r/anxietypilled

He needs an excuse to go to the store. Another afternoon coming off a long high, he takes a few edibles at around 8:30pm. He’s running out, but he doesn’t mind. Pay day’s less than a week away, & he has the ingredients to make more at home. Well, everything except butter. He refused to use vegetable oil, per the instructions on the box, because he swore that the fat content in the rendered butter bonds better with the THC distillate .

So, at 9:15, he decides to walk to the store. It’ll be a thirty minute round trip, nearly fifteen minutes each way. He wants snacks anyways, despite the overwhelming options in this pantry. He has his sights set on a frozen delicacy. A supreme Tombstone Pizza.

Bluey slippers on each foot, & his Smoke-Shop, Delta-9 vape in his pocket, he makes his way out into the muggy, Virginia summer night. The mosquitoes buzz as they flock to his exposed skin, so he picks up his pace.

As he makes his way under the first light pole of the trip, he thinks he sees something. The lights of the neighborhood porches & the streetlamps illuminate his immediate surroundings, but between the trees & the edges of the fences, shadows held firm like curtains.

He takes his earbuds out. He only hears the few cars on the nearby highway. As he gets closer, he can make out the faint visage of a woman, hiding in the dark.

Just like that, there it is. The faint sound he could've sworn he heard. The sounds of buzzing & chirping, like the sounds of a machine, maybe a printer. As he passes her, maybe fifteen feet away, she watches him, & he realizes something that makes his skin prickle. The mechanical noises were coming from her, & even though he couldn’t clearly see her face moving from the dark, he knew the sounds were mimicry made by a human voice, repeating perfectly on a loop. He picks up his pace slightly more. He keeps his sights ahead after he passes her, trying not to attract her attention.

“Maybe I’m just higher than I think,” he mutters. He didn’t see her head rotate to watch him, just her eyes, but even then, his mind could’ve just been playing tricks on him. He goes through the light of the immediate next street lamp & looks back at her. He was now about twenty-five feet away. She was staying still, her position unflinching. He turns away & continues. Under the next streetlamp, he repeats, looking back again. Still, nothing. At least forty-five feet away by this point, he lets out the breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding, & pops his earbud back in.

“Huh, weird.”

Sixty feet away, under the last umbrella of light on his street, he humors a last glance back, just before he bolts. She’s strolling briskly towards him, calculated & confident. She’s not even on the road, she’s cutting through dark driveways & lawns in a direct beeline. As she gets closer, he runs faster & faster. By now, he’s closer to the store than to his mobile home.

“Holy shit! I need to get somewhere with fucking cameras & lights," he thinks.

He rounds past the small, vacant Sheriff Deputy building, & under more streetlights. He was now out of the neighborhood, on the sidewalk right next to the sparse highway, no further than two closed establishments from his destination. He looks back, momentarily grateful to see she’s not visibly behind him anymore. He begins to slow slightly, his unfit joints & atrophied muscles shrieking in pain. The cramps nip his ankles & thighs, & his pace loses steam. That is, until he sees two individuals across the road to his left.

They keep his pace & watch him predatorily. He can’t make out their faces clearly, but he can see they’re wearing something on their heads. Something silvery that went down just above their mouths that exposed their eyes. Something was… off. Uncanny about their expressions. They looked so angry, & their faces were flush. Too flush.

To the contrary of his body, he speeds up again. Some predators try to surround their prey & block off the exits. He was going to take his chance before he lost it. With one last burst of energy, his feet smacked from pavement, to grass, & back onto pavement as he crossed the threshold into the parking lot of the open Family Dollar. Nearly tripping, he threw himself into the unlocked glass doors, & with a blinding light, he’s done it. He’s inside the store.

Relief blossoms in his stomach & warms his fingertips. He wipes his mouth & looks around. The small shop is nearly empty. His heartbeat flutters rapidly, & he desperately tries to regain his breath.

“Dude?”

He snaps his neck to face the person who spoke & took his earbud out. A small employee, donning a nametag that says, “Grenda,” looks at him like they’d been trying to get his attention for several seconds.

“Dude. You good?” Grenda asks, visibly concerned.

He looks back out the glass doors. No one in the parking lot, in the road, on the sidewalk. No normal people, no one with helmets. He turns & looks at Grenda again.

“Yeah, I think. Sorry.”

He picks up a basket & wearily begins traversing the store. The shelves are like a thin maze. He grits his teeth & pushes on. He grabs a few small snacks. Some Pork Rinds, a case of kool-ade & a jar of pickled jalapenos. But he has his sights set on the refrigerator section. A pizza & some butter. Looking both ways like he’s crossing the street first, he makes his way to the brightly lit, freezing cold aisle. As he does, he bumps into an older woman, another customer.

“Oop, sorry ma’am.”

She mouths something in response, but he can’t hear her over the sound of his reactivated earbuds.

He crouches down to look at the selection of frozen pizzas, & his earbud runs out of battery. As soon as it does, he hears that sound again. The person imitating a robot. In surprise, he falls back onto his ass & looks up. There it is, fully illuminated. She looked like she used to have a thick head of blond hair. She’s bright pink, like a lobster. Flush as if she’s been exerting a great amount of effort, but she doesn't breathe, her nostrils don’t even flair. She just stands there, wide enough to block the entire aisle, & built like a bulldog. Her lips are pulled up in a sneer, & her teeth look rotten, gritted together so hard that her jaw visibly strained from the effort. The part that made him want to cry was what it was wearing. She was wearing normal houseware, a tanktop & some basket-ball shorts. She looked like a normal person, juxtaposed against something horrendous on its head.

Covering the cranium down to the tip of the nose, was a filthy wrapping of duct-tape. It partially concealed all manner of exposed wires & blinking things, motherboards & copper shavings that reflected the light's glint. The only thing that was not covered were her eyes. They were bulged out of her noggin like overfilled water balloons, squeezed through a thin pipe. Blood leaked from the edges of their duct-tape sockets, & from under the border that covered her cheeks & the tops of her ears ran streams of blood across her blushed skin as well, dripping all the way under her chin. & down her neck. He was frozen for a moment from sheer panic. What was this?

As soon as he gathered his bearings enough, he scrambled up & backed away, trying to keep sudden movements to a minimum.

“Lady, lady!” He gasps, addressing the older customer who he’d bumped into earlier.

“What?!”

“What is that?”

She glances over, her eyes trained on the same spot as his, at the end of the aisle.

“What?”

“Look!”

“Look at what?”

He momentarily turns to assess the old woman. She looks dumbfounded.

“You don’t see her?” He breathes.

“See who, young man?” She gulps, frightened & a little flabbergasted.

He looks back at the thing, & it’s moved closer. Now merely five feet away, more details become noticeable. The antenna on top of its head. The two pulsing buttons on the side of its left temple. The way that even though the eyes were on the verge of bursting, they stayed locked on him.

He didn’t even bother taking the items with him. He just dropped everything & ran out the door. He tried to call 911, but his phone ran out of battery too. Once outside, he didn’t look back, but he did hear it start to catch up. He closed his eyes & pumped his legs, pushing harder than he ever had before. He wouldn’t look back.

When he was a kid, he heard the story about the man whose family got a pass out of Sodom & Gomorrah. The wife had looked back, & got turned to salt. As he heard the sound of the thing getting closer behind him, footsteps smacking the pavement at a constant, precise speed, he tried not to think of all the things that might happen to him if he dared.

He ran, & it kept a steady pace behind him. A couple of times, he got some good distance, others, the thing was almost close enough to brush him with its fingertips. At some points, he swore he heard other footsteps, like the pack of them were coming back to finish him off, but over the sound of his heartbeat, he couldn’t have been sure. The entire time, he heard that repeating sound. The whirring, puffing, beeping & buzzing. Its vocal chords were worn out, & they strained to continue droning, but on they did.

A round trip that wound up usually being thirty minutes was done in twenty-five this time. The wood of the porch thumped under his slides & he gripped the handle, twisting & yanking with all his might. The automatron sounded like it could've been just yards behind him. He slammed the metal door shut behind him & slumped to his knees, letting out a half sob, half wheeze. He whimpered & crawled to his blinds, shutting them too. The tears were welling up almost as hard as the stomach bile in his throat. He hadn’t run like that in so long, he almost felt like he’d pulled something in his calves. Everything burned. He sat down on his couch & tried to plug his phone in. That was the last thing he did before he realized someone was under his table.

That night, his neighbor reported seeing him run into his camper, & then a few minutes later, screaming. When the police arrived, all they found was the top of his skull, scalp still intact, & a puddle of bloody spinal fluid.

“What do you think, Detective?” A policeman asked as he placed yellow caution tape over the door of the trailer.

The detective picks up a brownie from the microwave & smells it.

“It’s these damn kids & their weed, it's always these damn kids & their weed…”

Thanks to everyone who checked out my story last night! The encouragement was great, so I finished editing this one I had in the making and figured I’d share it tonight. This one was really fun. I hope it translates well into written format, this was originally intended to be a short film. Hope y’all enjoy!

I can't believe this shit. I've been a free man for two weeks and I'm already back in it. Out in the dead of night with a pair of bolt cutters and a backpack full of pot.

"Won't you hurry it the fuck up? Yous actin like we got all night."

The sweat on my hands makes it tough to grip the handles.

"Jesus, I'm tryin the best I can, man." 

"Best I can, maaan," he says, mocking my voice. "Just crack the fuckin door." 

I feel the chain give with a loud thunk. It slinks its way to the ground. I look up, there's a little red light bleeding through the bricks.

"Finally got it open. Keep it movin, you oogatz." 

The alleyway is covered in shit and trash. Mosquitos buzz in the summer humidity. I thought prison was hell. I'd yet to have seen New Jersey. 

***

My partner and I make our way inside. The door leads to a corner of the lobby. It's a movie theater. A big one, too.

It's bright, surprisingly so. The bulbs that still work coat the fading carpet with yellow light. 

"City’s still wastin juice on this place? Been closed nearly a decade." 

Dust wafts across the carpet with each of our steps. I've never been to a theater this big, dozens of halls spit into rows of theaters. A soft static leaks from speakers around the counter. It sounds like a radio that gave up a long time ago.

"Hey!" He snaps his fingers in my face. "Let's go junky, I'm just here to make sure you don't smoke the backpack." 

"10 pounds would take me a while. I'm just here for the cash, the shit y'all smoke here is dirt anyways." 

"Aight, easy California."

The concession counter is in disarray, popcorn buckets and drink cups lay scattered along the floor. The red ropes of the queue are tangled in knots. 

A light flickers from deep inside the kitchen. I swear I can see something move. 

"Woah, you see that?" 

My partner’s pacing. "See what, a fuckin fairy? You pot heads are somethin else."

“You have a problem with me or something?”

"Problem? My only problem is gettin stuck doin drops with some lowlife that's been here a week. I don't deal with addicts." 

"But you'll deal to addicts?" 

He gets up in my face. His breath smells like cheap liquor and newports. "There's a difference between raking bread and breaking bread, hippie," he shoves me back. "We just need to drop the sack in theater twelve and get the fuck outa here." 

***

The hallways are massive, rows of posters are torn and faded. 

The dust is oppressive. It coats everything from the bottom of the wall to the corners of the ceiling. Weirdly enough, there's none in the middle of the carpet. 

My partner speeds down the hall. He doesn't even bother to check if I'm still behind him. Fine by me, I'm just glad he decided to shut his mouth. 

We pass theater nine, then ten. Theater eleven is shackled and bolted from the outside. But, there's no theater twelve.

Ten, eleven, thirteen, fourteen. Our drop location doesn't exist. My partner puts his finger up to his lips and shushes me.

The music is soft at first. It's the kind they'd play just before a screening was about to start. Gentle, melodic, and simple. 

A soft glow peeks around the corner, seeping out from the cracked door. There's the light flicker of a waking projector. Someone's inside of theater thirteen. My partner gestures for me to go through.

"I-I don't know man, I didn't sign up for this." 

The music swells, spilling deeper into the hallway. We stand for a few tense moments. 

"Sorry chief, ain't about what you signed up for." 

He opens the door and beckons me through. As soon as I'm inside he slams it shut.

***

I lunge back to the door to hear a key turn over. I start banging.

"Hey! Fucking burnout asshole, open the damn door!" 

He doesn't respond. I can barely hear his footsteps disappear in the direction we came. The music cuts to a rolling wave of static. The same that followed me through the lobby, just much louder now. 

What the fuck is this? Why the hell did I take this gig? 

Flown out across the country just to drop some weed in a shitty run-down movie theater. 

It was always too good to be true. 

The red glow of the exit sign marks the end of the hall. I've just got to make it to the front. 

The white light snaps, there's darkness for a second. Then the entire theater is bathed in a solid wall of vibrant pink. 

There's no dust, this path is well used. The air is freezing cold. My head aches from the violent noise and light. 

I try the door expecting the worst. 

It won't budge. 

I turn to face the theater. 

Underneath the projector sits a full row of businessmen. They're wearing pig masks. Not a crinkle in their suits. 

The light reflects the pits of their eyes. 

A rolling camera rests just below them. 

"H-hello? I have the drugs, if that's what this is about." 

I toss the bag forward. It clatters against a large fence that separates us. None of them flinch. 

I question if they're even alive. 

A voice rings out from behind the camera as the red rec light comes to life. 

"ACTION!"

The exit door swings open. A pale man is shoved out from the darkness. His whole body turns a stark pink in the projected light. 

His face, he doesn't have one.

Molten wax covers almost his entire head, sparing a tube where his mouth should be. 

He lurches into the open theater, hands welded at the wrist. It looks as if they had melted his skin and forced them to heal together. A sharp hunk of jagged metal protrudes from his misshapen flesh. 

"Hey I-i was just hired to do a drop! Whatever debt I've got I promise I'll pay it! Jesus Christ, just get me the fuck out of here are you listening?!"

I'm only greeted by the blinking light of the camera. 

The man swings the blade towards me, it clatters against the fence and swipes down my cheek. I taste hot iron as my own blood leaks into my mouth.

There's no bargaining. No deal. 

Only survival. 

I lower my shoulder and throw myself into him. He tumbles into the fence, gurgling and thrashing at me. 

He slices deep into my thigh, splitting it open as pain shoots across my entire body. 

While he's at an angle, I use my other leg to stomp his shin as hard as I can. The bone shatters instantly. 

White splinters pierce his skin and splatter the carpet with blood. 

He falls forward onto the jagged scrap. It embeds itself deep into his chest. Blood pools beneath him as his breathing slows. 

The room is silent other than the static. 

"CUT!" 

All of the pig masks stand in unison. They break into thunderous applause. They whistle and cheer as I fall to the ground in exhaustion. 

I push my hands onto the massive wound on my leg. It does nothing to stop the bleeding.

A lone figure stands in front of the crowd. His mask is different from the others. 

A gray wolf. 

He bows to the pigs behind them as they bathe him in praise. 

My vision starts to blur. He steps down the aisle staring down at me and the fresh corpse.

“Now that, ladies and gentlemen, was acting! A star is born!”

He opens a gate and I try to crawl away from him. My arms fail.

He gets down on a knee to caress the side of my head. His thick calloused fingers get caught in my sweaty hair. 

"Shhhh, it's okay, son. Welcome to show business!”

A while back, Apple released the first ever smartphone. Initially, you had two ways to access it. Either leave the thing unlocked, or use a four digit pin for security. Eventually, they introduced more options. Fingerprint ID, six digits, different pattern locks and password codes. When the fingerprint ID came out, convenience caught me like a catfish on a hook. Nowadays, it's standard, not really anything special. Within the last couple years, they even made it so you can use a face scanner to unlock a ton of devices.

With every cellphone upgrade, I kept the same four digit verification as my passcode. 9932 was my go-to for most everything from my home security system to my bank account password, but I would stick almost exclusively to the fingerprint scanner, using the thumb on my dominant hand. It was just so easy, barely even took a second thought, and I was sure that my phone was completely secure that way. Between a pin and a thumbprint ID, what could go wrong? As far as I was concerned, I had nothing to worry about.

A year ago, I got into a fight with my blender. I call it a fight, really, it was more like my stupid mistake that led the appliance to defend itself. I jammed my whole hand into it to retrieve a ring that had fallen off, a ring that was trapped underneath the four, razor sharp blades. The damn ring wasn’t even important, it was just some cheap copper cast bling from a Walmart jewelry set. Rather than unplugging the thing and disassembling it safely, I thought, “I’ll just reach in and grab it real quick. What’s the worst that can happen?”

In less than 5 seconds, my boob accidentally mashed the start button, and my dominant hand was left as an oversized, bloody stub with prolapsed knuckles. When shock kicks in, you feel a rush of warmth, almost like a deep blush, and sometimes, you don’t really understand exactly what you’re looking at.

I remember staring at what was left of my digits, not fully comprehending what had happened, and thinking to myself, “that can’t be right, why does my hand look like an inside out rhubarb?” As soon as the realization began to dawn, the pain set in. I picked up my phone and frantically tried unlocking it with my thumb, a thumb that was now bony pulp, emulcified and pooling under the blades of the blender. The shiny ring still glimmered cruelly from the bottom of the clear plastic machine.

It took 3 attempts of smooshing the “thumb” side of my appendage into the home button before shredded nerve endings alerted me to the scale of my predicament. I gritted my teeth and entered the four digit passcode using my non-dominant hand. 15 minutes later, I was losing consciousness in the back of an ambulance on my way to the ER.

Almost every bone in my hand was obliterated. The doctors said that very little of my hand still had skin, and most of the flesh was like uncooked hamburger meat. My fingers were all completely gone, and a good chunk of the palm was unsalvageable. I spent a while in the SICU of my city's shittily-funded hospital, pitifully bitching my way through a series of bone grafts and skin procedures. In the end, I was left with a bright pink, tight, zit-shaped knob that extended two inches past my wrist. One continuous line of ugly, black stitches went from left to right, decorating my new tip like a macabre sandwich bag zipper.

Eventually, I was back home. My dads stayed in for a week or so to help with recovery, but once I started showing progress in physical therapy, they decided that their job was done and fucked off back to Vermont. To be fair, I guess they were right. The night I came home from the hospital, my dads had a look on their faces that I won’t forget. They’d seen something traumatizing. When I asked about the noticeable odor that filled my kitchen and dining room, they had a sit down discussion with me.

When an uncomfortable situation arises, I’ve noticed that most people tend to speak less and imply more. Unless you happen to be a very straightforward person with few reservations towards disagreement, most people just dance around their point to avoid conflict.

My dads are like that.

They gently meandered conversationally. It reminded me of when I was 10, when they tried to indirectly explain the birds and the bees to me, when they found porn on my laptop. But now, as an adult, I was able to gather what they were trying to tell me. The trip from their place in Vermont to mine is nineteen hours normally, twelve if you’re lucky, which they weren’t. My house sat empty for almost a full day from the moment I got into the ambulance, to the moment my dad with grey hair opened the front door. Half a cup or so of my viscera was still sitting on the counter inside the kitchen appliance, and logically, smelled how you’d assume it would after being left out for so long. They cleaned up the mess to the best of their abilities, and the biomatter waste removal guys disposed of the whole blender, per my request. Despite their attempts to improve my home aroma using everything they could, from candles to Febreeze, the smell just continued to linger…

“So, it’s me? I’m the smell?” I asked.

“Oh sweetheart,” my dad with brown hair cooed, “no actually… well, I guess, yeah. I mean, it is what it is. What can you do?”

“Well for one, why didn’t you try opening all the windows and setting up fans to air it out?” I raised an eyebrow, gently holding my sore injury so as to not cause myself more discomfort.

“Wow, that’s a really good idea Katie,” my dad with grey hair said sarcastically, crossing his arms and turning to look pointedly at my dad with brown hair, “yeah Beck remind me, why didn’t we do that? I think I remember someone telling me, ‘nah, we just need more candles.’”

“Jeez Lance, can we not right now?” My dad with brown hair groaned.

Satisfied, my grey headed father glanced at me as if to say, “I told him so, but he wouldn’t listen.”

We sat uncomfortably for a moment, allowing the information to settle over us like a cold blanket. Finally, I broke the silence.

“Never mind the smell, what did it look like?” I asked.

“What?”

“My fingers, what did they look like? All turned into… well, you know.”

“God Katie, we don’t really need to–”

“Dad, they were my fingers, they used to be attached to my hand. What did they look like when you got here?”

My brunette dad just stared at me like a fish out of water. After waiting a moment, my grey headed father spoke up.

“Well, we didn’t really look at it for too long, because those guys came and cleaned up pretty soon after we got home,” he started, “but I remember it kind of looked like a maroon-ish chili.”

My dad with brown hair didn’t look at his companion, he just kept watching me, but his expression transformed from gobsmacked to unwell. His husband continued.

“And um… pulpy? You remember when we made tomato sauce when you were 15, but the tomatoes were still kind of whole? Not fully emulsified?”

“Yeah,” I humored, “chunky.”

At that, my brown haired father became physically sick. He stood up and ran into my bathroom, making a retching sound.

“Ah, I’d better stop,” my grey old man mumbled.

“C’mon. Was there actually blood everywhere, or am I misremembering?” I pleaded, indulging in my morbid curiosity as I leaned forward in my seat.

My dad stroked his wispy beard, the sound of his husband emptying himself audible from a room over. He watched me like he was surveying me, taking account of my condition.

“Katie, I don’t really want to think about… look, I’m gonna be stuck in a car with your father for like nineteen hours in a few days, I don’t want him to be sick the whole way home. I love you girl, you’re a freak of nature with a good heart. But I think I done told you quite enough now. Get some rest.”

He put his warm hand on my shoulder and stood up to meet my other dad in the bathroom, and the conversation was over. Then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, they were gone, making the trip home like they’d never been here in the first place. I was alone in my home again. Or so I thought.

I got better, physically. Mentally, I think there was some healing, but not much. I’m not sure if I’ll ever fully recover. Sometimes, I go to unlock my phone, and that, “tap to unlock with fingerprint,” message just taunts me from the bottom of my baby-blue screen, right above the home button. My eyes would linger on it for a few seconds, then I’d just tap the passcode in, and continue. I never deleted my old fingerprint from the phone, and I never swapped it to my remaining thumb. I would just enter that same memorized code. 9932.

I kept working at physical therapy. Eventually, the stitches were removed, and I got to where I could flex and curve the remains of my hand to act as a pseudo-mitten. I could pick up some cups with handles, I could balance tableware, and occasionally, when I would start to drift to sleep at night, I’d be torn awake to the sound of the blender’s skull splitting roar, like a chainsaw going off right next to my ear. A phantom shotgun blast of pain would rip through my knuckles like I was right back in my kitchen, hand eviscerating as I reach for that stupid ring. On those nights, as soon as the sleep was ripped from my eyes and I’d boot straight up, the sound would immediately disappear, kind of like that feeling of falling when you’re dozing off. When you wake up, you think for a second, “did I even really feel that?” But I knew I did. I always did.

I think I could handle it, all of it, the trauma, the phantom pain, if not for what happened today when I got home from physical therapy. I forgot my phone on my kitchen table. Upon discovering such, I decided not to turn around, and to just go without it. It was only an hour, what could happen? I unlocked my front door and made it inside, exhausted from the arm workouts, and ready to binge Welcome to Derry while eating a whole, steaming hot Tombstone pizza. But my blood ran cold, every ounce of self assuredness tunnelling out of my body and abandoning my flesh like worms from a rotten apple the moment I approached the table and saw it. The fleeting message displayed on the small, rectangular portal, lying next to my flower vase. The notification had so recently appeared, that it was barely fading by the time I read it, an oval of maroon grime above the home button at the bottom of the screen.

“Biodata ID Confirmed: Device Unlocked.”

Someone had unlocked my phone using my dominant thumb, and it had been very, very recent.

Howdy! This is the Author, Mikey, and I just wanted to say, thanks for reading. This is my shortest story that I’ve posted yet, and I think this is the one I’m most proud of. I may be huffing copium, so if I need to be knocked down a peg or two, please feel free to tear me a new one in the comments! I need critique, and there’s no one better suited to give it to me than you, dear reader. I hope to get better, so please, if there’s anything I can improve on, let me know. Thanks again for sticking around to the end, it means the world to me. To all the night owls, I hope y’all enjoyed!

A couple drives into their apartment complexes parking lot,and they begin to walk towards the front door

As they reach their door, Carol glances over her shoulder.

A neighbor stands in the distance.

Not moving.

Just staring.

His face is pale. Unnaturally pale.

“Henry… he’s making me uncomfortable,” she says under her breath.

Henry barely looks. “You’re fine. Let’s just get inside.”

Carol quickly unlocks the door and steps in. Henry follows.

Darkness inside the complex

Carol flips the light switch.

Nothing.

“Seriously?” she mutters.

“Breaker probably tripped,” Henry says, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll check.”

His flashlight cuts through the dark as he heads down the hall.

Carol stands alone in the living room, her own light trembling slightly in her hand.

Then—

Tap.

She freezes.

A small ball rolls across the floor and bumps into her foot.

Angel her cat's toy.

She exhales, nudging it away. “Not now, Angel…”

The ball rolls back.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Carol frowns.

“Angel?” she calls softly.

No answer.

Henry returns briefly. “Carol, I’m gonna grab maintenance. Stay here.”

“Wait—”

But he’s already gone.

Carol turns, her light sweeping across the apartment.

It lands on the back door.

Slightly open.

Her stomach drops.

She walks over slowly… pushes it shut… and locks it.

Click.

Behind her—

The ball rolls again.

Carol turns.

Her light drifts across the floor—

And stops.

Angel lies there not moving and appears to be bleeding

Carol screams—

A figure lunges out of the darkness.

Hands clamp around her throat.

The neighbor.

His face

A smooth, white mask.

Carol claws at him, her nails scraping plastic. No skin. No warmth.

Just cold, hollow resistance.

Her vision blurs.

Her lungs burn.

Everything goes black.

Her body collapses.

The man lets her fall.

Minutes later, Henry walks back in with a maintenance man.

“Carol?” he calls.

Their flashlights sweep the room—

And find her.

“What the hell happened to her?!” the maintenance man shouts.

Henry drops to his knees. “Carol! Stay with me!”

They start CPR in the freezing dark.

Then—

She gasps.

Violently.

Air floods her lungs as she jolts awake, panicking.

Henry grabs her. “You’re okay—”

“There’s someone in the house!” she screams.

A deafening BANG cuts through the room.

The pantry door SLAMS open.

The masked man sprints out of the darkness.

The bat swings—

CRACK.

Henry drops instantly.

The maintenance man raises his arms, but the bat slams into his ribs. He collapses, gasping.

The masked man keeps going.

Stomping.

Over and over.

A wet crunch fills the apartment.

Carol runs.

She throws open the front door and bolts into the night.

Footsteps thunder behind her.

Fast.

Closing in.

She sprints toward the apartment manager’s office, light spilling from inside.

She bursts through the door.

“There’s a man trying to kill me!”

The manager rushes to lock the tinted glass door just as the masked man appears outside.

A shadow behind dark glass.

Watching.

Waiting.

“Get the hell out of here!” the manager shouts.

The bat explodes through the glass.

Carol screams.

The masked man reaches in, feeling for the lock—

The manager kicks his hand and arm hard.

The hand jerks back.

“I think I hurt him,” the manager says, breathing fast.

Carol runs into the bathroom and locks the door.

Silence.

For a moment.

Then—

Glass shatters somewhere else in the office.

He’s inside.

“No!” the manager shouts.

The bat cracks into his legs. He collapses, screaming.

Another hit.

And another.

The bat clatters to the floor.

The masked man walks slowly toward him, grabs his ankle, and drags him back.

Hands wrap around his throat.

Squeezing.

The manager claws at him, gasping—

And looks into the mask.

There are no eyes.

Only darkness.

The bathroom door bursts open.

Carol grips the bat.

She swings.

THUD.

The masked man drops.

The manager gasps for air. “Hit him again!”

She does.

Again and again til she collapses from exhaustion

Police arrive minutes later.

The masked man is pronounced dead at the scene.

Carol and the manager are rushed to the hospital.

Henry and the maintenance man don’t make it.

At the morgue, something is wrong.

They can’t remove the mask.

It won’t come off.

“Why would someone do this?” Officer Darwin mutters.

His partner shrugs. “Some people are just messed up. Probably glued it on.”

Two hours later.

The morgue is silent.

A drawer slides open.

Empty.

“Where is he?” the assistant whispers.

Then—

They look up.

Blood drips from the ceiling.

Spelling out the words.

"BE BACK SOON"

What once was, no longer is. I walk past the dormant boardwalk on my way home from work every day. It sits as a reminder that everything dies eventually. Its time has passed, and with it left the tourists, the attractions, the cheap amusements. It gives the same dread as looking at an old picture of myself, the kind where my smile reminds me of a time before reality soaked into my skin and blistered into scars of practical fact. Happiness is always fleeting, like it’ll decay along with me if it sticks around too long.

I find myself sticking to the side path with the abandoned arcade instead. It carries less emotional weight, as I was too old for such things by the time it appeared. The undiagnosed ache in my leg causes my foot to drag, and occasionally the sound my shoe makes against the pavement lines up with the flickering lights running along the dusty windows. Those colored bulbs pulse with the stubbornness of diseased organs continuing long after consciousness has fled. There is no one there to tell them they can give up, that there is no one left to entice.

My insistence on focusing on the failure of this boardwalk at least takes my mind off myself. My inward ruminations have become unbearable in their density. Memory, anxiety, anticipation; all the horrid clutter of consciousness has accumulated within me until I can scarcely distinguish one mental torment from another. Even the physical operations of my body revolt me. I have become aware of my lungs as damp bellows endlessly laboring in darkness. My pulse strikes within my neck with a hideous insistence akin to rusty, barely functioning machinery. Sleep offers no relief either; it merely exchanges the crowded theater of waking thought for the more deranged performances of dreams.

One day, when the ruminations were at their peak, I decided to enter the old abandoned arcade. Deep within the building, beyond a collapsed skee-ball lane and several gutted pinball cabinets, I first discovered “The Grand Illusion.”

The machine stood apart from the others, as though excluded from their company. Its cabinet was tall and ornate, though peeling with age. Along the top, beneath a film of dust and nicotine stains, faded gold lettering curled across black paint. Below that, behind a glass enclosure, sat a marionette at a miniature desk, its narrow wooden hands folded with funereal patience. The smile had not been painted onto the puppet so much as engineered into the architecture of its face. Its small black eyes possessed a depthless lacquer shine that seemed not reflective but absorptive, as though light entering them had no intention of returning. I had the disturbing impression, not that it resembled a human being imitated poorly, but that it represented a more simplified and efficient version of one.

A slot beneath the glass accepted old arcade tokens. I searched and found one on the floor nearby, dropping it inside with a child-like curiosity.

The machine groaned awake.

Somewhere within its interior, gears shifted with arthritic reluctance. A faint electrical hum emerged—the exhausted murmur of dead voltage dragged unwillingly through ancient wires. The puppet lifted its head by a fraction.

Then something ceased. Not outside me. Inside. The wet engine of my body fell silent. No itch of skin, no pressure of breath. Only stillness: immaculate and complete.

I sat at the little desk and saw myself staring down at this new me. This better me, which did not ache or ruminate.

Wooden joints in blessed inertia. No blood, no memory. Only clean geometry, simple and frictionless. I understood then that suffering required motion. Consciousness was machinery. Desire, fear, identity—they are merely symptoms of animation. The puppet smiled forever because it had been spared the burden of interiority.

The machine clicked violently.

I returned to myself with such force that I nearly collapsed against the cabinet. Breath rushed into me as the wet pistons inside my ribcage began pumping again. The stale arcade air coated my throat with the taste of dust and salt rot. Every sensation struck with monstrous intensity. For several minutes, I could do nothing except stand trembling before the glass.

Then I inserted another token.

I scoured the old arcade for every token that remained, feeding them into “The Grand Illusion” with unrepentant gluttony. Outside, no one else knew of this beautiful reprieve from a flawed existence, and I intended to keep it that way.

The periods within the puppet grew shorter each time. At first, I inhabited the wooden stillness for several minutes. Later, only seconds. Yet the relief became more precious precisely because of its brevity. All that mattered was the tiny wood-carved room behind the dusty glass and the possibility of escaping the biological prison of selfhood.

The burden of existence felt heavier each time I resumed my own body. I felt worse than before I ever found this sacred machine. The gears screamed louder with each token I dropped. The cabinet exhaled the odor of scorched insulation. Once, I noticed the puppet’s head tilted slightly farther toward the glass than before, as though listening. I became convinced its smile had widened by some imperceptible degree.

When I inserted the final coin, the cabinet lurched awake with the sound of a dog’s jaw breaking. For one ecstatic instant, the world loosened its grip upon me.

Then a gear slipped somewhere deep inside the machine. A hideous screech split the silence. Everything stopped.

The puppet remained seated behind the glass, motionless beneath the hanging paper moon. The machine emitted only a low electrical hum, thin and terminal.

I clawed at the coin return, struck the cabinet hard enough to crack bone in my knuckles, begged aloud for another moment of wooden peace, another interval free from the crowded suffering of thought.

Something emerged from a small opening next to the coin slot. A small rectangular card.

I removed it with trembling fingers.

“NO REFUNDS FOR USED TIME”

Art by u/AffectionateLeave677 Aka Bare 🐻

Since I was a boy, I had been plagued by the calling of the void. I had always sought to not only know but to touch the strange, otherworldly and mysterious. I had made a career as a journalist, meeting witchdoctors, voodoo practitioners, those absorbed by the dark and occult. Such a career has hardened my sense of wonder and shown me that these such worlds are drenched in fraudulence.

So, when I found a flier for Sir Beauregard's so-called greatest freakshow on the planet, I was skeptical. But since the show was only a short train ride away, I decided that I would see for myself.

The dark room was musky with the stench of sweat, an insulated heat pervading the enclosed tent. Spotlights suddenly began roving around the expanse of darkness, as if searching for a suspect in the sea of identical farmers looking for a brief respite from their banal existence

“Ladies and Gentlemen, would you please give a round of applause for your host. The one and only, emperor of insanity, the king of all that is crazy, the ambassador of absurdity. Beauregard the Magnificent!”

All the spotlights suddenly casted onto the stage, illuminating a man with a build something like a bulldog standing on two legs. He had a stout barrel chest, stubby little legs and arms, and a mustache that curled in on itself like a worm on hot pavement.

“Good people, I welcome you.” He said in a sultry deep voice, wearing the faintest hint of a French accent.

“What you see here may astonish you, it may terrify you, it may even make you question the infinite power and wisdom of God above to allow such atrocities of the human kind. If this experience proves to be too much for you. If your modest sensibilities are unable to reconcile the abominations put in front of you, you may leave. But as you dash back towards the light of and normality of day, do not stop at the concessions. Because there are no refunds.” This broke the silence in the room into controlled laughter.

“So, without any further a due. I present our first oddity. A slimy half remembrance of evolution passed. From a time before man was king of the land, instead battling for rank in the early ocean. I present the aquatic abomination; Fish Boy!”

I heard the sound of heavy wheels turning before the curtains parted to reveal a figure floating in a cylinder of water. His skin was pale white and macerated, almost corpselike under the spotlight. His mouth was wide and jagged like a catfish, his body was slimy and glossy, and his fingers and toes were webbed with jagged and incongruent skin. His head hung above the water; he took in deep breaths of air through his bloody mouth as his gills flexed under the water in sync. But his eyes, his eyes were all too human. They glared around the room of shocked faces as if seeking an inkling of pity, but all they received was the shock and disgust of the audience.

Nearly half of the audience left before Fishboy was put away, and my skepticism was replaced with an intrigue I hadn’t felt since I was a boy digging through folklore compendiums.

“Fishboy is what separates the boys from the men it seems, but if you think you’ve seen our worst then you’d better hold on as we’ve only just got started. Our next featured freak is barely recognizable as sentient life. I present The Primordial Goo.”

I heard something wet and sticky moving before the curtains once again opened to reveal it. A viscous gray pile of flesh, leaving a trail of blood as it slowly slithered out onto the stage. Barely recognizable as a human, just a pile of slop with two blood shot eyes. Once it stopped moving a hole opened at the center of its mass, and it let out the blood curling scream of a woman. Gasps shot out through the entirety of the audience, and I saw men visibly shaking as they left out of the room.

I was transfixed, in all my time of curating the strange and mysterious I had never seen something so indisputably preternatural and vile. Once the creature began returning back into the curtains, I looked around to see that I was the only person left in the room.

“Well, it seems we have one brave soul here at least. Is it bravery? Or do you crave something more than what is offered in the natural world? Do you long for the macabre and unnatural? Well, I hope this last exhibit will sate that craving. And remember, there are no refunds, you can’t go back.”

The curtains opened and a naked, gray, emaciated man came out onto the stage. His head was massive, but his eyes and mouth were tiny and slacked open like a dullard. He stood at the front of the stage for a moment, and I watched as a red line perforation began to go from the top of his head, down to his neck. The line started to bleed, before a wet noise cried out and I watched as his head parted in half. Though warped, his anatomy seemed to be human, all except for a spiral of black that sat below his brain. I felt drawn to the black void, my eyes focusing on it as the world around me turned black.

My body feels so sensitive, everything hurts. Everything is black, until.

“Now presenting, the seeker.” I hear before I roll out onto stage.

The sign hanging on the front of the door said: Satisfaction not guaranteed. NO REFUNDS. But I had never been more sure of anything in my life. I pushed it open and walked inside. 

Fuck it. I needed it gone. 

“Welcome in! So, how did you hear about us?” the lady at the front desk asked.

“A friend said you could help me get rid of my problem.” 

“Absolutely. That’s what we’re here for! Now, if you could just fill out these consent forms for me, we can get started with your evaluation.”

I glanced through all the legal jargon without much thought, looking only for the spots I had to initial. It was just a cosmetic procedure after all. I mean, what could go wrong?

With every stroke of the pen, the thing pulsed and throbbed. Like it knew the hold it had on me was coming to an end. Good, I thought. It was the reason everyone hated me. Why I couldn’t get a job, or a date. The cause of every failure in my life.

You don’t know what it’s like—living with your enemy attached to you. A constant reminder with every look in the mirror. There was only so much makeup could do to cover it. 

I signed my name at the bottom and handed the clipboard back through the little window. 

“Cash or card?” 

“Uh, card,” I said, handing it over to her. 

She smiled, and a door slowly creaked open to the left of me. 

“End of the hall, last door on the right.”

I nodded and pressed forward, heart pounding from both nerves and excitement. I was so ready for the new me. I just hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much.  
The fluorescent lights flickered from above, making my skin twitch and my heart race faster. A buzzing sound coming from overhead seemed to echo through the hall, vibrating in my brain and behind my eyeballs. 

A man dressed in a white coat opened the door right as I approached. 

“Right this way, ma’am.” 

The room smelled like alcohol and burnt flesh. In the center, an exam chair—much like you’d see in a dentist’s office. 

“Why don’t you have a seat here and we’ll take a look, hmm?”

He pointed the light into my face. I scrunched my eyes tightly closed as he inspected the monstrosity protruding from my forehead. The latex from his glove catching against the raw, coarse surface of it. 

“And it’s always looked like this?” he asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Well, uh… no. I’ve tried to get rid of it before on my own. Nothing has worked, though. It’s only made it worse.”

He chewed the inside of his lip as he moved my head slightly from side to side, examining every inch of it. 

“That’s alright. We can take care of this for you—no problem. You just sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Two more people entered the room with him when he returned, carrying several sharp, metal tools and syringes on silver trays. 

“We’re going to numb the area first, so you may feel some slight discomfort in the injection site. Why don’t you close your eyes for me and just relax?”

I gave a nervous half-smile, then, with a deep breath, leaned back into the chair. Right before I shut my eyes, I caught a glimpse of the needle. It was huge. I swallowed hard and clenched my teeth.

It’ll be worth it. 

The cold, wet touch of an alcohol swap. Then, white-hot piercing pain, shooting through me like battery acid. I let out a weak cry and dug my nails into the arms of the chair. Tears flooded my eyes, streaming down the side of my face and into my hair.

“There we are. That wasn’t so bad, right?”

I shook my head, but refused to open my eyes yet. I could hear clanging and whispering as they prepared to do whatever they were going to do to me. I shifted around in the seat, my skin hot and flushed.

“Can you feel this?”

I could. But just barely—and I didn’t want the needle again. 

“No.”

“Good, then we’ll get started. This shouldn’t take too long.”

Harsh, cold metal against my skin. Then burning. Slight at first. Then deeper, more intense. Fuck. And then blinding pain—much worse than before. My entire skull lit up like a coal in a fire. Wetness spread across my face as the assistants hurried to wipe it away. I thought I was going to pass out. 

“Almost there.”

So I held on. Then he began digging deeper with the tool, trying to get to the root. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I bit down hard on my tongue instead. Warm copper, more pain. 

Clang.  

“Got it! Okay, let’s get you cleaned up, and then we’ll get you on your way.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Can I see?” 

He handed me the mirror. Slowly, I held it up to my face. I gasped. Holy fuck. It worked—I couldn’t believe it. It was gone, and I was beautiful. And finally… finally, the whole world would be able to truly see that now. For the first time. 

“Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Tears welled in my eyes. 

“You’re welcome. Now, go out there and show everyone your new face!”

I walked back down the hall with a smile on my face, ready to start my life. And then, I noticed something. My voice—the one inside my head. It was gone. Panic surged through me as I searched my mind for the sound of it. No words, just feelings. I was alone. Completely. 

The lady at the front desk never looked up as I passed the window. Outside on the street, people walked past, ignoring me. Then a man ran straight into me, knocking me over onto the ground. I looked back up at the sign on the front of the door. 
NO REFUNDS. 

 

Larry yearned for more.

For the last two weeks, Larry had checked the mailbox every day. Twice. Once when he went to the gym, and once more when he got back. He was waiting to be hyped.

HYP3 was some promising compound that was pushed in the dephts of bodybuilding forums. Elusive, but well respected.

People rarely discussed it. Which isn't normal for the internet at large. But especially true in online fitness, with its endless discussions over the best diet protocols, training splits, and supplementations. Everyone wants to brag and show off.

But Hype was a phantom. A ghost that was hard to get a hold of. There were no official dealers, no bold claims. No “huge gains”, no “burns fat”, no “anabolic this or that”. Hype simply appeared on random accounts, never as an official sponsor or advertisement. Appearing often only in a single frame. Hard to see, easy to miss. Its users made, without fail, one of the most impressive body transformations and then just dipped. Their frozen feeds were petrified monuments to their incredible achievements. Being hyped was like being elevated by God. A guaranteed entry into the Hall of Fame. Before everyone falls off the merry-go-round.

Larry knew from his enduring observation of the fitness space that Hype seemed to make the rounds again. By pure chance Larry saw the telltale signs in one of his followers called Fit4Fabi and DMed him, if he knew how Larry could get his hands on it.

“Sure, give me your address, and I’ll send you some. I’ll work something out for you. ;-)”

Larry sent his address without hesitation and waited for a reply that never came. He didn’t know how often he had read the single message Fit4Fabi sent him. 

He’d gone dark after that.

One day, HYP3 finally arrived.

He looked at the maroon liquid in the syringe. 

No ingredients, no dosage, no warning labels. 

Inject and forget was written on it in a shaky handwriting*.* 

Doubts started to creep in. First, giving a complete stranger his address and now he was on the cusp of injecting something off the internet. 

He had done so before.

The graphs on his white board, showing his strength, weight, and bodyfat percentage, hadn't moved in the last 2 months. 

A sigh escaped him.

The needle found its way through his skin into the underlying tissue beneath easily enough.

A push, and there was no going back.

A tingling swept across his skin. His body drank the fluid like an alcoholic. 

The world became brighter, his ears clicked, his heart hastened.

The weights Larry kept at home were calling to him.

As soon as he touched them, his muscles took over. Guiding him through exercises on their own. His mind took a backseat and let the body do the work.

Soon, the meager weights weren’t enough, and his body improvised. Looking for heavier and heavier objects in his flat. Repetitions multiplied to keep up with the progress.

Larry’s body craved exercise.

After each superset of his full body workout, it could be persuaded by Larry to reluctantly drink straight from the faucet and take selfies in the mirror.

In his haze, Larry was vaguely aware that he shouldn’t post everything at once, so he scheduled uploads. Each selfie looked more impressive than the last.

Larry could feel the blood pumping in his muscles as they grew in size. He could see progress happening in real time! 

Mice were crawling under his skin. Muscles that refused to grow for months were sprouting like a meadow in spring. 

HYP3 was the best thing that could have happened to him.

Stubborn belly fat that dragged down his mirror image for ages evaporated in a day. After it was gone, his body was starved for fuel. Larry ate raw protein powder to compensate. 

Then the muscles took over again. Shoving his brain into the backseat.

Larry wanted to stop, but his muscles wouldn’t obey. Pushing him further and further into hypertrophy. Repetitions grew exponentially. His muscles were transcending the natural and supernatural limits; they bordered on the grotesque. 

Pain receptors all over his battered body screamed in agony. His body didn’t care, handing the pain off to an already overwhelmed brain. Larry whimpered like a beaten dog. 

At some of his refuel stops in the mirror, his hands grabbed his phone. His pictures were getting attention. Larry saw some messages from his followers asking about HYP3.

Larry wanted to cry for help, but his hands answered them: “Sure, give me your address, and I’ll send you some. I’ll work something out for you. ;-)”

The body pushed beyond the limits of the brain. Drowning it in agony and fatigue. 

Larry ceased existing.

But the muscles kept on training until it reached its absolute peak.

Then, and only then, did it stop.

It admired itself in the mirror before it took one final selfie. Striking a pose to match the Gods.

Perfection.

The final muscle to be trained was the tongue.

It pressed against the roof of his mouth, increasing strength from the isometric hold, until it broke through the bones. 

The vacant brain was pushed against the inside of the skull. 

Then the tongue started to move in a circle, accelerating like a hammer tosser.

The head vibrated like a stand up mixer. 

Squishing, squeezing, and blending the sludge of blood, bones, and brains. 

The heart kept adding blood into the mix. Diluting it, so sludge became puree, became fluid. 

It continued until everything inside had become a uniform maroon liquid. 

Its body leaned over the sink and tilted its head to the side.

Its hands grabbed a syringe and inserted it into the ear canal. It pierced through the eardrum and extracted the liquid. Again, and again, until there was nothing left.

Finally, its hands scribbled something on the syringes.

Inject and forget.

A local news announcement crackled across every television and radio station in town.

A hostile foreign government had engineered a new strain of rabies — faster acting, less lethal, and far more horrifying.

The virus inserts its own genetic material into human and mammal DNA.

Its incubation period ranged from only four hours to three days. Current estimates placed fatalities at 75 percent. But the survivors didn’t truly survive. They showed signs of severe aggression and mutations.

Authorities only knew for certain that bites and scratches spread the infection. The outbreak was too new for anyone to fully understand what else it could do.

The entire town had been sealed off as a quarantine zone within hours. Military checkpoints surrounded the city, allowing only a handful of survivors to leave after blood tests confirmed they were virus-free.

Richard sat alone inside a boarded-up apartment, carefully cleaning his Glock 19 beneath the glow of a lantern.

A jammed pistol meant death now.

“One way or another,” he muttered to himself, “I’m surviving this.”

He holstered the weapon and stepped outside.

The streets were dead silent except for the crackling remains of a gun store still burning from a riot days earlier. Smoke drifted into the dark sky like black storm clouds.

As Richard passed a narrow alleyway, he heard a crunch.

Instantly, he drew his pistol.

An infected crouched in the darkness with a knife in its hand. It hacked strips of meat from a dead woman’s body, chewing noisily, too focused on feeding to notice him.

Richard slowly backed away.

Ammo was scarce, and he wasn’t wasting bullets unless he had no choice.

Further down the street, screaming erupted.

A man sprinted across the road with another infected chasing close behind him. The creature tackled him violently onto the pavement.

Richard froze.

The infected pinned the man down as something long and fleshy slithered from its mouth.

A proboscis.

The victim screamed as the sharpened tongue forced itself down his throat. Blood sprayed from his mouth while he thrashed helplessly beneath the creature.

Richard’s stomach turned.

The thing fed like a parasite, draining his blood. while the man slowly weakened beneath it.

Richard tightened his grip on the pistol but forced himself not to intervene.

He couldn’t save everyone.

Eventually, the creature crawled away, leaving behind a pale, barely conscious husk.

Richard stared in horror.

“So that’s one of the mutations…” he whispered.

He walked past the dying man and continued down the road.

Hours later, dehydration clawed at Richard’s throat.

He spotted a grocery store with barricades covering the windows and cautiously approached. Inside, several survivors huddled together beneath battery-powered lanterns.

They looked exhausted but hopeful.

One of them pointed toward a radio.

“The government says help is coming,” a heavyset man named Mason explained. “They just need more time to understand the virus.”

Richard laughed bitterly.

“You still believe that?”

The room fell silent.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they turned this whole city into glass.”

A few people exchanged nervous looks.

Mason frowned

Richard stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

“You ever been to war?”

Nobody answered.

Richard leaned against a shelf and began talking.

He told them about Afghanistan. About the patrol. About the roadside bomb that tore apart the convoy.

About the inexperienced lieutenant who ordered over the radio for everyone to get out of their vehicles to “follow the IED protocols and patrol the site for nearby combatants"

The enemy had known exactly what the protocol was.

The first explosion had only been bait.

The second IED obliterated most of Richard’s squad the moment they gathered near the blast site.

The survivors were cut down by machine-gun fire before they could even react.

Richard survived only because the blast wave threw him clear.

“When I woke up,” he said quietly, “I was in captivity.”

For three years, he endured torture before finally being traded back home.

And when he returned, the lieutenant responsible for the disaster had been promoted.

The VA denied most of Richard’s claims, arguing there wasn’t enough evidence that all of his trauma and injuries were combat-related.

Richard slowly lifted his pant leg.

A metal prosthetic extended from below his knee.

“I gave everything to people who saw me as disposable,” he said. “So if you think they still care about you now… stay here.”

Nobody spoke after that. Except mason

Mason said the government isn't like that anymore.

Finally, a teenager named Danny stepped forward.

“Fuck this,” he said. “I’m going with you.”

Richard studied the boy for a moment before nodding.

“Grab a weapon. Food. Water. Enough for a couple days. Roads are clogged with abandoned cars, so we’re walking.”

Danny returned minutes later carrying a fire axe, supplies, and a small box of 9mm ammunition.

“Will these fit your gun?”

Richard checked the box and nodded.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

As they prepared to leave the store, Danny noticed bloody footprints smeared across the floor.

“What the hell is that?”

Richard crouched beside them.

The prints looked wrong — elongated, almost animal-like.

He stood slowly.

“I think they’re mutating.”

They walked for miles through abandoned streets before spotting a deserted government health-services truck near an intersection.

Richard motioned silently for Danny to follow.

The back doors hung partially open.

Inside were dead soldiers.

A biohazard symbol reflected in Richard’s flashlight beam.

Danny swallowed hard.

They climbed inside.

Scattered across the floor were classified documents labeled:

PROJECT LYSSA.

Danny picked up a grenade from one of the corpses while Richard skimmed through the files.

One document stated the virus died within minutes when exposed to open air.

But the report was dated two months before the outbreak officially began.

Danny stared at him.

“That makes no sense, they just found about the virus 8 days ago”

Richard opened a nearby military laptop. It required a CAC (common access card login)

After searching a dead soldier’s wallet, Richard found the card and inserted it.

The screen unlocked.

Files flooded the monitor.

Animal experiments.

Human trials.

Dozens of failed subjects twisting and mutating in agony as their bones broke beneath their skin.

Danny turned away and vomited.

Richard continued reading.

Only 0.01 percent of subjects were genetically compatible with the virus.

Most died immediately.

Others transformed unpredictability into violent, unstable monsters.

Then Richard found a video file named Viral Strain V-12

A young man appeared on-screen inside a reinforced laboratory.

The narrator explained that he was the only successful bond with the virus.

The subject bench-pressed over a thousand pounds effortlessly.

According to the researchers, the virus continuously repaired cellular damage, halted aging, and prevented cancer.

Biological immortality.

Then, the footage became horrific.

Researchers amputated the subject’s limbs while recording his reactions.

Richard’s face twisted in disgust.

Hours later, the man’s arms began slowly regenerating.

The narrator calmly explained that all tissue would eventually regrow completely.

Richard shut the laptop for a moment, shaken.

Then he noticed another folder.

SITE 731.

Inside was a map of the entire quarantine zone.

And the truth.

The blood tests at evacuation checkpoints weren’t checking for infection.

They were identifying compatible hosts.

Anyone deemed incompatible was executed immediately — infected or not.

Danny stared at the documents in disbelief.

“That’s why they locked the city down so fast,” he whispered. “They planned this.”

Richard felt cold.

He already knew governments sacrificed people when convenient.

But this…

This was experimentation on an entire town.

He copied every file onto his phone.

“You gonna expose them?” Danny asked.

Richard shook his head.

“No. I’m gonna use this as leverage to get us out.”

Then they heard something outside.

Sniffing.

Wet breathing.

Both of them slowly stepped from the truck.

A creature stood in the middle of the road.

It barely resembles a human anymore.

Its limbs were too long. Its skin hung pale and rotten from its body. Its jaw twitched unnaturally as it sniffed the air.

Then it saw them.

The creature launched itself forward with terrifying speed.

Danny swung the axe into its shoulder.

The thing roared.

Richard unloaded an entire magazine into its chest.

The bullets barely slowed it down.

Suddenly its proboscis shot forward and pierced Danny’s neck.

Blood streamed down Danny’s chest as the creature fed.

Richard unloaded his last mag into it. The bullets went through the creature but it barely moved

Then Richard ripped the axe free and hacked into the monster’s skull repeatedly.

The creature slashed across Richard’s face with razor-like claws.

Richard hit the pavement hard, barely holding the creature back as it snapped inches from his throat.

Then Danny pulled the pin from the grenade.

The creature knocked it from his hand.

Richard caught it instantly.

With a roar, he shoved his entire arm down the creature’s throat and forced the grenade deep inside its body.

The explosion tore the creature apart.

The blast also shredded both of Richard’s arms.

Danny collapsed nearby, crying and bleeding heavily.

Both of them had been infected.

Danny picked up Richard’s pistol and pressed it against his own head. Shouting " I fucking tried"

Click.

Empty.

Richard wheezed weakly.

“Sorry……”

Blood streamed from Danny’s nose and eyes.

“I don’t feel good,” he whispered. And foam begins forming from his mouth and convulsing before collapsing.

Richard’s vision faded into darkness.

Richard woke to the stench of rotting flesh.

Days had passed.

The creature’s remains still littered the road nearby.

Slowly, Richard sat up.

His eyes widened.

His arms were back.

Perfectly restored.

Even his missing leg had regenerated.

Panic surged through him.

“Danny?” he called out.

No answer.

Then he saw movement nearby.

A pale, decayed figure crouched over a corpse, tearing into it with animalistic hunger. The creature then looked at Richard with dead white eyes.

It wore Danny's shirt.

Have you ever heard the saying “If you grew up with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house”? If you’re like me, you vowed for that to not be the case. You and your brother held pinkies, promising that you’d never allow the other to treat their kids the way you were treated through sobs. Your big sister shielded you when your mother saw nothing wrong with the broken glass against the wall. Even as an adult, the idea of an angry dad threw you into a panic attack. 

That was my growing up. My relationships were built on hypervigilance. I became a polytheist because one god wasn’t enough to protect my mother. Even when I slowly got better, learned to love and trust, that angry man was ever present. He was still on facebook. He was still on instagram, still on tiktok. He wasn’t always angry. No one can be angry for that long. And that’s what made it worse. I never knew when he was going to be my dad, and when he was going to be a rage filled monster.

Even 6 hours away I feared him. The distance only made it a little less. I was willing to do anything to get rid of this angry man. It was only logical when I ended up at the crossroads. Returning to the old religion, because nothing else worked. I dug the hole, planted the flowers, said the magic words, and within no time I was face to face with a woman.

“Never thought you’d be the type to call on me.” She crooned as she circled me. In her void-like eyes was hunger. She wanted to devour me. 

“Yeah, well. You know what they say about desperate times.” I said in a weak chuckle. 

“So… what can I do for you, darling? What deal are we making here?” She asked. I took a moment to think. To make sure this was what I wanted. 

“I want my dad to know what he’s done. I want it to sink in, all the hurt he’s done to our family.” I needed him to know. If he could know, he could be better. He’d fix it. Because that’s what dads do. They fix things. 

“You’re willing to sell your soul for this?” She asked, twirling a finger around my hair. I nod, eyes still bloodshot from a previous meltdown. She then pulled me into a kiss, sealing the deal. I kissed back, surprised that the demon’s lips were as soft as they were. I felt something inside me lurch, as if it was being pulled towards her. I stumbled back when she pulled away. “The deal is done. See you in ten years, sweetheart.” 

The deal worked. Turns out, when you spend a quarter of a century terrorizing your family, and it hits you all at once, it’s hard to stomach. When they put his coffin in the ground, I knew it was my fault. Drinking my woes away, I questioned if I felt bad. 

He was our dad… a heartbroken part of me argued. Even with our issues, he loved us. 

Serves him right! An angrier part snapped. He couldn’t take what he did to us. Maybe he shouldn’t have let his rage take over everything! 

They waged war in the coming days as I went back home. While they were waging war, I got irritable. I bitched at my roommates over small things. It continued like this, until one day, I heard his voice. 

“You’re just like me, kiddo.” He sounded proud. Smug, even.“You’re acting out like I did. Isn’t so easy now that you have the rage, is it?”

“Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“That wasn’t a good enough excuse when I was alive! You killed me.” I felt the anger bubble again. 

“No! You did that yourself! You brought this on yourself! I wouldn’t have had to make that deal if you just fucking apologized, and took therapy seriously!” I argued.

“If you wanted me out of the way, there were other options.” My dad explained, glowering down at me. 

It only took a few days of him hanging around before I found myself at the crossroads again. 

“I’m surprised to see you again, my dear.” The demon said kindly. 

“This is the bitch you sold your soul to?” My dad sneered in my ear. 

“Yes. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s kinder than you. And she fulfills her promises.” I waved him off, before approaching the demon. “I need to undo this. I can’t continue like this. He won’t leave me.” 

“It doesn’t work like that, darling.” She gently caressed my cheek. There was almost… pity, in her voice. “I wish it did, but a deal’s a deal.”

“Please, I needed him to be better! I didn’t want him dead!” 

“You messed with the order of things.” She said simply. “And on something as precious as a soul? No refunds, darling. Not on this.” 

“So, what do I do?” I asked her helplessly. 

“What you’ve always done. You’ve dealt with him this long.” It was a sick tone of encouragement in her voice that made my stomach turn. And with that, she was gone. 

If you grew up with an angry man in your house, you’ll always have an angry man in your house. I hope you’re not like me. I hope you get some peace from his yelling and beratement. I hope by carrying his ghost, I can protect my siblings like they did for me. I have 2 years left of that 10 year deal. At this rate, hell sounds like a vacation.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2svK95wQ3DzkutQSuwywOY?si=BgsXTTVDQWiYt8wRQueqFg (As always, here's a playlist)