. Not to mention, he and Roy got a clear view of the monstrosity. Mr. Roy even got hurt trying to protect us from it…” Trevor’s voice trailed off. 

My phone buzzed, the reminder I had set going off. It was almost time for my presentation, one that I wasn’t sure I wanted to make anymore. Notifying the group of my need to leave, I promised them that we would finish this conversation later. I wanted to hear the full account of the incident from the horse's mouth, so to speak. I told Joey to stay with the boys since I needed to go get mic-ed up so that I could do a sound check. I didn’t need the posse to come with me and create a hassle for the staff. 

Before I could walk away, Joey grabbed me by the arm. His palm and fingertips felt rough against my skin, his grip tight. For a moment, we stayed like that. I stood above him, my eyebrows slightly raised. Then, without a word, Joey handed me his camera bag. Hesitantly I reached out to take it, the weight heavier than expected. I held the strap tightly, moving to drape it over my shoulder. Finally, Joey released me from his grip. 

I used to have a thing for Joey. When we were first paired up, early on in my career, just being around him made my heart race. I had to cool my cheeks with the backs of my hands, attempting to quell the blushing. Every time I got too carried away thinking about him, I would remember how my adams apple sticks out farther than most. How my breasts were doctor sculpted and the fact that I had to get laser hair removal on my face. Joey was straight as straight could be and my internalized transphobia kept me feeling like I was one step shy of a real woman. My butterflies would always come crashing back to earth, tattered and broken. 

I gave up on my feelings for so long it was like this never existed in the first place. Except for the rare moments like this, where I would feel like he sees me for who I want to be. He sees me as someone brave, and powerful. A person filled with conviction and grit. When he handed me the camera bag, I knew what he was really saying. I could read between the lines. He was saying ‘to hell with our careers, we have to show them what was trying to be hidden’. Did I have the resolve?

“I’ll be going completely off script, impromptu speeches in front of large crowds isn’t my thing. But I’ll try,” I took a step back from my partner. 

“Go get 'em, tiger,” Joey said. 

—

Okay. So. I’m Kristi. I’m not Peaz right now. I’m Kristi. I was writing something else, but I’m putting that on pause because weird stuff is happening. I’m on mobile right now so it may come off a bit strange/ disjointed. But this isn’t a horror story, I don’t think? It’s just, weird things are happening and I’m anxious and worried and I am hoping this uploads because reception is spotty up here. I sometimes get data, sometimes don’t. It’s kinda a dice throw.
I’m in Canada right now. I live in the states, but my family owns an island up here.
Before you come at me as being some nepo baby or some rich person, I can assure you I’m broke. My immediate family isn’t well off either, but the rest of em? Yeah. Different tax bracket and life style for sure. The island wasn’t a recent purchase, it’s been in my Grandma’s family since 1902 when they purchased it off the Chippewa Indians in a penny deal. The island is about a 2 hour boat ride from any civilization. Up until around 3 years ago there was no cell reception at all up here, but after an incident where a younger cousin had an allergic reaction to a mosquito bite, they decided it’d be a good idea to get some way of human contact.
It’s so remote that in every room there’s a laminated paper nailed to the wall with the island’s coordinates, since the only way for immediate help would be a helicopter. Otherwise, long boat ride where you might not make it.
My cousin is totally fine, by the way. She just had a super swollen face and a lot of Benadryl for the next week was needed.
But yeah, on the remote family island in the middle of a Lake Superior in the middle of nowhere. It’s really pretty up here, there’s no light pollution so you can see all the stars and the Milky Way and satellites orbiting. There’s no planes or cars or any sort of weird noises at all. Just frogs, birds, chipmunks, and bugs to keep you company. It’s so nice. Just a total break from all civilization.
We’ve been doing this trip every year since I was 6, minus one year during the recession where my dad lost his job and then during the pandemic since crossing the border wasn’t allowed. My Dad’s been coming up here since he was my age too. My mom has been since she met him. That being said, I’ve been up around 17 times.
When I was younger it’d be me, my two sisters, my mom and dad, my aunts and uncles and all the cousins all together for a full two weeks just hanging out and being together. There was nothing to do but hang out. The adults would play drinking games as us kids would throw glow sticks at each other, or play board games or jump from the top bunk to the bottom bunk until something broke. It was awesome. The closest thing to total freedom a kid could get to.
Around 2012 the cousins stopped coming up with us. Every now and then my oldest cousin Hunter would join my parents and I but the rest were too attached to city living. No one wanted to go two weeks without phone calls or tik tok or wifi.
Which I get, I mean, I’m here using cellular data to write this out and send it to you guys. But it’s different.
This is different.
The island is about half a mile by half a mile and there’s two cabins. The one towards the west side where my grandma and grandpa stayed before my grandpa passed away we call the “sleeping cabin”. The main cabin is on the south east side, and it’s where we dock the boat and where we stay. It has the boat dock then leads to the shore and rocks. Right outside is a wooden deck with a whole lot of sideways stairs that are never quite flush. It’s a nice cabin. I mean, we gotta boil water to drink and we also just bathe in the lake, so it’s not like a mansion. But it’s not crappy either. Think of it more like a two week long “glamping” trip.
So that brings me to today, our first day on the island. We get there and unload two weeks worth of groceries and all our luggage, my Fiancé and I head to our room to throw on swim suits, and then we hit the shed on the beach for our fishing poles and tackle box and place our bets who catches the first fish. My dad followed suit, grabbing his fishing pole and heading to the boat dock with us.
We got there around 6, and it was still too early to really catch fish, but that didn’t stop us from trying.
Were there fishing, joking about how my pole fell apart my last cast, when all the sudden it went silent.
This is weird for nature. Nature doesn’t go silent. There’s buzzes of bugs, chirps of birds, the eerie call from a loon in the distance. But it went silent.
My fiancé, Thomas, and my dad must’ve noticed it, since they instinctively stopped reeling in their lures as well.
We all just stood still there, almost afraid to breathe too loudly.
That’s when there was a loud rustling noise in the forest across the bay, and hundreds of birds emerged from the trees, flying up and squawking in a frenzy. Desperately trying to get away from whatever caused the rustling.
I stared at the shoreline, trying to see if I could make out what was causing the ruckus, but quickly lost interest after I realized my lure was snagged on some weeds.
My dad, on the other hand, didn’t break his gaze from the trees.
“Think it was a bear?” I asked.
My dad still didn’t look away.
“It must‘ve been a deer. We don’t get many bears.” He said with a gruff.
“We had that black bear like four years back though. Maybe he’s come back!” I said excitedly.
“Nothing that big.” Retorted.
“Maybe a moose?” Thomas chimed in.
“I don’t think we get mooses out here.” I replied.
“It’s just moose.” Thomas whipped back as his casual sarcastic self.
“Shouldn’t it be meese anyways? I mean like goose, geese, moose, meese?” I teased.
“Let’s go in for dinner, it’s getting late.” My dad said, cutting off what would have been a stupid conversation.
I didn’t think much of it as we packed up our tackle boxes and headed inside.
My mom was there making hot dogs and salad, as my grandma sipped wine standing over the cooler.
“Catch anything?” She beamed, dancing around the kitchen.
“I caught a stick.” I sighed.
“Hey you also broke your pole.” Thomas laughed.
“Only momentarily! I got it back.” I chuckled.
“Well you can head back out after dinner. I’m sure there’s plenty of fish in the sea… or lake .” My mom smiled.
“We’ll see.” My dad coughed.
We ate dinner and in fact did not end up fishing again, opting to place drinking games and catch a buzz rather than fish.
My dad, usually the tequila guy, only drank beer that night.
As we all started slurring our speech and winding down, we cleaned up our games and crushed our cans, laughing about stupid catch phrase answers and whether or not tart had to include a bitter taste or if it’s just sweet and sour.
My dad was the last to get up, looking out the windows and lingering silently in the living room for a bit too long.
“You heading to bed?” I asked him.
“Sure am. I got up too early today.” He said, groaning as he stood up from his chair.
I was in the kitchen putting back my bag of popcorn when I noticed him turning off the lights and locking the door.
In my drunken state I didn’t think much of it initially, but as I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and washing my face, it hit me.
I couldn’t remember a single time that door ever got locked. Never once in my 17 years of coming up here has he ever locked that door. I didn’t even know that door HAD a lock. We’re so far away from anyone and everyone, why bother with a lock?
I could be over thinking it, but why lock it?
I don’t know. He was so off he might just be tired but it just seems really odd to me. I’m stuck awake just thinking about that noise and how off he was after it. I’m probably over thinking it but I don’t know. Any thoughts? Should I investigate it or just say “Hell nah” and stay inside?

I live in an apartment building on the edge of town. It's old. The walls are thin. I know my neighbors by sound. The couple above me arguing. The old man next door watching TV at all hours. The woman below me playing piano badly.

I've been here three years now. It's not a great place, but it's cheap and the landlord doesn't bother me. I work nights, so I'm usually asleep during the day and awake when everyone else is quiet. It works out.

Last week, I found a note under my door. A small piece of paper, folded once. I picked it up and opened it.

"You need to stop leaving the window open at night."

I read it twice. The handwriting was neat. Cursive. Like someone had taken their time with it.

I don't leave my window open at night. I'm particular about that. My apartment is on the ground floor. The window faces an alley. I always lock it before I go to bed. I checked it that morning. Locked. I checked it again before I left for work. Still locked. Then I checked it one more time because I couldn't remember if I'd actually checked it or just thought about checking it.

I figured it was a mistake. Somebody meant to slip it under another door. I threw it away.

The next morning, another note was there. Same paper. Same handwriting. Same words.

"You need to stop leaving the window open at night."

I checked my window. Locked. Checked the front door. Locked. Nobody had been in my apartment. I asked my neighbor next door if he'd seen anyone. He answered wearing the same green bathrobe he always wears. I've lived here three years and I've never seen him in anything else. He said no. Said he hadn't written any note.

I asked the couple above me. They were arguing about something, as usual. I knocked and they both looked annoyed. They said they hadn't written any note. They barely seemed to notice I was there. I don't think they even know my name.

The woman below me said she hadn't written anything either. She said she doesn't go out much. I believed her. She's always playing that piano. Same song. Over and over. She never gets it right.

The notes kept coming. Every morning. Same message. Same handwriting. I started locking my window twice. Put a chair in front of it. Checked the latch. Checked the frame. I even checked the alley outside to make sure nobody was climbing in. I stood out there for twenty minutes once, just staring at the window from the outside. Nothing.

The notes kept coming.

I started to get paranoid. Stopped sleeping. I'd lie in bed and stare at the window. It was always locked. The chair was always in place. But every morning, there was another note.

I started writing down the dates. Day one. Day two. Day three. By day four I'd filled an entire page because I kept writing the wrong date and starting over. I don't know why I did that. I just kept messing it up.

I took photos of the notes. Showed them to my landlord. He said it was probably kids messing around. He said not to worry about it. He said it with that tone people use when they don't want to think about something.

I worried about it anyway.

Last night, I decided to stay up. Sat in my living room with the lights off and watched the front door. Nobody came. Nobody slipped anything under. I fell asleep around 4 AM.

When I woke up, there was a note on the floor.

I picked it up. Same paper. Same handwriting. Same message.

"You need to stop leaving the window open at night."

I walked over to my window. It was locked. The chair was still in front of it. But the window was open. Just a crack. Just enough.

I didn't open it. I just stood there for a long time, staring at the crack. I checked the lock again. It was turned. But the window was open.

I looked at the note again. Then I looked at the handwriting. I'd been staring at it for days. Neat. Cursive. Looping letters. I'd been so focused on who was writing it that I hadn't really looked at it.

I looked closer.

The handwriting was mine. Every letter. Every curve. I recognized it from the notes I left myself at work. The shopping lists. The reminders. That was my handwriting.

I sat there for maybe twenty minutes trying to remember writing them. Maybe longer. I don't know. I kept looking at the note and then at my hand and then back at the note. I don't remember writing them. I don't remember opening the window. I don't remember any of it.

But I must have.

I've been sitting here all morning. The window is closed now. Locked. The chair is back in front of it. I've checked it three times. Maybe four. I lost count.

I just found another note. It's on my nightstand. I don't remember putting it there. I checked the bedroom door. Then I went back to the note because I was suddenly convinced I'd read it wrong.

It says: "Stop fighting it. Just open the window."

I don't think I'm going to sleep tonight.

I don't think I'm going to sleep ever again.

The piano below me had been quiet all morning. I didn't notice it until just now.

I looked at my reflection in the window.

It was smiling.

I wasn't.

Then it lifted its hand.

And started writing something on the glass.

I already knew what it was going to say.

Thank you immensely for the narration, u/Harold-Sleeper000

This is a story that is close behind Dark Horse in how much I've wanted it narrated. Glad to see it come to life!

Please check out the video and support our friend. Have a wonderful rest of your day, everyone.

It has been nineteen years today since that day. It still gives me chills to think about it. What if I had not called him to play outside? What if we had stayed inside, arguing over board games and cartoons? What if I had walked him home first? In those weeks that followed, I scanned columns for reports of kidnappers on the loose, for mentions of missing children, for anything that might explain how a boy could vanish between one breath and the next.

 

I closed my diary and looked at my own child playing with Lego pieces on the mat, nibbling on one of them. I often wonder how different life would have been if Alex had not gone missing that day. I thought of teaching him gardening, since it has always been my favourite thing to do.

 

Grabbing a pair of gloves, a hoe, and a few sacks of soil, I was ready for some digging. Though my son is probably too small to learn anything yet, he admires me. He looks at me as if I am his role model, and I suppose I am. Taking a shovel, I began digging in a corner to plant sunflowers, the seeds of which I had bought at a city fair last week. Sunflowers are one of the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen.

 

As I was digging, these actions evoked memories of a different yard in another time. Back when Alex and I were children, we often dug holes together and buried little treasures—marbles, toy soldiers, handwritten notes—promising each other that we would dig them up when we were older and laugh.

 

I had already reached deep enough to plant the seeds.

As I tore open the seed packet and tilted it toward the hole, something caught my eye—a faint streak of pink tangled in the soil. At first, I thought it was just a scrap of cloth, maybe an old rag buried years ago. I thought to ignore it, but my hand moved before I could stop it, and I bent down to pull it free. It wasn’t a scrap. It felt familiar. I pressed my memory, forcing it to surface through the years. And then it struck me. It was the same shirt Alex had been wearing the day he went missing.

 

As these memories flooded my mind, another story came to me, one that always resurfaced whenever I thought about Alex vanishing. The legend that circulated in our town— Whispering Man—somehow became intertwined with my own history, as if the old tale explained Alex’s disappearance that I could not give myself.

 

They said the Whispering Man was once a schoolteacher who made a deal to survive a dying illness—each year, he had to take a child into the woods and consume them to stay alive. After that, children began to vanish, and at night the forest was said to whisper like something chewing softly in the dark. After that, children began to vanish, and the blame settled on him.

 

Looking at my son, I was thirteen again. His voice faded in the background. My friend and I were playing hide and seek that day, and as I remember, his parents were out. He had strict parents who would hardly allow him to play since they wanted him to study all the time. Making their outing an excuse, he had managed to escape from the window and had come to play. It was my turn to seek. I counted to a hundred, and went to look for him. After looking for a long time and still not finding him, I called out to him, but there was no answer. I went searching in the woods even though that place was clearly out of our game boundary.

 

But when I found him, I fell apart. He had fallen off a step, hitting his head. And he wasn't breathing. I panicked.  I knew something had to be done. I couldn't tell his parents or mine. I couldn’t even stand still long enough to think. But then everything came at once—his parents, my parents, the questions I wouldn’t know how to answer. Why were you in the woods? Why didn’t you watch him? What did you do? The words crowded in before anyone had even spoken them.

 

And that's when I made a decision, I had to bury him. Using a stone and my bare hands, I made a pit and put my own best friend in it. I went home and stayed silent for the next nineteen years. A police investigation was conducted, and a search party was formed for him, but no one could find him. And so, the blame was put on Whispering Man.

 

Whenever I thought about Alex vanishing, I clung to the old legend. Back then, it had terrified us; later, it became something else for me. It gave shape to what I couldn’t face. Each time someone said a child had been taken by the Whispering Man, I let myself believe it a little more, let the story settle over the truth like a blanket. It was easier to imagine something out there in the woods than to remember what I had done with my own hands. Over time, I stopped correcting the lie—until even in my own mind, it no longer felt like one. When I got to know that part of the woods had been put up for sale, I bought it without a second thought and built a home on it so that the truth could never come out.

 

My son was hungry and wanted his lunch, so, having no other choice, setting down the hoe, I went to the kitchen to make his lunch.

By the time I returned from the kitchen with a plate of food, my hands had stopped shaking—but only just.

 

“Papa,” my son said, looking up from the floor, “why were you digging so long?”

 

I forced a smile. “Planting sunflowers.”

 

He nodded, as if that explained everything, and went back to stacking his Lego pieces. I placed the plate beside him and watched him eat, small fingers clumsy, unaware.

 

Unaware of what lay beneath his feet.

The following journal entry was found in the home of 43 year old Cassandra “Cass” Petersen alongside her deceased body. Cass Petersen was a well-known author and is known best for her book, They Grow Wires from Seeds. She was found by local police after her sister, Alexandra, called in a wellness check when she hadn’t heard back from her sister in three days. Alexandra reported her sister was not doing well and her sister told her, “The CIA is outside my house. I can see their sniper on top the hill.” Be aware that Cass Petersen was unwell near the end of her life. The following may include sensitive topics or accounts for some readers, discretion is advised. You have been warned.

Cass was found dead by gunshot wound to her head. In her final days, she began “practices” that when described to her sister, the sister claimed these were atypical behaviors even given the innate paranoia Cass had. For example, one such practice was that every wall of the small home was crudely lined with tinfoil and the recycling bin was a mountain of discarded containers that held the tinfoil. Cass Petersen had even lined all of her clothes with tinfoil down to socks, shoes, and under garments. Alexandra reported feeling confused about it all and promptly ended the interview by asking for a lawyer.

When police arrived at the home, they noticed every window was smashed, little to no evidence of glass ever being in the frame. The police reported the smell emitting from the house as a mix of honey, rotten eggs, and ham.
Cass Petersen was found face down in her living room, it was estimated from the state of decomposition that she had been dead for almost 2 days. Animals that had entered her home and were found feasting on her body made it harder to discern certain details as part of her face, scalp, and most of her fingers had been eaten by opossums and raccoons. All of which had to be put down due to unusual aggression towards humans investigating the scene.

Below is the last known writing of Cass Petersen as by Alexandra confirming it was her handwriting and DNA analysis taken from the paper:

I can taste it in the tap water.
They dehydrated it and filled it with fluoride.
I only filter river and lake water now using sun rays and boiling it.
I have made protection for the 5G and microwaves they keep trying to send me.
Nice try but I know what they are trying to do.
Make me compliant, make me an animal.
I’m not an elephant or a lion at a circus.
I don’t think they have poisoned the sun yet.
I know they have the moon but that’s been poisoned since the 70s.
I know they are watching me.
I can hear their footsteps crunch the leaves.
I can hear them muttering a plan outside my home.
My only peace is my dog, Holly.
I know she can be made to turn against me as dogs have become weapons of war.
I would be lying though if I didn’t admit her soft fluffy fur and Husky-isms as I like to call them didn’t give me some semblance of joy in this war of attrition.
I also think that is why they haven’t broken in yet, Huskies are loud by nature. If something went wrong, they would scream bloody murder so loud it would wake the dead.
The government planned to train birds to guide missiles into enemies during WW2 but gave up when they made the Nuke.
I am their Nuke, they want to detonate me.
I am no weapon, I am no gun. I have nothing to fire except the truth right into the eyes and minds of the American people.
Heck even the world.
They will never find it. It’s a deadman’s switch.
The most common way to get away with murder is through falls.
Will I fall from flat ground?
Who will be my Judas and betray me for riches and glory?
I know they aren’t human.
Humans would never be so calculated.
The microwaves I fear could get in.
I’m glad I boarded the windows after I foiled them up.
It makes me feel better.
Holly is nervous and scared of the tinfoil.
The sweet thing doesn’t realize it’s protecting us.
I hope they have not begun roping my sister into this, they probably have.
They will descramble and reorganize her brain like the others.
She will become a circus performer and she won’t even know.
What if I am already in the circus?
Dear god, I hope not.
What if the worms are already hatching in my brain?
No they can’t be, I would have given up if that was the case.
Yet, I still find dust in my house.
There should be no dust.
Maybe mounds of Holly’s hair but dust?
Dust means they are in.
I must take matters into my own hands.
To my loved ones, if you are to become apart of the circus, I just hope they make you an acrobat.

​

I consider myself to be a average guy. No special job or looks.

The only thing that I'm significantly lucky for is my wife. Veronica.

Her long brown hair, sun kissed skin, and hazel eyes that gain the greatest compliments from sun light.

She's more than just her looks. Her personality is perfect. Sweet, caring, empathetic, naive, and gullible.

She's my greatest companion.

Well, she was.

Things started to go not as I had planned when she started to dig into my past. Her curiosity and long term grief were a fatal mix.

She found out that I had a ex wife. She kept asking questions and was upset that I never informed her about any past marriages.

I eventually snapped on her during a argument and told her the name of my ex wife. Alica.

I felt relieved for a while because she stopped pestering me. I thought she was done with being obsessed with Alica.

My hopes were quickly killed off when I came home one day and saw her staring at a photo of the chick.

Tears were pouring out of her eyes as her face was covered in red. Her body was shaking as her trembling hands held the photo.

She then started whimpering as she told me that Alica was the missing best friend she always talked about.

It immediately made sense to me. Her stories and descriptions always matched her. I still found it weird that they were supposedly so close. Alica never mentioned anything about Veronica to me.

I remember how it started to feel hilarious.

The funniest part is when I took her to the basement and let her see her deceased friend.

She looked stunned at first and then was full of cheer.

She turned to me and kissed me more passionately than I've ever been.

She confessed that she's known for a long time that I was the reason as to why her best friend was missing.

Her tears, fear, all of it was fake. She did it all so I would admit to her what I did.

Somehow it made her love me more.