r/nosleep

I had been working in prisons, most of which housed killers and other violent offenders, for twenty-eight years when I took on my last job.

Some of them were impulsive, others were clever. But I'd seen it all.

Prisoners had tried everything on me over the years - death threats, fake medical emergencies and contraband passed through food were just the tip of the iceberg. Men who'd spent weeks acting half-dead before suddenly putting their head through a cell door weren't unusual. So by the time I was called for the job, I had a reputation for being steady.

The pay was better, but that wasn't what sold it for me. It was the prisoner.

For the purposes of this story, I'll call him John. I'd heard his real name long before I was assigned to him. Everyone in corrections had. He was one of those serial killers you only hear about in true-crime documentaries decades later.

Dangerous.

The kind of mastermind who stayed ahead of the police for years, leaving investigators chasing dead. Eventually, an entire task force threw everything they had at him, and some detective finally got lucky enough to find one tiny mistake in his plan.

He'd been incarcerated under different names in institutions across the country. He had killed prison staff in multiple incidents, manipulated officers into giving him access to restricted areas and made tools from things that should never have been capable of becoming tools. His file used the words "exceptionally intelligent", "highly skilled" and one psychologist had described him as "possessing an unusual ability to recognize patterns in institutional behavior".

Basically, another way of saying 'this bastard keeps catching us off guard'.

A challenge perhaps, but if anything, I was intrigued. I'd spent nearly three decades learning the tricks of the worst people society had to offer, and I wanted to see what he could throw at me that was different.

"He's been stable," remarked the deputy warden, as I closed the file. "Caused no problems for several months."

"And before that?" I asked.

He picked up the file and flipped back through the photographs, medical reports, security assessments and other evidence of the damage John had left behind.

"Before that, he caused many." He grimaced slightly.

"So what's changed?"

"I'd guess he reconsidered. You'd be surprised, many find God after a few hard years in a cell."

I highly doubted that - I'd seen lots of men 'find God' when they realized it might help their case. I said nothing and let him continue.

Then, the deputy warden opened a drawer and took out a small black device attached to a short lanyard with my staff ID card. There was a single recessed button on it.

"If anything happens," he said, placing it on the desk between us, "push the button. The response time is very fast."

I put the lanyard around my neck and followed him inside.

The prison itself was impressive - there was concrete reinforced by steel, cameras everywhere, controlled doors and layered access points. It didn't seem like they were short on budget when it came to security. By the time I reached the him, I'd expected something almost industrial, like a steel box with a solid door and restraints fixed to the wall.

Instead, John was at the end of a block behind ordinary-looking bars, alongside a few other prisoners in identical cells.

Each had a bed, a built-in toilet and sink, a desk with a Bible on it. One security camera in the corner overlooking the entire block. That was it - no chains, restraints or reinforced doors. It seemed insultingly inadequate for both his reputation and my safety.

John himself was young-looking. Early thirties, perhaps. Clean-shaven and neatly dressed, with short, dark hair. He had the build of a track runner, and there was nothing physically intimidating about him. If I'd seen him on the street, I would've assumed he worked an office job.

He stood when I approached, his voice quiet.

"Morning."

"Morning," I replied, watching him carefully. "You'll be seeing a lot of me, I'm taking over your supervision. Keep things straightforward, and we'll have no problems."

His eyes moved down briefly to the ID card and button hanging from the lanyard around my neck, and back to my face.

Then he just gave a nod and sat down. I remained standing for a moment before taking the chair outside the bars. John was quiet for a while as he sat on the bed and flicked through the Bible. Eventually, he looked up at me and spoke.

"How you finding the new place?"

He sounded nonchalant, like he was making an effort at small talk, but wasn't particularly interested in the answer. I watched him cautiously.

"Can't complain."

"That's good. Assume you've been in enough places to compare."

Another pause as I watched him, looking for the trick. But there was no defensiveness or aggression in his voice.

"You've been here a while now, John," I finally said. "No problems?"

He shook his head.

"Got everything you need?"

"Yeah. Bible and a bit of exercise when I feel like it."

I started asking the usual questions about how he was settling in, and if there were problems with meals, showers and so on. He answered everything politely with no attitude or attempts to provoke me. He didn't react when I mentioned I'd read his file. If anything, he seemed bored, but never disrespectful. I spent the rest of that shift waiting for the trick that never came. He's just trying to make me let my guard down, I thought. But I can't deny I'd gone in expecting more of a challenge.

Eventually, I told him I was leaving at the end of my shift. He just nodded, not looking up from his Bible.

I started making my way out and was halfway down the block when I heard a quiet, high-pitched noise coming from a cell nearest the door at the opposite end. It wasn't quite a voice. I frowned and walked to the end, peering into the cell.

I nearly took a step back.

An emaciated, almost skeletal prisoner was staring back at me, folded up in a dark corner of the cell. At first glance, I couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. Only the high pitched voice gave it away.

Her arms looked little more than bone beneath the skin, and her shoulders jutted forward at an awkward angle. What little hair she had left came in sparse wisps, hanging from her scalp in thin, uneven strands. Most of her head was visible beneath them. There were patches where it looked as though she'd pulled the hair out herself, and blisters where she'd picked at her skin. There was a tiny silver cross necklace around her neck.

Then she made the noise again. That same high-pitched whine, that sounded like something her body produced without her permission. After several seconds, she tilted her head slightly to one side and began whispering. Her lips moved rapidly, but the sound was so faint and indistinct that it might as well have been another language.

I had worked around mentally ill prisoners before - whatever was wrong with this woman, I assumed it was along those lines. I'd gone into the block to meet one of the most dangerous men in the world, expecting if anything was going to unsettle me, it would surely be that. But as I stood there watching her, I'd forgotten about John entirely. I took a breath, broke eye contact, and left.

For the next few weeks, nothing happened with John.

He got up when he was supposed to, ate when food was brought around, took his exercise periods without complaint and returned to his cell when instructed. He never raised his voice or argued. Mostly, he seemed bored.

According to his file, calculation was practically his defining characteristic. I'd gone into the assignment assuming that every interaction would have some purpose behind it, that every question he asked would be part of some larger plan, but nothing happened.

And when nothing happens for long enough, you start to relax.

One morning, I caught myself standing closer to the bars than I should have been, my keys hanging loosely from two fingers as I checked something on my clipboard. I noticed where I was standing and immediately stepped back, making a mental note of it. I'd spent nearly two decades telling younger officers not to do exactly that.

The next week, I did the exact same thing.

This time, John was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching me. He looked at the keys, then back at me like I was an idiot. Then he just laid down on the bed.

A few days later, I made another stupid mistake - I dropped a flashlight within reach of the bars and only noticed when I was halfway down the block. When I went back to retrieve it, John hadn't made any attempt to touch it, let alone use it as a weapon or escape tool. He just glanced back at me with the same bored expression, now almost with a hint of added disappointment, as if he couldn't believe I'd been that careless.

After a while, I started to wonder whether the man in the file and the man sitting in front of me were actually the same person. I still wasn't naïve enough to believe he'd suddenly become harmless, perhaps he was simply tired.

The woman was harder to ignore.

Sometimes she'd stand at the front of her cell and watch everyone that passed through the door. Sometimes she sat on the floor with her knees pulled against her chest, rocking slightly. And sometimes she cried, a strange, broken sort of crying, with long pauses between each sound. I eventually got used to it in the way you get used to unpleasant things in prison.

One afternoon, long after speaking to John felt completely normal, I nodded toward her cell.

"She been here a while?"

John glanced over and exhaled with a hint of frustration.

"Yeah, don't mind her, she does that all day. Sometimes at night too, while everyone's trying to sleep."

He sounded mildly inconvenienced.

"Does she ever talk?" I glanced toward the cell.

"Not that I've heard."

I took his word for it, figuring that whatever she'd done to end up in a place like this, she probably deserved it.

A few mornings later, I was running late. I'd underestimated how long it would take me to get through some paperwork before my shift, and there was a form I needed to complete that needed the long ID number on my staff badge.

I took the lanyard off along with the button and copied the number down. Then I stuffed both into my trouser pocket and hurried into the block.

By the time I entered John's section, I'd completely forgotten about it. John was sitting on the edge of his bed, his Bible beside him.

"Morning."

"Morning."

I closed the door behind me and started checking the block. We exchanged the usual few words, and he said he slept well enough. Then I turned away from him to check something on my clipboard.

I heard a metallic click. I looked back and the cell was empty - the door was open and John was gone.

Then I felt his arm lock around my neck from behind.

I was surprised in the moment, but I didn't panic. If anything, I'd been expecting something like this from the beginning.

Finally, I thought. There he is. The real John.

I reacted automatically, tucking my chin hard against my chest and grabbing his choking arm with both hands, trying to relieve the pressure while turning toward him. It was something I'd practiced countless times over the years. I managed to get two fingers between his forearm and my neck, creating just enough space to breathe. For a moment, I thought I might get out of it without even having to use the button, and teach him a lesson after.

But then he adjusted effortlessly, shifting his grip and driving his forearm back against my neck. The pressure was precise, and he knew exactly what he was doing. I tried to drop my weight and drive backward into him, but he anticipated that too and stood firm.

My legs were already beginning to weaken, and whatever advantage I thought I'd had disappeared. This was not someone I could afford to underestimate.

My vision began to narrow as I reached instinctively for the button at my chest. Nothing.

For one confused second, I couldn't understand why it wasn't there, but then I remembered I put it in my pocket after using my ID card for the paperwork. I fumbled for it, but my fingers weren't working properly anymore. I could feel the edge of the device against my leg, just out of reach. I clawed at the pocket. Then my fingers closed around it, and I pushed the button.

For a second, nothing happened. No shrieking alarms or anything of the sort.

Then I heard boots pounding down the corridor. Ten guards burst through the door almost at once.

As soon as they entered, the pressure around my neck vanished. I collapsed forward, coughing and dragging air into my lungs.

I stumbled away from the cell, more frustrated at having to use the button than relieved to be alive, replaying the attack in my head. I was already running through the counters I could have used if I'd had another few seconds. I glanced at them, expecting them to seize John.

But they didn't even go past me. They turned straight into the woman's cell.

Two officers grabbed her, and she began screaming. Not like the strange whining sound before - this was a scream of pure terror, so loud and prolonged that it seemed to fill the entire block. One of the officers forced her arm behind her back, and another officer produced a syringe containing a yellow liquid. The screaming intensified as the color emptied into her neck.

Confused, I looked toward John at the other end of the block.

He was on his knees. His eyes were wide and glassy.

"Please."

His voice was barely audible beneath her screaming. He met my gaze.

"Tell them to stop. Please."

I just stared at him.

"I don't know what's happening," I finally managed. I didn't even hear myself speak.

One of the guards turned toward him.

"Back in the cell, John." The guard raised another syringe. "Or you know what happens."

John's swallowed, eyes still wide. He stood and walked back into his cell voluntarily.

The woman was still screaming, but her voice was breaking now. They dragged her back into the cell and closed the door. Another officer closed the bars behind John. Then they simply left, and didn't even bother checking John's cell to see how he'd escaped.

I stepped closer to John's cell cautiously and noticed something small on the ground.

He'd made a key of sorts. I picked it up. It was crude, but unmistakable - a thin, rigid piece of material shaped to fit the lock, made of paper. The key had been made from pages of his bible, layered and compressed until they formed something stiff enough to manipulate the mechanism. Then I looked at the Bible, still on his desk. They hadn't even bothered to take it away.

I looked at John, sitting on the edge of his bed again. Then his eyes dropped to the button in my hand. For the first time since I'd started working that block, I hadn't been wearing the button around my neck. I'd put it in my pocket. But it seemed John thought I'd forgotten it altogether.

He looked back at me with something like betrayal.

I came back the following morning. I wasn't particularly looking forward to it, but I hadn't slept well and decided it was better to get the first shift out of the way. John was exactly where I'd left him, sitting on the edge of his bed with the Bible beside him.

"Morning."

"Morning."

I stood outside the bars for a moment, studying him.

There was no hostility or lingering resentment in his expression. Nothing that suggested he'd nearly killed me the day before… or the chaos that came after.

"John, can I see the Bible?"

"Yeah."

He picked it up and handed it through the bars without protest. I took it from him and turned it over in my hands, then opened it. Sure enough, two pages had been torn out. I flicked through the section around the missing pages, then looked back at him.

"These shouldn't be missing. I'll have to confiscate it."

He shrugged.

"I suppose not. Have it."

He said it with complete indifference.

I turned the Bible over again and ran my thumb along the inside of the back cover and felt something give slightly beneath it. There was a flap. Not part of the original binding. Something had been carefully worked into the inside of the cover, creating a small concealed pocket.

I slipped my finger underneath it and pulled out a photograph.

It was old. The colors had faded slightly, and the edges were worn from being handled. I looked at it and saw a man and a woman.

I immediately recognized that the man in the photograph was John, younger by at least ten years.

He was smiling as he looked at the woman. I'd never seen him smile like that. The young woman beside him looked healthy and beautiful. There was warmth in her face, and she was smiling too, her head rested against his shoulder, his arm around her waist. I didn't recognize her at first, until I noticed that she was wearing a tiny silver cross necklace. The same one as the emaciated woman on the other side of the block. The realization dawned on me.

"You talked like you didn't know her," I said, still looking down at the photo.

I looked up at him, then almost jumped.

He was looking at me with pure, unfiltered hatred.

"I wonder why."

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

It was then that I understood he wouldn't be doing anything else with the bible. I slotted the photo back inside and slid it carefully down through the bars. He seemed to relax a little, and looked away. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and flat.

"She didn't used to look like that."

I watched him.

"What did they do to her?"

He didn't answer. A minute passed.

Then he lay back on the bed and turned his face toward the wall.

"I'm tired. Gonna sleep for a bit."

And that was all I got.

For the first time since I'd met him, I didn't see a dangerous man sitting in that cell. I finally understood what the button actually did. It wasn't there to protect me from John. It was there to control him.

John was back to his regular self after that. But I wasn't. Once I'd seen the photograph, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman at the end of the block.

I looked through the records as my last shift of the week finished. Every inmate had a paper trail - things like arrest and court records, sentencing information, medical records. Even people who had been incarcerated for decades left a mountain of paperwork behind them. I couldn't find hers.

There was a prisoner number, but no corresponding sentencing record. No court order or conviction. I thought perhaps I'd missed something and dug deeper. Her name was there, and the entries went back a few months. I frowned when I realized what file I was looking at.

Visitor Log.

She had visited John at his previous facility more than once. Then I reached the final entry.

Her status had changed from visitor to inmate.

I stared at it for a long time, then flipped to the admission form for the offence.

Something had been written there, but the handwriting was almost completely illegible. It looked as though whoever had filled it out had been writing in a hurry, or simply didn't care whether anyone could read it. I took the paperwork to the warden.

"What's this?"

I pointed to the handwriting. He looked at the page and squinted at it, then shrugged.

"No idea. How'd you expect me to read that?"

"She was John's visitor."

"Oh, was she? Well, birds of a feather."

He headed to the office. It was then I understood she had done nothing at all. And I wasn't going to be a part of that.

The next morning, I walked into the warden's office and put my badge on his desk. Then I put the button beside it. He looked at them.

"You're quitting already?"

"Yes."

He didn't ask why, didn't argue, just nodded.

"Alright. Guess we'll have to find someone to take your place then. Left us with a hard job, eh?"

I handed everything over before the end of my shift and walked through the prison one final time. I reached the last security door and stepped outside.

I had almost reached the outer gate when I heard her scream. It was faint but unmistakable, carrying through the reinforced walls despite the distance.

Then came another voice.

"Please. Please stop."

I’ve tried everything. Damp cloths. Lubricating drops. Boiling the kettle until the room is a sauna. Nothing works. My eyes are so damn dry.

It all started with that damn box. I never should have bought it at the flea market.

I just thought it was neat - a charming little tchotchke. Metallic, brushed brass, and no bigger than a small brick. On the front were two deep glass lenses; on the back, two eyes carved into the metal. A rectangular shutter button sat on top. The only writing was stamped on the bottom in a raised, winding font:

The Buskin Box.

The woman at the stall couldn't tell me much. A customer had traded it for an antique Sheffield penknife two weeks prior. She only remembered that the guy looked utterly exhausted - "like he hadn’t slept in weeks." She took the twenty bucks I offered for it, I tossed it into my tote, and I went home.

It was later that I took a closer look and realised what I had on my hands: The Buskin Box was a vintage viewing toy, like a View Master or a stereoscope.

I lifted it to my face and peered into the deep black lenses.

The image inside was dim. As my eyes adjusted, I made out a man standing in front of heavy red velvet curtains, like the backdrop of an old vaudeville stage. He was facing away from me, wearing a buttoned white shirt with his pomaded hair slicked back.

I pressed the shutter button.

Flash.

A blinding light burned the scene onto my retinas as a piercing, high-pitched note shrieked in my ears - the kind of sudden pressure you feel when an airplane cabin drops.

Nausea hit me like a wave, and I dropped the box. Then, just as quickly as it came, the sickness vanished.

I picked up the box and looked back into the lenses. Nothing. Complete darkness. I guess I broke the light mechanism when it hit the floor - twenty bucks down the drain.

When I blinked, the afterimage lingered. You know how staring at the sun leaves a floating burnt spot in your vision? It was like that.

Except it didn't fade.

Every time I blinked, the image refreshed. All afternoon, the ghost of that skinny man and his red curtains floated in front of my vision. By nightfall, I had a killer headache, so I called it early and went to bed.

Lying in the dark, the image grew unnaturally vivid. I found myself inspecting the scene behind my eyelids: the crimson drapes, the spotlight, the man’s silhouette. It felt so tangible I could almost reach out and touch it.

Then I noticed something impossible. The man was turning.

Earlier, I had only seen the back of his head. Now, he had rotated just enough for me to catch the profile of a long nose and the edge of a wet, bloodshot eye.

I figured I was exhausted and forced myself to sleep.

I don't remember what I dreamed, but I woke up at dawn screaming, soaked in sweat.

My vision was still wrecked. Every blink brought up the picture, locking me in a feverish haze for the whole of the morning. I was unable to function, so I went back to bed, closed the bedroom curtains, and tried to sleep it off.

That’s when I noticed the image had shifted again.

The man had turned completely. He was staring straight at me.

He looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting - slicked hair, white apron, buttoned collar. But his expression was pure malice. His eyes were rimmed red, dripping wet, and filled with a horrifying mix of agony and rage. It was an unmistakable look that screamed: HOW DARE YOU LOOK AT ME?

I blinked twice, trying to clear my sight.

He moved.

It was an inch, but it was real. His face contorted into deeper fury and he was closer to me than he had been the moment before.

Panic set in. I sprinted to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto my face, blinking rapidly to wash the hallucination away.

That was a mistake.

He moved with every single blink. Frame by frame. A sick, living flipbook.

Blink. Move. Blink. Move.

He was raising his arm, reaching toward me. I could feel hatred radiating off him like heat from a fire. He despised being seen, and he wanted to destroy me for looking.

I ran into the living room, snatched the box off the floor, and searched desperately for an off switch, a latch, instructions - anything.

But there was nothing. Just those three stamped words: The Buskin Box.

In a rage, I slammed it against the hardwood.

The moment it impacted, a white-hot spike of agony shot through my frontal lobe. I collapsed, trembling and sweating as the pain ebbed away.

When I looked behind my eyes again, he was right there. "Mr. Buskin" was leaning forward, his clubbed fingers inches from my face.

I had fifteen, maybe twenty blinks left before he touched me. And I knew - with the absolute certainty of instinct - that if he touched me, I was dead.

I had to ration my blinks. Keep my eyes open. Buy time.

But the harder you try not to blink, the faster your body forces you to. I burned through six blinks in three minutes. His teeth set into a snarl; his hand strained forward.

Hysteria threatened to grip me. So I tried the opposite: I clamped my eyes shut. If I didn't blink, he couldn't move.

I slammed my eyelids down and pressed my knuckles into my sockets. But in the dark, his hatred was amplified. Malice, disgust, and loathing washed over me so intensely my skin felt like it was peeling off in a boiling pot. I couldn't bear it.

I opened my eyes. I was out of time.

I stumbled into the kitchen and yanked open the drawer, pulling out a dull chef's knife.

Blink.

He was closer.

Oh god. Okay. Keep it simple. Pinch the skin. Drag the blade. Pinch. Drag. Pinch. Then drag.

I grabbed my left eyelid, pinched the skin tight, and brought the metal up.

I began to slice. Halfway through, I realized the screaming echoing in the kitchen was coming from my own mouth.

I threw the wet scrap of flesh into the sink. I remember thinking how small it looked. Barely anything at all.

Blink. Fuck!

Right eye next. My fingers were slick with blood, making it impossible to grip the eyelid. I started laughing- or maybe crying; I couldn't tell anymore.

If I couldn’t pinch it, I would have to slice directly. I pointed the tip of the blade at the base of my right brow.

I counted to three. I held my breath.

And I pushed the knife around my eye.

That was three hours ago. I think. I might have lost time.

It’s hard to type with blood dripping onto the keys, and the screen is a blur, but I haven't blinked once.

I know if I do, Mr. Buskin will be there. Ready to get me.

But goddamn. My eyes are so dry.

His name was Sean.

We used to attend the same elementary school together. He joined our class during the second year and left somewhere in the fifth year. I cannot remember the reason he abandoned us, but it surely came out of nowhere. While it is difficult to pinpoint the exact day of his departure, I have vague memories of the hurt I experienced during that time. I liked Sean, and to my knowledge he shared these feelings.

There was a very brief period, at most a few days, when I tried to find out anything about my friend’s disappearance. My brain can force out a scene in which I was interviewing two of my classmates about Sean’s whereabouts, and them not treating it seriously. The thing is, I used to be a rather shy kid who abandoned any grand plan not supported by the almighty adults. I did not believe in myself and slowly but surely just gave up on my quest.

Elementary school was ages ago, though. After you leave it you grow, experience things, gain new memories, meet new people, and slowly but surely that precious time morphs into bland information about the first steps you have taken. There are duties of the present world awaiting you, and the faces of the past hide deep in the corners of your mind. High school, college, the job market—and at a certain point I lost everything resembling contact with my school peers, including Sean.

That was until a very special day.

It all began as I was cutting some vegetables for dinner. I had been at my parents’ place visiting and was about to leave in two days for some job interviews. The day was rather calm, even boring. My mom was helping me with the dish and my dad was cleaning the basement. A typical Saturday afternoon.

Eventually my dad entered the kitchen, holding something in his hand. His face was unusually lit up, with a huge grin. He walked up to the table I was sitting at, put something next to the desk with the cut vegetables, and loudly exclaimed:

“Remember?”

After which he walked out of the room laughing cheerfully. I put down the knife so as not to hurt myself and stared at the mysterious item.

A wave of warm nostalgia swept through me.

It was a photo of me at the end of third grade in elementary school. After a few seconds I realized the photo had been taken at some family festivity the school organized every year, which I loved, by the way. I had a big cowboy hat on top of my head, which looked quite comical on a skinny child. There were two other boys standing next to me in the photo. The one wearing a greenish tie I quickly identified as Chris, one of my closest friends. The other boy had hidden himself well, as he had full-face zombie makeup, but after a few more seconds I realized he was Kenny. I felt a hint of discomfort, as he was a bit on the bully side and had shared a few fights with me.

There was, however, another person in the photo. Well, a person was maybe an exaggeration. There was a hand on Kenny’s shoulder and a small portion of somebody’s hair. Not a lot of hints, but I accepted the challenge and tried to force a person out of my memory. Light brown hair, pretty longish—maybe it was a girl? Impossible; we weren’t friends with a lot of girls back then. Who could it be… Aha, got it!

With excitement I walked up to my mom to show her the hidden treasure. I explained to her who was who and we both shared laughs, reminded of the good old days. That was until the moment I tried to describe the owner of the lonely lock of hair.

“Now, it’s difficult to determine, but there’s one more guy here. See this hand on Ken’s shoulder? That’s Sean, remember him?”

I met my mom’s gaze, but it wasn’t what I expected. She had a hint of curiosity mixed with an invitation to laughter.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Sean, mom. That shorter kid whose father was a beekeeper. He left in the fifth grade.”

I let out a quick giggle and my mom joined me. There was a hint of nervousness to that. After a second of silence, as if we were both trying to find something funny about the situation, my mom said the words that burned into my head:

“Darling, your class wasn’t the biggest and I’m pretty sure I remember every kid that was a part of it. And as far as I’m aware there was no Sean among your peers.”

Imagine the creeps running through my backside. Either my mom had made a really convincing prank (which she was usually really bad at) or there was something fishy happening. Maybe I had switched up the names? Impossible. Sean was one of my biggest friends in elementary school, and while it was ages ago, you don’t forget the basic details about your favorite people.

I asked my mom if she was kidding and she swore she wasn’t. My dad returned to the kitchen and I invited him into the conversation. I waved the photo he himself had found around and tried to get some information out of him. But the words he said, very convincingly shall I say, pointed to the same conclusion my mom had reached.

Neither of them remembered a kid named Sean in my class.

That was the beginning of my search for the friend that did not exist.

After making sure neither of my parents was joking, I—still rather calm and simply curious—decided to look through the family albums. Our school kept taking group photos of each class every year. My parents bought one copy every time from the photographer and put them into the album dedicated only to me. It took just under five minutes to find all the photos positioned next to each other. My strategy was to put a name to every single face and see if anybody was missing. With that I could exclude the kid who might or might not be named Sean.

Feeling like Sherlock Holmes and actually having fun, I kept identifying the people I stored in the back of my memory. Classes 1 and 6 had nobody unnamed now, which made sense considering Sean wasn’t in the school then. But quickly I realized the faces in class 2 were exactly the same as in the previous photo. A disturbing feeling crept up inside me as the same situation happened with class 3. Then over and over again, until I repeated checking class 6. It was clear as day.

I knew all the kids in these photos and none of them could have been Sean.

Creeps took the place of curiosity as I realized something foul was in the air. Creeps followed me back to my place where I got mixed into adult responsibilities. Yet I did not stop thinking about Sean. Hell, I might have failed a job interview because of the mindset that event had put me in.

With enough free time, I decided to dig into the mystery. I always used to love watching crime thrillers on TV with my folks; then I moved into detective novels and ARG playing in my youth. I cannot lie that the distressing events of the previous days left a seed of curiosity inside of me that wanted to grow and flourish. In simple words, I enjoyed this hunting.

I found the school peers I was aware existed through Facebook and hit them up. Most of them were really good at pretending they missed me and joined the small talk. With each of the ones that responded I quickly steered the conversation toward the Sean-boy. I showed them the photo my dad had found and asked about any memories with the mysterious child. I knew the memories were hazy, but all I wanted was a hint that could lead me anywhere.

Their reactions were different. Some laughed the situation off, some got really curious, some were annoyed and thought I was wasting their time. There was even the old Kenny, who jumped into playful insults that entertained nobody but him (dumbass never changed…). Yet they all shared a detail I didn’t wish for.

Nobody knew anything about Sean. About his current whereabouts, about his personal info, even about the past we had had together. The kid had disappeared into thin air.

At that moment I felt as if my life had turned into a Franz Kafka book. I genuinely thought I was either going mad. Or I might have been lobotomized, drugged, hypnotized. There is somebody deeply coded into my brain who had been my friend in elementary school and was named Sean. While my confidence evaporated, something deep inside hinted it was the truth. Too detailed to be a dream, too hazy to be a clear memory. But it was the truth.

Somewhat terrified, I changed the strategy. Old-school style, with a piece of paper and a pen, I began writing down every small memory I had with the kid that lay deep inside my memory. The first step was thinking of definite real things—classrooms, playgrounds, festivities, football matches, school trips. Then trying to stitch them with my friend. If I could not join the pieces together I left the thought alone. But if something hinted at Sean being connected to the place or the event, I dwelled on it until I had enough details to write something down.

With that I ended up having nine events on the paper. While it seemed a terribly small amount for more or less four years of sharing a life, that time was so far away I was thankful for anything.

I won’t describe every single detail. Most of these memories were rather uninteresting problems of a little child. Ice skating, cheating on a math exam, getting stung by a bee… However, there were two incidents which gave me the goosebumps as I dwelled on them. Hidden deep inside my mind they rested blissfully, but brought to the light of day they awakened a new fear swimming through my adult skin.

The first incident happened at Chris’s birthday party. I don’t remember the exact year it took place, but it must have been between the second and fifth grades as Sean was there. I was quite happy for him to be there, as his free time was mostly spent helping his dad with the work. While I felt bad for him, his prize for tough days was swimming in a lake near his home. I envied him for that.

We were at Chris’s place, rummaging through the house to the despair of the birthday boy’s parents. The entire class was invited and it got really loud and chaotic. At a certain moment I fell headfirst into this juvenile excitement that only happens in adulthood when you take drugs. Running with the boys through the upper floor’s corridor, joyful with laughter, I suddenly heard Sean’s scream right next to my ear:

“Come here, quickly!”

I turned my head to see his silhouette running to the bathroom for some reason. After crossing the door his laugh faded out along with his steps. While it seemed odd, because everyone ran to Chris’s room at that time, I began to follow Sean, mindlessly joining the fun he was spreading. I walked through the bathroom door and observed…

Nothing. There was nobody in the bathroom but my reflection in the cabinet mirror.

The first thing I felt was the fun-infused confusion. I skimmed through the places a boy could hide and saw no trace of any disturbance. Nobody behind the shower curtain, nobody behind the washing machine, nobody nowhere. This bathroom might have been the only place not disturbed by the kids in the house.

I remember the sudden wave of loneliness I felt during that time, as if I were a prey being hunted. Writing the situation down, I could not believe how vulnerable I was in a house seemingly full of people. All the childish fun and excitement were replaced by fear.

I do not remember exactly what followed, but I did run out of the bathroom. A blank space in time and suddenly I’m near Chris as his mom is cutting the cake, giving a piece to every guest. In contrast, everyone was all happy and calm in that moment, sharing love and respect. It’s like nobody even acknowledged the panic that spread through me just before. The weird thing is I also don’t remember Sean during the cake-eating time. Not like he disappeared, just not present, possibly hiding somewhere where my senses could not reach.

The second incident took place in a forest near my elementary school. It was a planned walk through the woods, a cool form of physical education the entire class enjoyed. Sean especially loved it, as hiking through the forests around his house was something he had grown up on. We always used to do it whenever the sun was shining bright and warm, not accompanied by rain or snow. I remember the beautiful greenery mixed with the laughs of my friends filling me with peace and joy. Except for that one day.

We were halfway through the path already. The furthest point we had from our school, only a 15-minute walk away, yet still problematic for a kid who could get lost and panic. The heavy branches of the trees stole away the sun’s light and crafted relatively the darkest portion of the path. While I had lots of fun during our walks, that exact place filled me with suspense.

At that time, the PE teacher was the first in line, followed by kids in pairs. Because we lacked a second adult who could be at the very end, the last pairs were responsible for checking if the two kids right behind them were present. While not a perfect solution, it always seemed to work out.

I don’t remember my pair, but I was second to last and Sean was the last one. Actually, he tried to get into a three with me and my mysterious partner, yet at a certain point the road was too narrow and he had to walk alone. Being a good kid I was, I kept checking for Sean every minute even though I was aware of his presence behind me. One time I did look back, though, and saw something peculiar.

Sean was standing far behind us, staring deep into the dark forest.

While I wish I could know how he got there so quickly, I didn’t think about it at the moment and ran to get my best friend. My mysterious partner didn’t join me, maybe because he was lazy or afraid, so I ran alone. I screamed for Sean, yet he seemingly ignored me and kept staring. Frightened, I ran close toward him and asked whether he was fine. I was afraid something bad might have happened to my pal. Instead, he looked at me with something quite unusual for him—a serious face. My adult body actually felt a lump in my throat, remembering his big, scared eyes and mouth hanging open, which awakened terror with just a couple of words:

“They’re following us through the bushes. Run!”

The most disturbing part about that sentence was the relatively calm way the words escaped Sean’s mouth. He did not scream, nor did he whisper as some sort of performance. He just said it casually, still keeping that serious expression without the slightest change.

You could imagine what the little, naive me felt in that moment. The memory gets hazy here, but I believe that I ran toward the group without a care if Sean was following. I remember how dark the forest was around me and how lost I felt, even though it was not more than a minute of running until I joined my class. I also can point out a sensation of disgust when my eyes quickly darted through the bushes near the path I ran through. I obviously saw nothing unusual, yet that lack of something might have been even more disturbing.

These are the two events that stood out from the rest. Sean was truly one of a kind of a prankster, considering he did in fact exist. I was still in contact with some of my former classmates and asked them about these moments. While chatting and explaining the details I quickly went through the list again in hopes I had missed something. Truly nothing out of the ordinary. Ice skating, cheating on a math exam, getting stung by a bee… Huh, that last one wasn’t so pleasant. I always hated bees! I’ve been stung by these bastards at least six times in my life and most of it was near the beehives of…

It was then when I got the hint I needed completely out of the blue.

Sean’s father was a beekeeper. I was quite confident of that; I even told it to my mom when we were first discussing the mystery of Sean. I got stung several times by the insects the man owned. Then another thought appeared. After one of these unpleasant events Sean gave me the secret to ease the pain a little. It was his way of stopping his muscles from hurting after a tough day helping his dad. He would sink his frail body in the…

Lake near his house. Surrounded by the beautiful trees he used to hike in.

At that moment I was confident I was at Sean’s place. Nobody remembered the guy and with that his house, but I was there. And now I needed to find it.

It was an uncertain lead, as I had been there a long time ago. I didn’t remember the year I visited Sean nor the location of his house. Even if I found the exact place, nobody related to the mystery friend could still live in the house and the beehives might have been long gone. But at that point I was desperate to know and I searched for a house with beehives near a wooded area and a lake.

I won’t describe the entire process of getting there, but after hours of flirting with Google Maps and getting to know every single detail, I might have found the place. There was a house fitting the description I was looking for. Even though it proved difficult, Street View graced me with a group of beehives some distance behind the house and a path to a lake just at the end of the street. While it wasn’t concrete evidence, I had the gut feeling I had found my mystery boy’s house. Something deep inside of me hinted at it. There was, however, a distressing detail.

Even if you drove by car, it would take three hours to reach our elementary school from that house.

It seems dumb, but I’m going there next week. Wish me luck.

They call it the Ghost Fleet.

A collection of downtrodden, rusted, barnacled commercial ships that are anchored and left to rot just where the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay kisses the Atlantic Ocean.

I’d always heard the tales of them being haunted. Men with slippery fingers sneaking onto the boats, trying to steal old relics of maritime past are met with the woe and weary spirits from that ship’s hellish history.

I have always fancied myself a burglar and scoffed at notions of damned souls lingering for a laugh, so when I became privy to the spoils left over on some of these old ships and tankers, I gassed up my skiff.

“Fortuna, hold my eggs in the mornin’, girl”, I yelled to my missus.

“Where you gonna be?”, she sang from her boudoir in that southern twang that won me over so many years ago.

“Going to the duck blind. Staying the night.”

“It ain’t duck huntin’ season.”

She had me. Astute like no other.

“Will you leave me be!? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She just shook her head at me with a grin as I walked out the door. I’ve always regretted not making an honest woman out of her. My swimmers sink like an anchor so I’ve never been able to give her the family she wanted…

…but she’s stayed with me. “If I’m able to find this sailor’s tidal clock”, I thought, “I’m gonna sell it and take her to a resort that the high and bow-tied frequent…amongst other spoils.

I wish I could tell you it was a struggle, but I puttered up to that derelict collection of ships in the night like a darn professional. I climbed up a ladder 40 years gone, and walked right into the barracks and snooped around, before heading to the Captain’s quarters. Was there anything scary? Certainly not.

When I opened the door, there she was. Cobwebbed and rusted from the muggy air, but there was the tidal clock. “Junk” to Johnny-Come-Lately, but to the collector, a prized piece. I scooped her up and headed right back out the way I came. Police boats do patrol the area, so I won’t gonna linger.

I hopped in my skiff and like I told Fortuna, headed to my duck blind to escape the night. I built it in a marsh just off the Crook Narrows. Perfect for a spot of fishing and duck hunting, but also for privacy and to wait out the night.

As I pulled up, a storm began to holler.

I climbed into the small blind (a tiny wooden house-like structure on pylons sticking out of the marsh, if you’re not familiar), grabbed my lantern from the small box of supplies I keep there and lit it just as the thunder rang and the skies began to pour.

I took out the tidal clock from the black sack I had put it and marveled at the craftsmanship. Some old sap like myself used this to guide themselves through God-what-have-you decades ago. I wondered if they had themselves a woman like Fortuna…

WHEN…

I heard HER singing.

At first it was light. I barely could make it out through the rain, but it grew.

“Tickle they tender, beholden me; fire, it rages, under her sea; Blow the man down, cry for his crowns; His lovey held under, she shines, she drowns…”

I quickly put the clock back in its sack and peered out of the duck blind’s door.

THERE…

A silhouette moved through the water just in front of me.

“Good evenin’ to ya! Do you need a reprieve from the storm!?”

The figure stopped. They turned and waded through the waste high water toward me. Eventually, they found the light of my lantern…

A woman, cloaked in brown and a wooden crab bucket floating next to her, a rope tethered from it to her.

I was taken aback, as she smiled. She was beautiful.

“Please come find some warmth, ma’am. I appreciate crabbin’ when you have the time, but this is treacherous.

She didn’t speak, she just smiled again and made her way up the ladder. She came inside and sat down.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any provisions. Not even a towel to dry you.”

She didn’t respond. She just sat on the floor and looked up at me curiously.

“You sang awful pretty. Without that I’d probably-a-found some fright seeing you out in this marsh at this time of night.”

She shook her head.

“What?”, I said confusedly. She shook her head again.

JUST THEN…

Blood began to trickle out of her mouth.

“Ma’am, you bleed…” — I lost my breath when she opened her mouth wide, revealing a freshly cut out tongue.

I ripped my coat off and tried to hold it up to her mouth.

Suddenly her eyes WENT WIDE, as she caught sight of the tidal clock. She began to flail and I panicked along with her, before she finally threw me up against the wall. I toppled to the ground in some mixture of shock, confusion and horror…

“Ma’am, I’m a friend, please, I…”

“THEY USED IT TO FIND US…”

That same voice from earlier spoke from just outside the duck blind. The woman in front of me just stared at the tidal clock in its black sack, tears starting to run down her face, mixing with the blood from her mouth.

“There are more of ya…who’s out there!?”, I pleaded.

“They used it to know when our waters would be low. When they could take us so.”

“Who!?”, I yelped.

“A thief in the night can set us free. Give us the clock, and a wish you’ll see.”

“A wish?!”

“Whatever it may be.”, the voice said. It felt witch-like, it felt evil, as the tongueless woman now stared at me. I had found my fright. I was petrified.

“Take it, TAKE IT, I don’t have a bother ‘bout it!”

“And your wish, thief?”

I was so scared, I only could play along. Even though amidst the demonic hullabaloo my mind searched for reason.

“My wife and I to have a child.”

There was silence…BUT THEN.

The most blood curdling, ear piercing scream from outside as the tongueless woman smiled. I covered my ears as she lurched toward me and kissed me.

If you had doubts about me before now, would you believe that at that moment I jerked awake. It was morning. The storm had passed. I was still in the duck-blind and the clock was still there in its sack. I took a deep breath and chuckled to myself.

I whistled and let the salty air flow over my grin as I made my way home to Fortuna.

Just then…

A KICK…then another…and another.

Something knocked about…in my stomach.

I lifted my shirt and pure horror fell across my face. I went straight to the sack with the tidal clock…

The most pristine, modern, electronic tidal clock.

What happened after that is between myself and Fortuna.

I finally decided to get back into shape. My old gym closed last year and I hadn't found a replacement. So I signed up for this new place called "The Ascendant Institute." It sounded a bit dramatic for a gym but it was close to my apartment and had good reviews online. Their website boasted about personalized training and a holistic approach to wellness. Sounded fancy enough for me.

My first day was last Monday. August 17th. I walked in and it was sleek all dark wood and stainless steel. Very modern. A man with an unsettlingly calm smile greeted me. He introduced himself as Marcus my assigned trainer. He was tall incredibly muscular but moved with a strange almost liquid grace. His eyes were the most striking feature they were a pale piercing blue that seemed to look right through me.

He started by taking me through a series of assessments. Not just the usual weight and measurements. He had me do these bizarre flexibility tests twisting my body into positions I didn't think were possible. He observed everything with intense focus. He barely spoke but his gaze was constant. It made my skin crawl a little.

"Your body has potential" he said his voice a low monotone. "We will unlock it." It wasn't encouraging it felt more like a promise or even a threat. He then handed me a small sleek device. "This will track your progress. Wear it at all times." I asked if it was waterproof he just nodded. No further explanation.

Over the next few days my workouts were intense. Marcus was always there silent watchful. He never pushed me verbally but his presence was enough. He’d demonstrate exercises with perfect form and somehow I’d find myself mimicking him even when I felt like giving up. The other trainers were similar. They all had that same unnerving calm. That same piercing gaze. They moved like dancers and spoke like robots.

One evening I was leaving the gym when I saw Marcus talking to another member. Their conversation was hushed but I caught a few words. "...assimilation phase complete..." and "...next cycle begins at dawn..." It made no sense. I shrugged it off as gym jargon.

Yesterday I was at home showering after a particularly grueling session. I took off the tracking device and placed it on the counter. As I dried off I noticed a faint humming coming from it. I picked it up and held it to my ear. It wasn't a hum. It was a faint voice. It was Marcus's voice. He was talking about me. Detailing my heart rate my stress levels my "adaptability score."

I dropped the device. It landed with a soft thud. I stared at it. It was still silently humming. How could it be talking? And why was it tracking me outside the gym?

I went back to the gym today to confront Marcus. The place was almost empty. I found him in the main workout area. He was doing some sort of stretching routine. His body was contorted in a way that looked impossible for a human.

"Marcus" I said my voice trembling slightly. "What is this device? What are you doing?" He slowly uncoiled himself turning to face me. His smile was wider than usual. It didn't reach his eyes.

"The device is merely assisting you in reaching your peak potential" he said his voice still that unsettling monotone. "As for what I am doing... I am observing. I am guiding. We all are."

He gestured around the empty gym. "We are preparing you for the next phase." My blood ran cold. The way he said "we" and "next phase" sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't just him. It was all of them.

I decided right then I was done. "I'm canceling my membership" I stated firmly. He tilted his head slightly. His smile didn't waver.

"That will not be possible" he replied. "Once you begin the ascension there is no withdrawal." My heart pounded in my chest. "What are you talking about?" I demanded. He took a step closer. His eyes seemed to glow faintly.

"Your body is adapting" he said softly. "Your mind is opening. You are becoming one of us." He reached out a hand and touched my arm. His skin was cold surprisingly smooth.

I pulled away instantly. I turned and ran. I didn't stop until I was out of the gym and sprinting down the street. I haven't been back. I threw the tracking device into a dumpster a few blocks away. I'm scared.

I keep looking over my shoulder. I keep thinking I see those pale blue eyes. I keep hearing his voice in my head. Telling me I can't withdraw. Telling me I'm becoming one of them. What did I sign up for?

I know it sounds insane, but there is a man-baby in my apartment that thinks I am its mother.

I am not talking about an infant or a grown man. This is something else entirely. Something in-between.

Picture a six-foot-tall baby with facial hair and a large bulbous head. It moves like a child but bears the weight and strength of a Swedish bodybuilder. It also has a fixation with swearing if you can believe it...I’m not sure why.

It’s terrifying. I’m terrified.

Sound strange to you? I sure hope so. Believe it or not, everyone around me thinks I am the insane one for suggesting that this is anything but normal. And that isn’t even the half of it. I find myself in a surreal reality that is trying to coerce me into going along with this sick charade.

My mind tells me I am in danger. Reality whispers that I am safe.

Reality.

Such a weird concept.

The very fabric of my existence is not as concrete as I once thought. The laws of physics are no longer a comfortable boundary I sit within, but an ocean where I am eternally scrambling for the shore.

I pray my story is being written in its original state, and you are reading it with my words still intact. Unfortunately, it is more likely that the words are shifting beneath me like sand. The end result will probably end up being an elaborate lie that reality has breathed into existence to cover its tracks.

Unless I win. I have to win.

Before we discuss that journey, let me introduce myself. Recapping things I know to be true helps me catch the lies before they take hold. That’s what Dr. Han told me at least. But we’ll get to that shortly.

My name is Kara. I am 33, single, and my life has been relatively uneventful up to this point. I have a boring job, and I am a proud mother to a—

Dammit.

There it goes again.

I am not a parent. Never have been. That’s the lie that set this whole nightmare into motion. 

I was returning home from work on a quiet Monday afternoon when this all started. The start of the day was largely uneventful. After a handful of meetings, a dozen emails, and a few bouts of small talk with coworkers, it was time to head home.

I was looking forward to settling in for the night and enjoying some take out while my favorite garbage reality show plays in the background. Sounds like a perfect night compared to the nightmare I am dealing with now.

I entered my home and tossed my work accessories aside. Nothing was out of place, as expected. I flipped the lights and started unboxing my meal when an acrid smell hit me. I pressed the box up to my nose and realized it was coming from somewhere else—somewhere deeper in my apartment.

I opened the trash can. Fresh plastic and no sign of spoiled food was all I found. I followed the smell through the living room to my closed bedroom door, a door that was open when I left for work this morning.

I opened it slowly. It creaked open with a loud groan that made me wince. I peered in. I held my hand to my mouth to keep myself from screaming.

A large crib the size of my bed towered in the corner of the room. Large adult diapers littered the floor and left crusty stains all over the surrounding carpet. At the opposite end of the room sat the monster.

The man-baby.

A large hairy man with baby-like skin and a large, bulbous head coo’d and tossed toys at the wall, leaving deep dents. His eyes were asymmetrical and his teeth were nonexistent. A frizzy beard hung from his smooth red face.

He turned to me with an expression of familiarity, excitement, and rage. 

As he stood, he babbled. A mess of garbled syllables escaped his large lips. It was baby talk, but his deep cracking voice made it sound inhuman.

He stood clumsily on his large chubby feet and his face curled into a snarl. 

“B…bu…bi-“ bubbled out of his lips. Then he screamed a single word.

“BITCH!”

I watched in horror as he lumbered over to me with surprising speed. I turned to run but it was too late, he had me by the hair and dragged me backwards into the room. 

I screamed and punched at his balloon fingers but they didn’t let up. My right hand managed to snag a toy off the soiled carpet and I jammed it into his side, sending him into hysterics.

Before he could finish his tantrum I leapt out the room and slammed the door behind me. I held the handle while frantically scanning the area for some way to lock him in from the outside. 

After a few minutes of him yelling obscenities and pounding against the door, I realized he wasn’t even trying to turn the handle.

I don’t think he knew how.

The cops arrived a few minutes later, but the wait felt like an eternity. I told them about everything—the crib, the diapers, the man-baby. They asked how he managed to sneak in but I had no explanation for them. The guy didn’t even know how to open a door much less break into a house. 

I turned away when the officer opened the door to my room. He seemed to enter with ease and closed the door behind him. The silence made me uneasy. After a few minutes, he returned empty handed. No man-baby in handcuffs. 

“Wait, what are you doing? Where is he?” I started to panic. Did he manage to get out? Was he hiding somewhere else?

The cop gave an odd signal to the other officers and they began shuffling out. I could tell he was mulling something in his head before addressing me. He couldn’t hide the annoyance on his face but I could tell he was trying his best.

“Excuse me? Why is everyone leaving? Where is that—that thing?” My face was hot. I could feel my blood start to boil.

“Ma’am, I just need to ask you a few questions.” He dropped low and met my gaze before continuing in a very careful tone.

“You came home and was surprised to find that fella in the other room, correct?” 

I took a deep breath, trying to remain composed despite this unnecessary line of questioning. “Correct.”

He gave a subtle nod. “And you told officer Sulley that this man-baby doesn’t belong to you, correct?”

A laugh escaped me. His face remained stoic, awaiting my answer with impatience.

“You serious? You’re asking if I know this man?”

The officer stood up slowly and rubbed his temple. “Ma’am, this child is registered under your care. But I think you already know that.”

I felt a shift in the room. This couldn’t really be happening. Was everyone going insane?

“I don’t understand.” I stood up, backing away from the officer. I felt the room closing in on me. The creature in the other room started pounding on the door again, sending waves of nausea over me.

“Are you okay ma’am?” The officer started towards me with open arms as if to catch me but I recoiled. I was stumbling now, every second spent enduring this was sending me off-balance.

I could smell it again. The fumes from the bodily waste in the other room started to choke me. The officer was moving in slow motion before my eyes, his voice reduced to a faint noise I couldn’t decipher. 

I was on the ground now. The ceiling swam in my vision until the world faded to black and my mind embraced unconsciousness.

I dreamt the man-baby escaped. It tore down the door and descended on my unconscious body. It’s feral now. The bout of tantrums and my escape sent it into a boiling rage. 

It was hitting me. Pounding its sausage-like limbs into me like an ape.

My form turned to red mist against the carpet as it unleashed a barrage upon me. It hurt at first, then it didn’t.

Then I woke up.

I was in a hospital bed. At first, it felt like my prayers were answered. All I had to do was wait for a doctor to come in and tell me everything was okay. Maybe I got into a car accident and hit my head. Maybe I caught a terrible illness and this was all just a hallucination. I remember seeing a story on the news like that once.

Of course, none of these fantasies came to be.

All of it was real.

I was met with an array of doctors and government officials that took my account with indifferent expressions and impatience. 

They all said the same thing. The creature in my room was my child. 

“You must be experiencing some sort of mental dissociation” one psychologist told me.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you straightened out. You’ll be back to caring for your baby in no time. He needs his mom after all.”

The words sent bile up my throat. I vomited all over her, sending her into a screaming fit that she carried down the hall outside my room. I would be lying if I said it didn’t give me some satisfaction. I’ve been here dealing with these people a long time now.

Too long.

After a few weeks of seeing the same familiar faces every day, I met someone new. A blind government official named Suzie. 

Suzie wasn’t like the other people I met with. She asked her questions with empathy. I could see it in her face that she heard me. Even if she didn’t believe me, she knew I wasn’t lying. That’s when she told me about the organization she worked for.

“I’m sure at this point you realized I’m not with the folks that have been pestering you these past few weeks.” Suzie pulled a pamphlet out of her bag and handed it to me.

“Well you’re the first person here that isn’t treating me like a monster for not wanting to raise a man in a diaper” I muttered. The nurse taking notes at the foot of my bed was staring daggers at me. Her lips pursed thinner than the pencil in her hand.

“Honey I may be blind but I see better than most” Suzie chuckled. She turned her head to the glaring nurse and prodded her with the butt of her cane. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize it took ten minutes to take a damn blood pressure reading.” The nurse dropped her face and scurried out of the room.

I giggled. Then Suzie tapped the pamphlet in my hands and leaned in close. “That’s better. We need to be alone for this next bit.” 

She explained that she’s apart of some “anomalous detection unit” within the government. Sits somewhere between intelligence and military in terms of jurisdiction. They scan cases like mine for evidence that could indicate reality is changed in some fundamental way. By the end of this conversation I felt like my head was going to explode.

“I don’t underhand” I said dropping the pamphlet in my lap. “This all sounds so…”

“Fake? Terrifying?” Suzie sighed. “Sorry, our resident physicist, Dr. Han, is much better at explaining these things.”

She patted my knee and continued. “If you choose to review your case with us, you will partake in daily sessions with me and Dr. Han. We’ll understand where the divide is between what you know and what the truth is and do our best to bridge that gap.”

I sat silent for a minute. “And if I say no?”

Suzie stood and put her hand on my shoulder one last time. “Unfortunately you’ll be left with these pricks. I do hope you consider our offer.” She expanded her mobility cane and started for the door.

“Read through the pamphlet carefully and sign the release if you wish to partake. Someone will be around end of day to pick it up.”

I didn’t want her to leave. Her presence brought me peace I hadn’t felt since before all this. 

Before she left the room, she addressed me one more time. “I know this is terrifying, I’ve been where you’re sitting. I do hope you let us help you before it’s too late.” 

Then she was gone.

Hello everyone. I am Dr. Penton, a researcher from L.A. I have a Ph.D in Marine Geology and a minor in… Jesus, who cares anymore.

I am here with an urgent message. A warning.

It’s unlikely, but if anyone is coming across coordinates: [REDACTED].

DO NOT GO THERE.

I repeat.

DO NOT GO THERE.

If you find yourself near these coordinates. GO BACK. Do not approach.

Do not go near the section of water that has no waves.

I am currently aboard the R.V. Saint Clair. I am part of a small crew of scientists who came here to study what we thought were either a geological phenomenon or a consequence of climate alteration.

I’m currently on track to leave the section of water designated Hazard Area One, or A-1. We passed by A-2 and A-3 already.

If I don’t make it out. If I can’t make it. I… at least want this to be a log of my experiences.

I’m putting this excerpt in whatever forums or social media I can find.

God help us.

A-1 is an area approximately 2,000 feet in diameter, and about 0.29 square kilometers, of completely still water.

Roughly circular-shaped, surrounded by occasional rocky formations on its edges. The most notable thing about hazard area one is, as mentioned, the water.

It’s completely still.

There is no motion in A-1. There are no waves and no ripples in the water. It is equivalent to a lake in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

It’s physically impossible.

Hazard Areas 2 and 3, are also similar. The only difference is that they are smaller in size. Probably only about the size of a football stadium.

I… I don’t think I’ve ever seen or read of anything like this. When I was first contracted, I was told there was an area on the ocean with abnormally large CO₂ concentrations. When we finally arrived, we found something much… stranger.

There is, I suppose, a large concentration of CO₂ in the area. But it has the peculiar property of coming in intermittent phases.

Every 2.3 hours a large concentration of CO₂ is detected. It’s roughly rhythmic, which is bizarre, but that’s what the instruments detected.

This alone would constitute enough to have our names plastered over science magazines all over the world. I’m not that shallow but that’s not where the oddities ended.

The area was supposed to be consistent with volcanic activity, probably a hydrothermal vent associated with volcanic or tectonic activity. There is, however, incongruent data with that theory.

The temperature around this place is consistently 5 degrees Celsius above what would be expected. Volcanic activity does not substantially increase water temperature, at least not of this volume. So alternative theories had to be explored.

We lowered a CTD to roughly 500 meters to measure temperature, salinity, and density. It takes a few days for it to process readings, so we waited.

We shouldn’t have waited. We should have left.

We were informed, by honestly, several governments at this point, of class F disappearances in this area. Do people remember a thing we used to talk about as kids? The Bermuda Triangle?

That’s a F class disappearance. Large vessels containing more than fifty people on board.

Our little dinghy boat wouldn’t count, we’re only about eighteen people. I’m not supposed to say this, but supposedly a cruise ship of over five hundred people went missing in an area similar to this.

You probably didn’t hear it on the news. But the people who sail this area know.

Morgans is the ship’s captain. He’s probably one of the few people stupid enough to agree to come here.

He says he’s been out in the waters for years now. Never had an issue. Sometimes he sails across A-1 but he says he doesn’t dare do it through A-2 or A-3. Says it’s bad luck.

Silly superstition aside, there doesn’t seem to be any logical reason not to sail over these areas. Sure, there are disappearances, but nothing in these areas lends for such events to happen.

When they asked me to come, they basically said they wanted a “rock” scientist to be on the ship. I had the good graces to come, but I was left scratching my head as to what this is as well.

My colleagues are marine biologists, non-marine geologists and oceanographers.

They also don’t know what this is. Our resident biologist was shell-shocked on the first day however.

Every so often, there’s a deluge of dead fish that surface on A-1. The largest animal detected among them was a blue whale, probably that strayed from a pod.

It was half-decayed, so the prevalent theory became that there’s a massive gas seep on the ocean floor. Probably involving hydrogen sulfide. That’s a compound made from sulfur.

That would explain the smell.

It would seem obvious that dead fish would produce a foul odor, but it honestly doesn’t compare to the lingering stench that surrounds A-1. It smells like a salty sewer.

An intense hydrothermal vent would explain everything at this point. The gas release, the temperature, the dead fish, even the smell. But it wouldn’t explain the stillness.

I’m not an oceanographer, so I can’t explain why the water is perfectly still. It feels supernatural. It looks like it too.

My colleague says you would need a hyper-specific set of ocean currents to achieve this level of stillness. Something that doesn’t exist anywhere in the world.

I add to that that with this level of volcanic activity, it makes it doubly impossible. Underwater volcanoes change currents. If this really is a volcano or some vent making a perfect balance of currents so the water is perfectly still, then what are the odds?

How is that possible? And moreover, it doesn’t explain another property of A-1.

It’s moving.

Fifty meters per month. Still congruent with a hydrothermal vent or a volcano I suppose. They “move” in the sense they can dislocate over time with changes in the ocean floor.

My more humorous colleagues suggested it’s a massive spaceship underwater. Possibly an entire city, creating stillness for the preservation of stable life.

My other less humorous colleague, the marine biologist, Dr. Monroe, suggested it’s large-scale pollution.

That to me feels more plausible. Pollution, I suppose, ends up being a generic term to describe anything man-made that could be down there. Anything from illegal dumping operations to an entire ship graveyard.

All of these theories have holes in them. So, we bicker about what it actually is.

Each of my coworkers seem to come up with theories that are congruent with their own fields. I guess it makes sense. But we were all wrong.

A few days ago, we were standing in the middle of A-1. CTD was five hours off giving us readings, so we parked the ship there and waited.

One massive object came to the surface of the water and honestly scared us. It was an animal. A species of shark, a dead one.

A massive whale-shark. One of my colleagues suggested cutting part of it and eating it. Dr. Monroe said my colleague was being disgusting. Whale sharks are majestic creatures. Eating them would be cruel and inhuman.

My other colleague retorted that in Indonesia, they said the best fish to eat are predators. He tried some of their sharks there and said he loved them.

Dr. Monroe quickly explained that whale sharks aren’t predators but filter feeders. They don’t hunt. They just open their mouths and swim. Whatever gets in their mouth, they eat.

My other colleague responds with, “so they’re bottom feeders?”

I’m personally not interested in eating anything that’s half-dead in these waters. I doubt I could get the taste of sulfur and rot out of my mouth for weeks.

I’ll stick to the canned food we have.

I’ve work closely with my colleagues over the last few weeks to understand what A-1 actually is.

We came to the conclusion that A-1 is a hydrothermal vent on the ocean floor that exhales such a high concentration of methane and sulfur compounds, that it produces a toxic zone for large wildlife that swims in the perimeter.

It’s an ecological dead zone, demarcated by protruding rocks near its edges and a characteristic smell created by the aforementioned gas release.

As for the still water, we only came to one result.

Inconclusive.

It’s as good as it gets. And after the density readings we would probably set sail and head back home.

I remember having a conversation the day before we discovered the readings. We were out of ideas so I talked to the captain.

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“What it is?” he responded.

“Yes…”

“Well, it’s not some joke like your friends are making it out to be.”

He was referring to my colleagues. Some of them asked the captain to pull up some of the dead fish for research or for a meal.

“Yes, sorry about that.” I apologize.

“The sea is not a playground, laddie”

“I understand.”

I asked Morgans what he thinks it is again.

“I don’t know.” he replies.

Figures.

“But if it’s not moving, it’s wrong. Nothing stands still on sea. Especially the water.”

Morgans doesn’t have any scientific background. But he does have experience. Experience is invaluable. And he also presents himself as a variable. He passes A-1 routinely. But he’s never harmed, he doesn’t “disappear”.

It would provide an interesting insight into A-1 if Morgans ever saw anything. Something to explain the disappearances.

But there’s nothing, he passes along with his small boat every month. And nothing happens.

I doubt he’s hiding anything. But an occasional explosion of gas could explain the boat disappearances.

Gas doesn’t explode naturally at sea, however. Was this some massive man-made structure?

I was about to give up when the density reports began to glare on my computer.

When I got back the density report, I paused.

I sprinted out of the cabin and went to look out to sea. We were still deep in the middle of A-1. I think the captain had ever seen me like this.

I’m only a marine geologist, but even I understand readings outside my field.

These aren’t readings consistent with the ocean floor or just water. This level of density can only mean one thing.

It all clicked in place and I finally understood. I told the captain and we began to speed off out of A-1. Never thinking of going through A-2 or A-3.

I think I almost threw up, while Captain Morgans’ face was just pure white.

It wasn’t a geological site we were studying.

I’m writing this as I’m passing the rocks near the end of A-1. I can see the end and the start of the normal ocean.

I reiterate this to all who read this.

Do not go to these coordinates.

Do not go anywhere matching the descriptions of A-1, A-2 or A-3.

We almost passed the rocks and left. I can see them clearly now.

I’m such an idiot. Why couldn’t I tell before?

We’re lucky were even alive.

Those aren’t rocks.

They’re teeth.

Far up north, there is a convenience store that’s open 24 hours a day, all around the year, except on Christmas. It’s easy to spot from a distance, even half buried in the snow – a red, rectangle shaped building with a glowing neon sign above the automatic doors. The crimson letters spelling SUPERMART.

The store’s parking lot is an ice-covered death trap designed by Satan himself, where at least one person slips, falls and hurt themselves once a week. The forest behind the store is just like the dark and scary woods that the Grimm brothers warned you about as a kid, and I don’t recommend going on walks out there. We got bears here, and a couple of elks that don't seem to be that afraid of the bright eyes of a fast-moving car in the winter.

There is also Fat Tony, an obese, sugar addicted raccoon that has made it a habit to take a dive in our dumpster. We put locks on it, but the little shithead must have gotten his hands on a lockpicking kit or something. He gets in anyway. The only way to deal with him is to spot him in time, and rush at him with a broom while screaming like some madwoman.

Four shelves line the interior of the Supermart, creating five small aisles between the left and right wall. On the ceiling are three security cameras and in one of the corners is an old, black payphone. We sell pretty much everything here that the average household needs: diapers, snacks, coffee, knives, black tape, cleaning tools, rope, shovels and bags that don’t leak.

I work the night shift. 9 pm to 6 am. You’ll usually find me sitting by the cash register near the entrance – pink hair, slim waist, small boobs – reading a magazine or swiping my phone.

Cell reception is shit out here (reason why we still have a payphone, I guess), but the wifi still works to some degree. Meaning I can look at guys' abs and fantasise that I’m on a hot beach in a bikini somewhere, and not in the freezing hell that is Alaska.

Now, the idea of a 24-hour convenience store in the middle of nowhere might sound a bit idiotic to some. You might be thinking, what sort of dumbass goes grocery shopping at three in the morning? Not many, sure, but some of them do. It’s usually the other night workers; the ambulance nurses, police officers, garbage men, that visit me, however. Coming in to get themselves a pack of cigarettes, or a bag of donuts or a microwave meal. Something small to get them through their shifts.

It’s not bad work. Looking after the Supermart. But I would lie if I said that it doesn’t get to me. You know what I mean if you ever worked in any kind of remote place over a long period of time. It’s the emptiness and silence that does it.

When you work alone like this you start to imagine things. Darkness takes root. Time and space slowly start to lose its grip, and you start to become unsure of what reality really is. Does the world outside the store really exist, or if it’s just some long, bad dream you had?

What I am trying to say is this, weird things happen here. The sort of things that don’t fit into a police report, and that you can’t really talk with your therapist about (I can’t at least). Things that you only can share with complete strangers over the internet.

There was that one time a thin man with a hook for a hand came into the store. I’m not kidding. A hook. I thought he was going to rob me when he walked up to the counter, before handing me a five-dollar bill and, with a low, gruff voice, asked for a scratch card.

“Today is my lucky day”, he said to me. “God told me so.”

I gave him a card, he did pay after all, and he began to scratch it with his hook. He didn’t win, and with an inhuman scream ate the card before storming out.

Now that I think back on it, I’m pretty sure that was just a dream. But I am not certain. Could have been someone on drugs, I guess.

Another time, I saw a deer get run over by a truck near the parking lot. It hit the payment and disappeared underneath the wheels. Driver didn’t stop either. He just kept driving like nothing happened, the red lights gone a few seconds later. I grabbed my phone, ready to call someone.

And that’s when the deer stood up again.

It was dark, so I couldn’t really see that well, but the way it moving didn’t seem right to me. Its legs twisting outwards, head spinning the wrong way. The deer looked at me with its black, empty eyes before turning around and sprinting into the woods.

There are also pools of black water forming on the floor sometimes. I’m not exactly sure where it comes from. My current theory is that the heat from the store is melting the snow on the roof, which then finds its way in through a small crack, turning black when passing through the roof’s insolation, and dripping down on the floor. The problem with that theory, is that the black pools don’t form in the same spot. It’s always different. And I have never seen, or heard any sound of, leaking water.

Then there are the other strange night visitors, the weird junk we keep in storage, the urban myths about Supermart having a secret basement, and the snowmen out in the parking lot that appear from time to time when I’m not looking. I know it’s just kids playing, but it’s odd that I never see them put old Frosty together; that’s he’s already standing there when I peek outside, ready to come to life.

If I were to tell you of every unnerving and frightening encounter I had inside this store, real or make-believe, my fingers would be bleeding before I was done. And if you are wondering, yes, I am typing all of this on my phone while at work. Just something to do while waiting for the next customer.

And to try distracting myself from the fact that while I was restocking the shelf behind the counter, someone built a new snowman. A scarf around its neck, top hat on its head and its twig arm raised in a greeting gesture. I don’t trust it.

Anyway, I guess I can tell you a story or two, but I should really get back to work for now. Just checked the security feed and it turns out Fat Tony is getting ready for his nightly swim.

Wish me luck.

​There’s a reason thousands of hikers on the Appalachian Mountains stick to the marked trails, because stepping off them sometimes leads you to things nobody is ever supposed to see. I never believed that idea for a second, until my friends and I stumbled upon a campsite that looked like its owners had left just minutes ago, but everything inside it said it had been abandoned for years. What we discovered after that was enough to make one of us never return, and this is the whole story.

​The story started during the last week of last September, when three of my friends and I decided to take advantage of the weekend. We decided to hike a section of the Appalachian Trail inside North Carolina. We picked this exact time because the temperatures are mild, and the fall colors make the mountains look completely different from summer.

We weren’t beginner campers because we were used to going out two or three times every year, so we prepared our gear carefully, registered our itinerary, and let our families know the area where we’d be spending the next two nights. We had paper maps and GPS devices with us, because we know cell service disappears in many parts of the mountains.

Our goal wasn’t to look for adventure or chase mystery stories; our main goal was just to get away from the city noise for a few days. If we had the slightest reason to turn back, we would’ve done it without hesitation.

​At the visitor center near the trailhead, the ranger checked our camping permits, and asked us about our destination. When we told him the spot we picked, he said it was a quiet place that doesn’t see much foot traffic this time of year. Then he advised us to make sure we had enough water, because the nearest permanent flowing stream was more than two kilometers from the campsite.

He didn’t say anything weird and didn’t warn us about legends, animals, or people. All his advice was practical and logical, and that’s what made me feel later that what happened wasn’t part of a story known by the locals, because what happened was something nobody could’ve expected.

​Reaching our spot took about five hours of steady walking, with short breaks to rest. The weather was perfect and the sky was clear, and the trail was obvious and marked with its well-known white blazes. We passed a few hikers in the first few hours, then human presence started fading away gradually the deeper we went. As sunset was approaching, we found a flat area between the trees suitable for setting up camp.

But before we started pitching our tents, Jack decided to walk ahead a bit to scout the area, and make sure there wasn’t another campsite nearby, out of respect for camping etiquette that recommends leaving enough distance between groups.

Jack didn’t go further than three minutes away, then we heard him call out to us. His tone wasn’t the tone of someone who found a better spot; it was the tone of someone who saw something he couldn’t explain.

​When we reached him, he didn’t speak right away and just pointed at what was ahead of him. About fifty meters off the trail, and between a cluster of hemlock and pine trees, there was a full campsite. A large tent was still set up. We approached the tent with slow steps, and we were raising our voices while talking so whoever was inside would notice, and so we wouldn't invade anyone's privacy.

We didn't notice anything. We reached the tent and looked inside, finding a neatly arranged stone fire pit, two folding chairs, and a clothesline hanging a faded towel. At first, we thought the owners had gone out for a short walk and would be back in a bit, so we called out loud more than once so we wouldn't startle anyone. The metal cookware was set on a small camping table, and right next to it was a mug holding dried coffee residue stuck to its sides.

Inside the tent, there were sleeping bags and arranged clothes, a flashlight and an open novel with a bookmark placed right in the middle of the pages, as if its owner stopped reading just to come back in a few minutes.

​Before we did anything else, I pulled out my digital camera and snapped a few clear photos of the whole setup to document it just in case. But the thing that made silence take over all of us wasn't any of that. It was the food inside metal cans that were completely rusted, and plastic wrappers, some of which had crumbled from the effect of the sun and humidity, while the tent and furniture stayed in puzzlingly good condition.

The scene didn't look like a campsite left by its owners this morning, nor a campsite abandoned by its owners years ago; it looked as if time had passed over everything in it in a completely different way.

​None of us went inside the tent at first, because there’s a rule followed among campers that basically says: if you come across a campsite whose owners seem to be away, don’t mess with their stuff.

They might just be on a short walk, or gathering firewood, or following a nearby trail. We waited several minutes, then called out loudly more than once, but the mountains gave us back nothing but the echo of our voices. Jack looked at his watch and said the sun would set in forty minutes, and that we couldn’t just stand here forever.

He suggested we report it to the park rangers in the morning if nobody showed up; as for now, we had to make sure the place was actually empty before moving away. There was nothing concerning about his suggestion, and it was totally logical, so we all agreed with him.

​I put on a lightweight glove and slowly pushed open the fabric door of the tent, while the rest of my friends stood behind me, watching silently. From the inside, everything looked unusually neat. The tent wasn’t in a messy state like usually happens on camping trips that last more than a day.

The sleeping bags were folded carefully, the backpacks were placed next to each other, and even the cooking utensils were cleaned and lined up inside a plastic crate. On the ground, I found an old local newspaper dated October from seven years ago.

At first, I thought someone had brought it to start a fire, but when I picked it up, I found it dry and brittle to the point that it started crumbling between my fingers. Jack picked up a small notebook that was sitting on top of one of the bags and flipped through it quickly, then he said most of its pages were blank except for the last page.

We all looked at him, but he didn't read it out loud. He kept staring at it for a few seconds, then closed the notebook and set it back down. I asked him what was written in it. He replied after hesitating, "Just notes about the trip, nothing important".

I wasn’t convinced by his answer, but at the same time, I didn't push him, because my attention was focused on something else. ​There was a thin layer of dust over most of the items, but right in the middle of the tent, the floor was noticeably clean, as if someone had stood there a short while ago.

There were no clear boot prints, no mud, nor any mark indicating a recent entry, yet the middle of the tent was different from the rest of the place. I leaned down to examine it closer. I noticed that the tent door's zipper was moving slightly, even though there was no wind at all. I immediately raised my head and looked at the doorway. The trees outside were completely still, even the thin branches weren't moving. I felt a slight tightness in my chest and stepped out of the tent without commenting.

​One of my friends suggested we pitch our tents about two hundred meters away from that campsite, so we wouldn't trespass on the owners' privacy if they returned. And indeed, we moved to a suitable spot near a small water stream.

While setting up the tent, our conversation didn't stop about the tent we had seen. Jack said that maybe it belonged to a climber who lost his life in an accident, and his stuff was left behind after the investigation ended.

But I immediately argued with his point because national parks don't leave camping gear in place for years; it gets cleared out after search operations end or handed over to the owners' families. Nobody found a convincing explanation, and as time went on, we tried to change the subject, except that a strange feeling stayed with us, as if the presence of that campsite so close to us made the whole place look different.

​Shortly after dinner, we decided to go back to the abandoned campsite one last time before complete darkness fell.

The goal wasn't curiosity as much as it was making sure its owners hadn't returned without us noticing. Each of us carried a flashlight, and we walked along the exact same path we had taken just an hour ago.

I was walking in front, and I was sure I remembered the way well, because the distance was short, taking no more than a few minutes. But after we reached the spot where the campsite was supposed to appear, we found nothing.

​I froze in my place thinking I had taken the wrong direction. I stepped forward several meters, then walked back. I checked the map and looked at the GPS; everything confirmed we were in the right spot, but the campsite had vanished completely.

The tent hadn't been removed, and the items hadn't been stolen; not a single trace was left indicating a campsite had ever been there in the first place.

The ground was covered in a continuous layer of autumn leaves; no footprints, no stone fire pit, not even a mark from the small wheels that were under the folding table. Every single one of us kept looking at each other in silence, trying to find a logical explanation.

Then Jack broke that silence when he said in a low voice I had never heard tremble like that before. Jack said, "If we all saw it... then where did it disappear to in less than an hour?"

​Not one of us moved for several seconds after we discovered the campsite had vanished. I was standing in the exact same spot I had stood in less than an hour ago, trying to remember the smallest details. I was certain there was a large rock next to the tent entrance, a tree trunk leaning to the right, and a circular stone fire pit with old ash inside it. None of that was there now.

Even the ground itself looked different, as if someone had completely rearranged the forest during our absence. Jack tried to convince us that we got the location wrong, but the GPS device was showing the exact same coordinates we had logged when we first reached the campsite.

I opened the trail log on the device, and the red dot was stopping at the exact location where we were standing. Practically speaking, there was zero chance we had lost our way, and at the same time, there was no longer any trace of that campsite. For the first time since the trip started, I felt that the logical explanation I was clinging to began falling apart piece by piece.

​We decided to return to our campsite and not risk staying out after dark. None of us talked while walking, and the sound of our footsteps over the dry autumn leaves was the only sound breaking the silence. As we approached our tents, Jack suddenly stopped and raised his hand, asking us not to make a sound. We followed his gaze and saw something I haven't been able to explain to this day.

There were fresh footprints in the damp soil around our tents. They weren't animal tracks, but rather prints of hiking boots, exactly like the boots hikers wear. I bent down to inspect them and noticed they circled around our tents multiple times, then stopped in front of each tent entrance for a few steps before moving away toward the trees.

These tracks weren't there when we left less than an hour ago, because the ground was damp enough to hold any new imprint. And stranger yet, when we tracked them several meters into the woods, they ended abruptly at a patch of open ground without continuing in any direction. There was no trace of the person turning back, nor any sign of jumping or veering off; they just ended, as if the person who left them vanished into thin air.

​Tension started rising among us, but we tried to hold onto whatever composure we had left. We zipped our tents tightly and decided to take turns staying awake until sunrise. The idea was simple: one person takes watch for two hours while the others sleep. I took the first shift.

I sat next to the fire that was gradually dying down, while the fog slowly crept between the trees until it covered the ground completely. About forty minutes passed without anything happening, then a faint light coming from between the trees caught my attention. The light looked like the glow of a distant campfire.

At first, I felt a sense of relief, because the presence of another camp meant we weren't alone in the area. But as I focused my eyes more, I realized the light was coming from the direction where the mysterious campsite had vanished. I quietly woke Jack up and pointed to the spot.

He stared for a few seconds, then whispered, "That's impossible..." We grabbed our flashlights and walked very cautiously for a short distance. The closer we got, the light would disappear, and when we stopped, it would show up again at the exact same distance, as if it was moving away from us at the very same speed we were approaching it. After a few minutes, we realized we were walking in a direction with no end, so we pulled back to camp immediately.

​When we got back, our blood ran cold. One of the tents was open. It wasn't ripped, and its zipper wasn't broken; it was opened quietly, as if someone knew exactly how to open it without waking whoever was inside. I ran toward it shouting Ethan's name; nobody answered me. His backpack was in its place, his phone was on top of the sleeping bag, and his watch was on the ground next to his pillow.

Even his boots were still inside the tent, but Ethan wasn't there. We went out shouting his name in every direction until our voices started fading among the mountains, but no response ever reached us.

​With the first light of dawn, knowing cell service was impossible to get out there, we packed up minimal gear and sprinted back down the trail to the ranger station to report what happened.

Search and rescue teams spent five full days combing the area with helicopters, tracking dogs, and thermal equipment. They didn't find a single trace of Ethan, nor did they find evidence of anyone else being in that location, except for the boot prints, which had disappeared before they arrived due to the night rain. Months later, the investigation officially closed as a case of a missing person in a mountainous area, and the file was shut without answers.

​As for me, I couldn't just end it like that. After I got home, I kept reviewing the photos my camera took when we first found that campsite during our trip, trying to find any detail we might have missed. And in the very last photo taken of that abandoned camp right before we left it the first time, something appeared that I hadn't noticed before. In the background of the photo, right behind the trees, the abandoned campsite was clearly visible.

The tent, the table, the chairs, everything was right in its place. But this time, four people were standing in front of the tent. Three of them were us. As for the fourth person, it was Ethan. He was looking straight at the camera and smiling, even though at the exact moment that photo was taken, Ethan was standing right beside me.

It all started seven years ago. I don't know if anyone here has a friend like mine—someone with a nearly pathological obsession with water. He was exceptionally fond of drinking it.

When Avery first introduced me to his passion, we had known each other for less than a month.

I remember it was summer. The dormitory air conditioning was broken, so on my way back, I bought two bottles of chilled mineral water from the convenience store downstairs. I originally intended to press them against my skin to cool down—after all, our dorm had a filtered water dispenser, so there was usually no need to buy bottled water. But when I handed one to Avery, he looked surprised. It was the first time since the school year started that he actually looked me in the eye.

"You like this brand too? Great taste. A wise choice."

I froze for a moment.

"What?"

He didn't elaborate. He silently unscrewed his bottle, took a small sip, and closed his eyes in enjoyment.

"A bit hard on the palate, but the lingering sweetness comes through quickly. The calcium content is a bit high, though this year's new batch is gentler than last year's."

At the time, I thought he probably had some kind of psychological condition, like high-functioning autism. Only later did I learn that he was a "water sommelier"—and the most eccentric person I would ever meet in my life.

After we got closer, I discovered that Avery was actually a minor celebrity in niche online communities and forums for liquid enthusiasts. Most people might think water tasting is just a piece of pretentious, pseudo-scientific upper-middle-class nonsense, but not to him. Avery possessed a nearly miraculous sensitivity in his taste buds; he could accurately distinguish the subtlest differences among dozens of commercial mineral waters. At least, he firmly believed he could.

Regardless, his quirk didn't affect me. It was just drinking water—far better than the heavy drinkers in the next dorm over. On the surface, it seemed like a perfectly healthy hobby, and we got along very well through our four years of college.

Besides, I have to admit this guy was brilliant. He was the only chemical engineering major in our year to graduate with a perfect GPA, and right after graduation, he was hired as a chemical analyst at a major firm with a remarkably generous salary.

By then, we still maintained a comfortable, somewhat distant friendship, though perhaps mostly because I was his only friend. I was just glad Avery hadn't turned into some hermit living in a basement. We still met up occasionally. Every time, Avery would talk endlessly about the waters he had recently sampled, while I nodded along and enjoyed expensive top-shelf whiskies I could never normally afford—courtesy of Avery, of course.

Until one day, Avery suddenly sent me a message.

“Do you know about Tasteless Water?”

Before I could even type a reply, Avery forwarded a post. It came from that same liquid enthusiast forum I had seen on his phone before.

By the time I clicked in, there were already over two hundred replies.

The original poster claimed that many years ago, he had drank a bottle of water with an exquisite taste. He vaguely remembered the brand name being "Taste-less." Recently, he suddenly felt a intense craving to try it again, but he couldn't find any record or purchase information for the brand anywhere online.

An insider in the comments replied that it was a brand distributed exclusively within a very small number of private clinics and sanatoriums in the late 1990s. Its manufacturer existed for only three years before declaring bankruptcy, and by now, all production lines and records had been destroyed.

Aside from that, almost all the other comments were questioning whether the brand ever existed, assuming the poster had made up the story for attention.

Before I could finish reading the thread, the post suddenly showed as deleted. When I returned to our chat window, a new message was waiting for me.

“Do you think Tasteless Water is real?”

“Come on, he deleted the post. It was probably just a joke.”

“It doesn't matter. I saved screenshots.”

He sent over several images, missing not a single detail. The word "sanatorium" in the comments had been circled in red using a digital marker.

“Do you think this could be a breakthrough for an investigation?”

“No...”

“I just looked up several closed private sanatoriums. They all claimed to use some kind of 'natural therapy.' Makes you curious, doesn't it?”

“Avery, DON’T do this.”

“Don't worry, nothing's going to go wrong. I'm just going to take a look.”

“We're still friends, right, Ave? :D”

“I'll reach out to you later.”

But he didn't reach out. From that day on, Avery disappeared for about six months. I tried every way I knew to contact him, to no avail. Then, one day, Avery suddenly showed up at my office door, telling me he had something incredible to show me.

He took me to the basement apartment he was renting. The room was thick with a heavy, musty odor and a strangely indescribable fishy metallic stench. If I hadn't been certain that our friendship was rock solid, I never would have set foot in such a creepy place.

Avery told me that during the months he was gone, he had spent all his savings searching for Tasteless Water. He had even quit his job and moved into this basement, relying solely on odd jobs for basic living expenses.

In the center of a battered wooden table stood a single brown glass bottle. It was tightly sealed, the top fused shut with a black resin-like substance. There were no commercial labels on the bottle, only a single handwritten line in permanent marker, faded with age. A date was barely legible: 1998.04.12.

Avery stroked the bottle with a gentleness that bordered on sickening.

"An old collector kept it as a specimen from some psychiatric treatment. It took all the money I had to buy this one bottle."

That was it—a bottle of twenty-year-old expired mineral water had wiped out my friend's entire life savings, and he couldn't have been happier about it. Maybe he really did have high-functioning autism after all.

He carefully cut through the sealing wax with a small knife and pried the cap off with a bottle opener. There was no hiss of escaping gas, not even the slightest disturbance in the air.

Avery pulled out two spotlessly clean glass tumblers. As if performing an ancient ritual, he evenly poured the liquid from the bottle into the two glasses.

"Drink."

He looked at me with an urgent, coercive intensity in his eyes.

"I have to drink it too?"

"Of course."

He glanced at me oddly, as if wondering why I would even ask such a question.

"We're friends."

Fine. For friendship's sake. It was just a glass of twenty-year-old water; at least it was stored in glass, so there was no plastic degradation to worry about.

We raised our glasses at the same time and swallowed it down in one gulp.

The liquid slid over my tongue and down my throat.
To be honest, I felt nothing special. It was just water—slightly below room temperature, flat, completely tasteless. If I had to name a difference, it was that after swallowing, there seemed to be a tiny, almost imaginary hint of sweetness at the back of my tongue—or maybe that was just a trick played by my own saliva.

"How is it?"

"Pretty... smooth?"

I weighed my words, trying to make his money feel well-spent.

"Maybe a little sweet aftertaste? I suppose the calcium, zinc, and magnesium levels are decent..."

Avery watched me wrack my brain for an answer, then suddenly burst out laughing.

"Don't be so nervous. It's just water."

I let out a sigh of relief. "Right. Just water."

Avery swirled the empty glass in his hand, his tone sounding a bit regretful.

"Although it really is tasteless, it's nothing extraordinary. Looks like my three million dollars went down the drain."

Three million? That was less than I expected; I guessed he still had some savings left. It seemed Avery hadn't completely lost his mind after all.

"How have you been lately? Did I cause you a lot of trouble?"

Avery's expression returned to normal, and he casually started making small talk. I had been worried he might lose his composure, but now he seemed in decent spirits.

"Same as usual. But don't you ever vanish without a word again. We're friends, you know..."

We rattled on about all sorts of mundane things. How's business? Fine, not too bad. You look terrible, you need to get some rest. Doesn't everyone? Do you remember that trip we took in college? Oh, of course, that was a great trip, wasn't it?

I did most of the talking. Looking back, I think I was trying to use those worldly trivialities to pull Avery back into the real world, or at least get his brain to stop thinking exclusively about the subtle differences between a dozen types of mineral water. Avery didn't say much; he just nodded occasionally, his hand constantly gripping the empty glass. Our roles had reversed.

Just as I was rambling on about a bizarre coworker at my office, Avery suddenly interrupted me.

"We've been talking for so long, I'm getting a little thirsty."

"Really? How about we head out and grab a drink? I still have plenty to tell you."

"No, don't bother... There aren't many bars around here, it's a long walk... I mean, you can keep talking, I'll just manage..."

His eyes wandered, his head slightly bowed.

Following his gaze, I looked down at the empty glass in my hand. There was still about a third of the liquid remaining at the bottom.

"I just need to drink a little more of that... I'm really, really thirsty..."

In that split second, I saw a primal, animalistic greed in Avery's eyes. He was a guy with a mild germaphobe streak; usually, if someone so much as bumped into his teacup, he would frown and go wash it. But right now, he was staring intently at the residue in my glass—residue that might well contain my spit.

A sudden wave of intense dread pricked at my spine like a scratchy wool sweater, making my scalp go numb. I hesitated for a moment, then handed the glass over.

Avery practically snatched it from my hand. Without even waiting to align the rim with his lips, he frantically poured that last bit of water down his throat. He greedily sucked at the bottom of the glass, his tongue even licking along the inner walls, desperate to capture every last molecule.

"Are you okay? Jesus, you're parched. If that's not enough, I can go buy you some water—"

" Haah... "

Avery let out a deeply satisfied sigh, as if he had just downed a pint of ice-cold beer. He reached up, wiped the water from the corner of his mouth, and apologized for his sudden rudeness.

"I'm fine. I just... suddenly felt extremely thirsty. I'm better now."

Avery didn't seem to notice my stare. He lowered his head and slowly sucked off the remaining moisture from his fingertips, his expression calm. The soft, wet sounds echoed with unsettling clarity in the empty basement.

"Ave?"

"Yeah?"

Avery looked up at me, and I realized he was staring at my lips.

"We're still friends, right?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"...Nothing. Just asking."

That was our last conversation. After that day, Avery vanished. He never returned. His phone became a disconnected number, his basement apartment was put back on the market, and his forum account went dormant. I tried going to the police, but they deemed it a voluntary disappearance of an adult with no immediate family, which didn't constitute a missing person case. It was only then that I realized he had never once mentioned his family to me.

I knew nothing about him.

—

Writing up to this point, I don't know whether I should write down what happened next, because I'm not sure if what I saw that day was a hallucination or reality.

After hesitating for a long time, I finally decided to write the whole thing out—or at least write down what I know. If your relatives or friends are also looking for Tasteless Water, please, whatever you do, stop them.

I have always deeply regretted not talking to Avery more that day.

－

After he vanished, I rarely drank plain water anymore, turning instead to a heavy addiction to soft drinks—until my annual checkup doctor warned me to stop drinking so much Coca-Cola unless I wanted diabetes by thirty. So I switched to Diet Coke. Just kidding—now I only drink green tea. It's less bland than plain water.

Two months ago, my company organized a team-building wilderness retreat near the edge of the Appalachian Mountains, deep within an undeveloped section of a national forest in Oregon. It was a treacherous zone where karst topography merged with virgin forest, perpetually shrouded in cold, damp mist. Everyone in the company complained bitterly about the arrangement, but the big boss insisted on going there, claiming we needed to reconnect with nature for our health.

The weather turned terrible that afternoon. The planned hiking route became a muddy disaster following a sudden torrential downpour, and I got separated from the main group. While trying to locate trail markers, I stepped on a rotting tree root, and my footing gave out instantly.

The tumble down was long and chaotic. I grabbed at anything I could reach, trying to break my momentum. Spinning out of control, branches slashed my skin, and jagged rocks battered my bones. Finally, with a sickening snap, my left lower leg bent at a horrific angle, and I slammed hard into the bottom of a deep ravine. The excruciating pain knocked me unconscious.

I didn't know how much time had passed, but when I finally woke up, the sky was pitch black. Around me was an impenetrable canopy of trees, with the occasional night bird uttering a piercing screech. The temperature in the ravine had plummeted, and the biting cold combined with blood loss began to cloud my mind.

My throat felt as if it were lined with dry sandpaper, every breath dragging out a burning sting. Without water, there was no way I would survive until a search team found me.

Just as despair was taking over, I heard it: water.
The survival instinct that kicks in when a person is pushed to the brink is truly unbelievable. Normally, I barely hear my alarm clock going off, but that night, lying in the mud and weeds, I clearly heard the sound of flowing spring water.

It was a delicate, faint rushing sound that pierced through the dead quiet of the night, coming from deep inside a rocky cave a short distance ahead.
Driven by sheer force of life, I gritted my teeth. Using my hands to claw into the damp humus and cold stone, I dragged my useless, numb broken leg, inch by inch, toward the sound of the water.

My clothes were shredded, the palms of my hands torn raw, leaving a gruesome trail of blood mixed with mud behind me. But I didn't care. My eyes were fixed entirely on the shallow pool reflecting faint moonlight just ahead.

I finally crawled into the cave.

The interior was wider than I had imagined. There was no pungent sulfur or musty smell typical of limestone caves; instead, a strange, unnatural silence hung in the air. The sound of water originated from a spring at the center of the cavern.
It was a naturally formed pool of water, impossibly clear. It was so transparent that even in the dim light, the surface was virtually invisible—like an absent, transparent medium.

I struggled to the edge and reached out a trembling hand toward the water. The moment my fingertips touched the stream, a soothing wave of icy coldness rushed straight to my brain. I plunged my entire face into the water, gulping it down like a dog.

There was no earthy tang common in mountain springs, nor the chalky mineral taste of rock seepage. The instant I swallowed, an indescribable sensation spread down my esophagus. It felt as if every cell in my body had stopped screaming at once, smoothed over and dissolved by this liquid.

This taste was identical to the expired mineral water I had drunk in Avery's basement.

I snapped my head up, water droplets falling from my chin and breaking the stillness of the surface. After a brief shock, my stalled brain was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable surge of terror.

If this was the water source Avery had been searching for... then where was Avery?

Enduring the agonizing pain, I leaned over the edge of the pool. Beneath the thin sliver of moonlight filtering through a crack in the cave ceiling, I squinted, trying to peer into the bottom of the pool. It wasn't deep—about two or three meters. Because the water was so unnaturally clear, everything at the bottom was fully exposed to view.

I saw the thing I had subconsciously ignored moments before. Resting quietly on the bed of fine white sand at the bottom of the pool lay a man.

It was Avery.

He was fully clothed, his exposed skin showing an unnatural, translucent white, almost like jade. His hair floated gently with the current, like a patch of black moss growing on the pool floor.

Three years had passed, yet his body showed not the slightest sign of decay. No swelling, no discoloration—even the texture of his skin remained clearly visible. He just lay there at the bottom of the water, a sweet smile resting on his lips.

He had been watching me from under the water all along.

I saw his lips part and close gently. Though no sound reached my ears, I read the shape of his mouth.

Drink.

I watched my own head lower toward the water again, completely out of my control, and caught the increasingly tender smile on Avery's face at the bottom of the pool. The only sound left in my ears was the gentle surging of the spring.

It was the sound of the water breathing.

—

I don't remember much of what happened after that. I was rescued by a search team, and when I woke up, I was lying in a bed at a local emergency hospital. My left leg was saved, but the doctors said my blood work was bizarre—the concentration of electrolytes and all minerals in my body was at a critically low level, far below what should be compatible with life.

I asked the search team members if any of them had seen that pool of water, but they said I was found unconscious directly below where I had fallen—in an open clearing. That was the only reason they located me so quickly. One of the rescuers told me it was completely normal to experience vivid hallucinations under those circumstances.

Today, my body has fully recovered. I am as strong as ever—better, in fact, than I have ever been. I'm full of energy and can run for two hours straight without stopping.

I might set out again soon. Yesterday, I found a small bottle filled with spring water in the side pocket of my backpack. I can taste its flavor. I have no memory of ever filling it, but it means that pool was no hallucination.

Avery is still down there, beneath the surface.

I have to go bring him back. Because we're friends.

My grandmother was a collector. Not of anything particularly valuable you understand. Just small trinkets and knick-knacks she picked up at yard sales and antique shops. Her house was packed to the gills with glass figurines dusty porcelain plates and shelves overflowing with forgotten histories. When she passed away two months ago I was the only one in the family who really appreciated her peculiar treasures. Everyone else just saw junk. I saw stories. So when her lawyer called to say she'd left me her dollhouse I wasn't surprised. I was actually touched.

It wasn't just any dollhouse. It was a replica of her own Victorian home complete with tiny hand-painted wallpaper and miniature claw-foot tubs. She'd spent years on it adding details whenever she had a free moment. I remembered playing with it as a child. Moving the tiny furniture around imagining the lives of its silent residents. It was beautiful and intricately made.

The dollhouse arrived in a large crate. It took up a significant portion of my small living room when I finally got it set up on an old coffee table. Dust motes danced in the sunlight around its tiny windows. It smelled faintly of old wood and something else I couldn't quite place. Like dried potpourri and a hint of something metallic. I spent that first evening just admiring it. Running my fingers over the miniature roof shingles. Peeking into the perfectly furnished rooms. It brought back a lot of good memories.

The next morning I woke up feeling refreshed. I made coffee and went into the living room. That's when I noticed it. Something was different. The tiny rocking chair in the parlor was no longer facing the miniature fireplace. It was turned towards the front door. And a small porcelain doll was now seated in it. I blinked. I didn't remember putting a doll in there. I didn't even remember seeing that particular doll before. It was wearing a faded blue dress and had a serious expression on its painted face.

I chalked it up to being sleepy or perhaps my grandmother had left it arranged like that and I just hadn't noticed. My grandmother was known for her little surprises. I carefully picked up the doll and placed it back in the small wooden box where I found a few other miniature figures. Then I went about my day. It was nothing. Just a small detail.

When I came home that evening the doll was back in the rocking chair. This time it was holding a minuscule book. Its tiny pages were blank of course. But the doll's posture was distinctly different. Its head was tilted slightly to the side as if reading intently. A shiver ran down my spine. I knew I hadn't put it there. And I definitely hadn't left it holding anything.

I picked up the doll again. This time I placed it back in the box and taped the lid shut with masking tape. I even placed a heavy book on top of the box for good measure. I told myself it was the house settling or a trick of the light. But a part of me felt a growing unease. My grandmother had always been a bit eccentric. But this felt different.

That night I woke up to a soft scraping sound. It seemed to come from the living room. I lay in bed for a moment heart pounding. Then I forced myself to get up. I grabbed the old baseball bat I kept by my bed and crept into the living room. The room was dark. Moonlight streamed through the window illuminating the dollhouse. Nothing seemed amiss. I was about to turn back when I noticed it.

The masking tape on the doll's box was torn. The heavy book I'd placed on top was pushed to the side. And the doll itself was gone. I scanned the dollhouse. My eyes finally landed on the miniature bed in the master bedroom. The doll was lying there under a tiny quilt. Its painted eyes stared up at the tiny ceiling.

I didn't scream. I didn't even gasp. I just stood there. Holding the bat. Staring at the doll. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't. There was no explanation. My hands started to tremble. I knew then that it wasn't just my imagination. Something was happening. And I had no idea what to do.

The next day I tried to explain it to my friend Sarah. She just laughed. Said I was stressed and needed a vacation. She suggested I throw the dollhouse away. But I couldn't. It was my grandmother's legacy. A piece of her.

Over the next few days the doll continued to move. It would be in a different room each morning. Sometimes it would be sitting at the dining room table. Other times it would be standing by a window as if looking out. Once I found it in the tiny bathroom sitting on the miniature toilet. That was when I started to feel truly terrified.

I began to notice other things. Small items in the dollhouse would rearrange themselves. A tiny vase would appear on a different shelf. A miniature rug would be rolled up. It was always subtle. Always just enough to make me doubt myself. To make me question my own sanity.

Then yesterday I found something new. A tiny handwritten note on the miniature kitchen table. It was so small I almost missed it. The handwriting was delicate and elegant. Like an old-fashioned script. It just said "You're next."

I didn't sleep at all last night. I sat in the living room watching the dollhouse. Waiting. The doll was in the tiny attic looking down at the miniature version of my living room. Staring at me. Its painted eyes seemed to follow my every move. I could almost hear it breathing. My grandmother's dollhouse is no longer just a memory. It's a prison. And I'm starting to think I'm not the only one living in it.

I’ve had the same dream four times now.

It’s always the same. I’m lying on my left side, facing the wall. The room is dark except for the thin blue glow of the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:17 a.m. Every single time. I hear the floorboard just outside my bedroom door creak once, the way it only does when someone puts their full weight on it. Then the door opens without a sound. I can’t turn my head. I just feel the mattress dip near my feet as someone sits down on the edge of the bed.

They don’t speak at first. They just sit there. After a few seconds a hand settles on my right shoulder, light at first, then heavier. The skin is cold. Not corpse-cold, more like someone who’s been standing outside in the rain. Then a voice, soft and close to my ear, says my name. Not the name anyone calls me. The full name on my birth certificate, the one I haven’t heard spoken out loud since I was a kid.

After that the dream always ends the same way. The hand tightens, and I jolt awake with my heart hammering, staring at the empty side of the bed.

The first three times I told myself it was stress. I’d been sleeping badly since the divorce. The house still felt too big. I left the hallway light on after the second dream. After the third I started locking the bedroom door from the inside.

Last night was the fourth time.

I was on my left side again. 3:17 on the clock. The floorboard creaked. The door opened. The mattress dipped. The cold hand settled on my shoulder.

I waited for the voice.

It said my name.

Then it said something it had never said before.

“You’re awake this time.”

I felt the hand lift off my shoulder. The mattress shifted as the weight stood up. I heard bare feet on the hardwood, two soft steps toward the door. The door closed with a quiet click.

I lay there for almost a minute before I could move. When I finally rolled over, the room was empty. The door was shut. The hallway light I’d left on was off.

I got up and turned on every light in the house. Nothing was out of place. No muddy footprints. No open windows. The deadbolt on the front door was still thrown. I checked the security camera on the porch. It showed an empty driveway and the usual moths around the porch light. Timestamp matched. No one had approached the house.

I went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed where the weight had been. The sheet on that side was still warm.

That was when I noticed the clock.

It still read 3:17.

I sat there watching it for what felt like a long time. The colon between the numbers never blinked. The time never changed. I picked it up and the display finally jumped to 3:41, like it had been holding its breath.

I didn’t sleep again. I made coffee and sat at the kitchen table until the sun came up. Around six I walked the perimeter of the house just to feel like I was doing something. Under the bedroom window, in the soft dirt of the flower bed, there were two bare footprints. Adult size. Toes pointed toward the glass, as if someone had stood there for a while looking in.

They weren’t there the day before. I know because I weeded that exact spot Sunday afternoon.

I took a picture. Then I raked them smooth because I didn’t want to keep looking at them.

I’ve locked every door and window. The hallway light is on. The bedroom door is locked. The clock is face-down in the drawer so I don’t have to see the numbers.

I keep telling myself it was just a dream that felt real because I was half-awake. That the footprints are from a neighbor kid cutting through the yard. That the sheet was warm because I’d been lying on that side earlier.

But I can still feel the exact shape of that hand on my shoulder.

And I know if I fall asleep tonight, the floorboard will creak at 3:17, the door will open, and the mattress will dip again.

Only this time I won’t be dreaming.

The kids in my town all talk about the “mirror tunnel.” I mean, hell when I was growing up we used to call it the ‘echo tunnel’. Every generation had a different name for it and everyone that goes to Pine Shade Elementary goes into the tunnel. It’s a right of passage, an urban legend that each generation changes to their own interpretations of the story.

You see the mirror tunnel is just that it’s a mirror. The kids say that when you crawl into the tunnel underneath the school, that you’ll see something down there. I can barely remember what it was like to be five and I don’t recall seeing my doppelgänger. But the kids still talk about it and swear that it’s actually real. Every kid I talk to tells me a different story, but one thing in the story always remains the same, a constant point that links everything.

They always see themselves down there, a little different but it’s always them. The girls say sometimes they see themselves, and they might have a different tooth missing or they have a bow in their hair. Adults always laugh it off as some elaborate joke that only children could think of. A whole different world down there, where your doppelgänger lives? That must be a joke, right?

I mean surely if there was an alternate world underneath of the elementary school. By now one of the children would have brought back the other version of themselves and we the adults would then have a completely different problem on our hands, right?

That’s what I thought until now.

I don’t work at the elementary school, but I do have a daughter that goes there. She’s a sweet girl, and I’ve loved her from the minute that I laid eyes on her. She was my baby girl and I knew in that moment I would do anything for her. I know some parents say that they’d do anything for their children, and they think they mean it. When she had been diagnosed, I had cried and cried. My husband had tried to console me, that we’d get her all the care she needed. But that was the first night that I mourned my daughter. Mourned the idea of her not growing up and getting older. Never getting to see her go to college, find someone that made her smile or be there for her first child.

That was also the night I decided that we needed to move out of the city and back home. Back to the town that I had grown up in. It was a small town, but still big, if you know what I mean. Everyone knows everyone and it’s a close community. My mother also still lived there and I could work remote, my husband could do the same so we left the hustle and bustle of the city. Maybe, the change of environment would help her get better. At that point I just wanted my baby to be comfortable.

My daughter was happy to move. She was excited to be near GeGe. We’d moved during the start of second grade, but she was able to make the adjustment easy enough.

“Mom,” she had come bounding up to me one afternoon. Her cornflower hair wild as she bounced foot to foot. “I made friends!” Her smile had been radiant. It had been over a month since we moved there but she had finally settled in.

The town was just as I remembered it, even though it was decently sized it was still small town vibe. Everyone knew everyone. Mom complained that people acted different than I remembered. She insisted that something was going on in the town. I patiently agreed with her, and mentally noted that I should probably take her along to the next doctor’s visit. It had probably been a while since she had gotten a check up. Her age was probably starting to catch up to her. Plus, most folks commented that they hadn’t seen her inside town for a couple years now.

“She stopped coming about three years ago,” the cashier, an older lady probably around mom’s age, Rhonda had explained. “Now she calls over and we pack her groceries and James delivers them to her.” She pointed towards a man who looked vaguely familiar.

I’d thanked for her then pushed my cart towards the man that was at the customer service counter. The closer I got to him the more the feeling of knowing him gnawed at my mind. He had short dark hair, a straight toothed smile that was pearly white, and a scar that ran down his right cheek. He looked up from the word search that he was working on and met my eyes. The iris were a warm brown, and he blinked slowly at me. It was reminiscent of a cat that was just waking up.

“If it isn’t freckles,” he said. I rolled my eyes at the nickname, I’d gone away for the summer and came back covered in freckles from being out in the sun. Children always come up with the meanest nicknames, picking out that single flaw that makes you feel small. Now as I stand here as an adult,I find that the nickname once anxiety and panic inducing. Instead, it feels like a waypoint back into an old fond memory.

“Very original Jimmy,” I said snorting. He smiled bashfully, then he quickly puts down the pencil in his hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I go by James now, it’s more Professional,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement. It seems that I wasn’t the only one that had grown up.

“I’d heard you moved back to town, you’re married and have a kid. We’ve all grown up haven’t we freckles?”

“It feels just like yesterday we were rough housing on the playground doesn’t it. Don’t call me freckles, it was a mean nickname even if it was true.”

“My bad, Claire,” he quickly said. Holding his hands up in mock surrender. I smiled he was the same old jokester that I remember.

“So you’re the one that’s been delivering stuff to my Mom?” I asked.

“Yeah, I have been for a while. I always liked your Mom. She made the best cupcakes. But why do you ask?”

“I was just curious, has she been seeming okay to you?”

“What do you mean? She’s gotten maybe a little more paranoid.” His face wrinkled in confusion. “Why is there something wrong with her? I just saw her last week and she seemed fine.” His barrage of questions was sweet. I reached out and patted his arm.

“Mom’s doing just fine, I just see her more often and I wanted to make sure she’s keeps up with her health. She’s getting older and I want to make sure she comfortable.”

After than he visibly relaxed and I carried on with the small talk and enjoy the comfortable conversation, before excusing myself and heading home. But the entire way home something itched at my brain as if I was forgotten something important. I couldn’t dwell on it because Tera was waiting for me, and we had to get her to chemo.

The chemo was working, but her cancer was severe. Medication was helping, but it wasn’t completely destroying it. I’d choked back my tears and we’d gotten ice cream on the way home. She’d gotten mint chocolate chip ice cream in a waffle cone, her favorite. That night I’d talk to my husband, cried and decided that we wouldn’t tell her that it wasn’t going away. She deserved to enjoy being a kid, even if I didn’t know how much longer that was…

Now looking back maybe she had heard us, maybe she saw how sad I was and made the decision. I can’t claim to know what a seven year old is thinking. But we continued on, it wasn’t until one day in mid October that’s at least I think when it happened, that something fundamentally had changed.

Just the week prior she had been talking to me about the “mirror tunnel.” Saying that some of her friends had dared her to head into it. I asked her if she had, and she quickly told me that she hadn’t gone there. She had, of course, quickly changed the conversation into something else and I was happy to go with the flow. If she was smiling then I was happy, that’s all any parent wants right for their child to be happy and healthy.

It had started raining and I had a meeting running late. I couldn’t pick her up right as school ended, I’d arrived to pick her up and found her waterlogged, looking like a drowned cat. I’d quickly shuffled her into the car, toweled her off and jumped back into it.

“Honey, why are you drenched?” I asked.

It was then that I noticed that she was wearing a pink shirt with hearts, but I thought she had left the house in a pink shirt with stars. But I could have been wrong it was a long day and I had started my morning at 4 am. Not to mention her hair was in braids, I knew that I didn’t have time in the morning to do that.

“I saw a kitty,” she told me softly.

“Okay, well next time tell one of the adults. You shouldn’t be running around in wet clothes,” I told her softly. “Can you promise me that you wouldn’t run outside in the rain?” I asked.

“I promise,” she said, holding up her pinky and I smiled and raised my pinky up in response.

Everything seems normally, but thinking back that was the first day I noticed the changes. At first it was small things, she normally loved playing with her dolls, but she didn’t touch them and had wanted coloring books. Habits that I had grown accustomed to were different. Now I understand children’s wants and desire change like the wind, but Tera had loved dolls and stuffed animals for as long as I can remember. Probably due to how much time she had spent in the hospital.

She was also eating more, I had at first attributed that to maybe the medication was working. They said that increased appetite was a good sign that the body was fighting off the cancer and that the chemo was working. I’d be over joyed to see my baby eating and looking healthier. It was the second time I’d taken her to her doctor appointment after that rainy day. I felt the same dread I always felt, when taking my baby to the hospital. My husband had come along with me, he had just gotten back from a work trip.

They took Tera away to run some test and a little while later the doctor appeared. I looked at my watch it had only been an hour normally we’d be in the doctor office for about three hours. He had a look on his face that made my stomach drop out. I stood and my husband followed suit, this had been Tera’s doctor for years now. He was an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair. He wore silver framed glasses and always wore a pressed suit.

“Doctor?”

“I have some news,” I felt sick at that word, “mind you good news. I mean honestly I couldn’t believe my eyes, I’ve looked over the reports and well, it seems like Tera’s body might be nearly eradicating the cancer. We’ll have to do some more test, but the blood work is looking promising along with today’s results.” He said, I could hear the surprise that colored his voice. Almost as if even he couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth.

Maybe it was then that I should have been worried, known that it was odd that my Daughter was miraculously better. As far as I knew it was abnormal for it to suddenly just get better. But any parent would selfishly want to believe that their child was cured of this malicious affliction. After more test a month had passed and Tera had been cleared of it all, she was in full remission.

But I began to notice that my Daughter was different. We had decided to throw a party for her, I’d invited my Mother and she had actually shown up. I had always been the one that would drive to her house with Tera in tow. It was always effort on my part to get together with my Mother. It was worth it because they both got along. Now she was making the effort to come visit us.

Moving around the children that were running around the house and thanking the guest that showed up. I made my way to the door, I could hear the doorbell being rung and pulled the door open. There stood my Mother having her standing in the doorway was an odd feeling, I was happy that she’d shown up. But it was bittersweet, her hair was going grey the normal long black curls were starting to turn ashen. Her skin was wrinkled in spots, but she still stood straight age not completely taking her strength. She had a gift that was wrapped neatly tucked under her arm and she raised her green eyes to meet my own.

“Claire,” her voice was like a jump back to my childhood.

“Hi Mom. I’m glad that you were able to make it,” I said. Truthfully, I was happy that she had shown up. I was worried about her, she seemed to be regressing. Slowly becoming a recluse in a town where she was well liked, her telling me that people weren’t what they seemed.

“Of course, I would come over, my Granddaughter doesn’t have cancer anymore! I would have to be a real cold hearted woman to not want to come and celebrate that,” she snapped. But there was no venom. She was just a no nonsense woman, and she didn’t mince words.

“Come on in the kids are set up in the backyard. We’ve got a bounce house set up. I didn’t think that would be something that she’d be interested in, but I suppose for the first time she feels good,” I said softly.

“I remember one year you insisted that you wanted a bike for your birthday. Then we get you your bike and you say that you don’t want that and instead want roller skates. That’s just how children are they are fickle and they don’t mean any harm in it. To them everything is new and exciting,” she said stepped through the threshold into the house.

It seemed that my husband had managed to round up all the kids and the house was eerily quiet. Mom continued forward, she walked through the house as if she knew it. She caught me following her and gave me a small smile.

“This was Mrs.Emerson’s house. I doubt you’d remember her, she didn’t have any children. But we were close up until she passed away a couple years ago. I’m glad that you got her house,” she sighed.

Maybe this was the segue way that I was looking for to talk to her about her behavior and lack of interest in talking to the people in town. Or about the fact that she thought that some people weren’t the people that she’d known for years now.

“James mentioned that you haven’t been into town in three years,” I started my voice growing small when she turned to face me. We’d arrived in the kitchen, just a few paces away from the door that lead to the party outside. I could hear the excited yelling and laughter of the children.

“People do love to gossip,” she said dryly. “It’s a small town, I’m not surprised that my lack of social intrigue has caught everyone’s eyes.” She moved forward towards the window her eyes looking out at the children.

“Did something happen?” I ask.

“Something always happens in small towns, there is always gossip and then there’s an old woman that just wants to be left well enough alone. Half the people that are in this town are transplants moving out of the city and into a town to get away. Similar to yourself honey, but at least you’re from here. Plus, can’t an old wo-“ She stopped midway her. Her entire body went rigid as if she had frozen in place.

Her hand was clenched so tight that she was shaking. I stepped forward alarmed, she was older, and I was worried that she was having a stroke, but she wasn’t convulsing and her breathing was normal just extremely slow as if she was afraid to breath at all. Stepping closer, I followed her line of vision and saw that she was staring directly at Tera. She was laughing with a group of girls. I frowned and reached out to touch my Mother’s shoulder. But her hand shot upwards and caught mine before I could touch her. It was startling but I looked at her.

“When did you say her cancer started to show signs of remission?” Her words were slow and deliberate, as if she was carefully trying to explain them to me.

“About a month ago,” I answered. Shaken by the look in my Mother’s eyes.

“Specifics, Claire. I need specifics!” She snapped.

“September Tenth.”

“Did you notice anything strange or different before that?” She pried, her grip on my wrist was tight, almost painful as if bite down into my wrist.

“Mom, can you please let go your hurting me.”

“Claire!” Her voice rose an octave. It was the same tone that she’d used when I was in trouble and she wanted me to tell her the truth. “I need you to think long and hard, has there been any inconsistency’s?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Now more worried that my Mother was starting to really lose her grip. Perhaps, this was the reason that she had stopped interacting with the towns people, maybe she was becoming more paranoid. She was getting up there in years.

“You know what I mean Claire! Even if you don’t realize it now you’ll start to piece it together. Did Tera change at all outside of the normal? Does she still like her favorite things? Have you found something that you don’t remember getting for her?” She shot the question off rapid fire.

At the time I just stared at her in disbelief this was erratic behavior and I think she saw in my eyes that day that I didn’t believe her. Her grip on my wrist dropped and she stepped away, casting one more glance over her shoulder to look out at her Granddaughter.

“Come see me when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

Those were her last words to me after she stormed out of the house, present casual tossed to the side. I watched her figure as she left, she hopped into her beat up truck and drove off. The entire way she never cast a glance backwards. I don’t remember how long I had watched after she vanished from sight. But at some point, I had returned to the backyard and the party wrapped up smoothly and I tried to forget my Mother’s words. But they nagged at me for weeks on end. It wasn’t until one evening that we’d gone out as a family to get ice cream. I had gotten to the counter and put in our order when Tera had tapped me on the side.

“Mom, I don’t want mint chocolate chip. I want strawberry,” she said. I blinked down at her confused, ever since I had first introduce her to ice cream she always chooses mint chocolate chip. Her smile was warm and I noticed that she was missing her left big tooth. I thought it was the right one that had come out earlier.

“But darling you always get mint chocolate chip its your favorite,” I said. She shook her head and said once again.

“I want strawberry, it’s my favorite,” she repeated.

That was the start, the start of the changes that were to the point that I began to question everything. The words that Mother had said to me played in my head, the story about the tunnel, everything was starting to swirl in my head. Soon I couldn’t take it anymore, one day while she was at school I tore through her room. Clothes, toy and notebooks I looked for anything out of place. I’d been through nearly everything, it was then at my wits end thinking maybe, just maybe, I had lost it. A small plank on the floor near her bed caught my attention, it looked as if it had been pried upwards and then hastily pushed back down.

Finding purchase on the edge of the floorboard I pulled it up. Inside squirreled away almost as if it was supposed to be hidden, which given the location it was absolutely meant to be hidden was a shirt. Pulling it out, I watch as it unfurls, my heart skipping a beat as the print on the front of it comes into view. Hearts. Cute little hearts were decorating the pink shirt. That was the day that I was late to picking Tera up. The shirt was covered in mold on the edges, she must have shoved it in there immediately the day we got back home. I tried to remember that day, but I wasn’t sure my memory from so long ago would be accurate. But a deep unsettling feeling began to bubble up in my chest. Why would she have hid this from me?

I don’t remember much of what transpired after that, but I took the shirt. Not telling my husband, I saved the shirt putting it into a zip lock bag. There were to many things, to many odd occurrence, the changes were stranger and stranger. I swore she knew that the shirt was gone, I’d catch her looking at our bedroom door. Her little body standing absolutely still as she looked on at it.

She would only do it when she thought I wasn’t watching. But you get good at watching your children without them knowing and soon, I felt the trickle of fear, the small river that had begun to open in my mind. Clawing through it relentlessly as I compared everything and soon in December. I became convinced that my Daughter might not be my actual Daughter. Once a thought like that takes root it’s hard to dislodge, hard to reason against!

I’d overheard some of the kids whispering about the mirror tunnel. My ears desperately straining to hear them, but I think they noticed because they immediately stopped talking their little voice dwindling like a low fire. I remember the little looks on their face as they left, they were alien as if they were weary of my presence. Soon enough it began to feel like more and more eyes would follow me in town. Now it felt wherever I went there were always eyes watching. Conversation would come to a halt around me as people seemed to avoid me hearing them! It wasn’t everyone, but it was enough that I began to feel ill in public places.

Maybe that why I find myself driving to my mother’s house. My mind swirling and mulling over everything, worried that I was over reacting. But I couldn’t trust myself to know if my daughter who has made a miraculously recovery was my actual daughter. I wondered if any other parents would react the same as me if they too thought that their child wasn’t actually their’s. Or would they be happy that their child was healthy and thriving, that the vicious disease ravaging their child was absent.

All those thoughts bubbling upwards in my mind fighting, a cacophony of information, all while I tried to piece them together like a puzzle. A bolt of panic and anxiety burrowed into the forefront of my mind. Could I have a child in my home right now that was not the child I had arrived in town with?

Hands gripping the steering wheel I knew what I had to do! I needed to know what it was my Mother knew about the town, and about that tunnel the children whispered about.

I forgot that I had agreed to go to the Sunday service with Pierce, one of my closest friends, when he texted me that he was outside and waiting for me. 

“Crap…” I rolled out of bed. I texted him I’d be out in five minutes. I looked at the clock: 11:AM. I threw on wrinkly, but clean clothes, hastily brushed my teeth, and ran down four flights of stairs out of my apartment. There he was in his massive truck, warmly smiling as I approached. 

“Sorry about that, I hope we’re not too late,” I said as I got inside and closed the truck door. 

“Nah, you’re fine,” he began to drive. “You excited?”

I didn’t want to be another lost soul seeking salvation from depression, but I was running out of options. Almost nothing appealed to me anymore. Therapy only worked for so long until the dark thoughts of my insignificance clutched wires around my brain. Doctors wouldn’t up the dosage on my medication.  My friends, my true friends anyway, were patient with me. 

“I…” I drifted. “I don’t know what to expect. I mean, do they want someone like me there? I don’t really believe in–”

“Trust me, it’ll give you a new perspective,” Pierce said, giving me a side hug, other hand on the wheel.

I forced a smile that naturally stuck. It felt good to be comforted.

About twenty minutes later we arrived at Benevolent Springs Church. It was far out of the way for Pierce, so he must’ve really liked coming here. The outside of the church had seen far better days, but the congregation funneling into the massive church seemed to be in the highest spirits. Radiant smiles, hugs, handshakes, everything here screamed welcoming. 

I almost bought it right then and there.

We parked fairly close to the church in its deceptively large lot. As we got out, a couple in their late thirties approached  the truck. 

“Oh hey, it’s the Deckers.” Pierce said. “They’re real cool.”

Polly and Pedro Decker hugged Pierce before they even said a word. I got out of the truck and they turned their attention to me.

“You must be the good friend Pierce promised he’d bring along,” Pedro said, outstretching his hand. “Pedro.”

“Michael.” I shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I did the same for Polly. The Deckers had the grace of my doting grandparents. Pedro and Pierce talked about their plumbing experiences as we walked into the sanctuary. We settled into pews on the right side of the sanctuary, and I took in my surroundings. 

The room was a perfect, cool temperature compared to the summer heat. The stage up front was lined with what looked like golden railings. Stained glass towered just behind the stage, but I couldn’t make out what the image was supposed to be. It wasn’t anything like a church I was expecting. 

Pastor Zane stepped onto the stage, and the crowd, initially chattering and murmuring, began to whoop and cheer. He raised his hands like an orchestra conductor, and everyone rose from their seats. Pierce gently swatted my arm as he rose, so I followed suit. 

The worship team began playing their songs. I was half-bracing, expecting a self-righteous message through song, but no. No, the music was actually uplifting. The voices around me and the fluttering in my chest made me feel like I was about to levitate. I’d be lying if I said I remembered the full details of the sermon, but I remember the message being directed at me. About how sometimes those who stand tall welcome someone to lean on them. 

After the service was done, I made the rounds talking to strangers. I actually wanted to; Pierce hardly had to encourage me to do so. Pierce drove me home, telling me his phone was being flooded with texts from the congregation saying how happy they were to meet me. They remembered my fucking name. I slept well that night, probably the best I had in months.

Next Sunday came quickly, and I texted Pierce before he could even invite me. 

 A month had passed, and I hadn’t missed a service. I was even tempted to start volunteering, just like Pierce did every other service. My therapist took notes of my improvement as well, and while I still took my meds, I didn’t bother trying to up the dosage. I almost felt saved. If I was to be another cliché, then so be it. Still never made out what the stained glass was supposed to depict, besides an almost humanoid shape towering above small, dark objects.

I made the rounds of handshakes and hugs last service. I was still on the younger side, and didn't quite jive with anyone my age there, because there were very few to do so with. Pierce had to step away early before we prayed at the end. I never uttered the prayer aloud, and when we were told to close our eyes, I never questioned it, for the feeling was fantastic. 

At the end of each service, Pastor Zane would request we close our eyes and raise our hands to become closer with God. It was never my thing, despite the improvements it had made to my life. There was no arguing with the feeling. The fluttering in my chest made me feel like the ground itself gently released me, even for a moment. Whatever was happening at Benevolent Springs, it was great.

Except this last Sunday when I opened one eye.

My body seized. What I thought was sensation was quite literal; my feet were pointed down, a couple of inches off the carpet. I wasn’t imagining it, nor was I the only one. Up and down the pews, dozens of us hung in the air with me. The old woman in front of me was nearly a whole foot off the ground, hanging still like a lantern.

My first thought was that this must’ve been true divinity; I mean, why else would faith be so popular and consistent throughout history? I forced my eyes shut, until the final chord was struck. When I looked around afterward, everyone was seated pleasantly. Nobody was disoriented; it was all business as usual. 

Nobody else seemed to notice, and that was arguably worse. By the time Pastor Zane returned to the stage, I questioned whether or not I had hallucinated the ordeal.

“And now…!” Pastor Zane boomed. “Another wonderful Sunday we gather here to praise Gols– God!” 

He corrected his slip-up so smoothly I barely noticed. But I did. Gols? What the hell was a Gols? Or rather, who? I scanned the pews. Nobody around me even reacted to the fact he was about to get us to praise something else by name. From the spotlight, I noticed an extra bead of sweat or two run down the pastor’s face.

Things seemed to be too good to be real. I had two reasons to believe as such.

I waited for Pierce outside the volunteer office, as I had a few times already. The door was locked with a keycard, but I could hear him yapping about nothing of significance with the others. His meetings ran long, I had somewhat gotten used to that.

The office was in the basement and I paced around the hallways to kill time. That’s when I spotted the nearby door and noticed it was cracked open. I felt a cool breeze waft in from behind the door. Basements shouldn’t have a breeze, right?

 I peeked my head inside. 

“What the?”

The room itself was massive, at least the size of the sanctuary if not larger. It was very unkept, paint peeled off the walls and it smelled a little moldy. All this space right below the sanctuary was filled with absolutely nothing.  I didn’t want to raise suspicion by turning on the lights, so the illumination from the cracked door would have to do.

I should’ve stayed put, but no. I had to keep exploring. At the very least, I waited for at least half an hour for him to finish his talks with the others in the office. At least I had others to keep myself busy upstairs. Not this time.

Nothing was in the room, and it felt a bit cooler and damper the further I went in. Yet, the air was coming from something much deeper in. Carried ever so subtly from the breeze I could hear it: chatter. 

Voices.

One of them spoke in the same speech pattern as Pierce. I was certain of that much. A part of me guessed maybe the volunteering office connected through here. For all I knew, Pierce could’ve wrapped up his meeting and was waiting for me. But I had to press on.

There was a door that looked like it was built a century ago at the end. It, too, was cracked open with a doorstop. The chatter echoed beyond it.  

It lead to a stone spiral staircase. I went down cautiously. The stairs stretched deeper than any basement should go. I ended up losing count of the steps. I just wanted to find Pierce and be done with this. The stairwell opened to a dark tunnel, with light at the end. 

I carefully crept along the tunnel wall. I could hear the voices getting louder. 

“Thank you for another glorious day, Golsys.” I heard a voice clearly say. Golsys. Not God.

The praise was followed by what sounded like something wet slapping against the ground over and over. It was followed by more praise. Multiple voices of worship began to overlap.

“Is this not enough for you, Golsys?” I heard a familiar voice ask– Pastor Zane. To both relief and horror, none of the voices were Pierce’s.

There were pale lanterns lining the room ahead. I could see the silhouette of Pastor Zane, as well as some of the church elders I had never spoken to for more than a few minutes. They were circling something massive, pale, and what looked like it was coming from a hole even deeper into the earth.

My eyes widened. I recognized its shape. The entity in the stained glass far above ground. It hummed and clicked, and made noises I couldn’t even comprehend. How could it have made those noises? It had no mouth to make them with. I saw what looked like a flaccid human arm, far smaller than its main two, slapping rapidly against the ground right beside one of the elders.

“What do you mean we’re not enough?” Pastor Zane almost sounded angry. “We are the only ones–!”

He spun around, and through the glint of the pale lanterns I could see he locked eyes with me.

“Oh my…” he slowly approached, with an outstretched hand. “This is the one you want, right?” 

More clicks and hums from this Golsys being. 

“Michael, right?” he continued, stepping closer. “It’s okay, I don’t believe you’re in danger but…”

“What the hell is that thing?” I spat out. “Is that a God?”

“Yes,” he said with soothing warmth in his voice. “Our God. You can step closer.”

I took one step back. Pastor Zane matched me, and I began to back up. Golsys clicked rapidly. The pastor took a deep sigh and muttered something under his breath. Suddenly he sprinted right at me. 

He took maybe five steps. 

The thing grabbed Pastor Zane with a hand with too many fingers, and I could hear his bones crunch like a fist full of kindling. It happened inches from my face, I could feel his last, dying breath hit my face and I knew I’d be next. 

Somehow I wasn’t. I was still alive.

The enormous hand held its fresh corpse. The hand strained forwards towards me, but it couldn’t. I could hear it thrash, and it bellowed as it attempted to get closer to me. The lanterns sputtered, and stone dust dropped from the ceiling above. 

It stopped. It halted completely like its leash had fully extended. It couldn’t reach me. Whatever this Golsys was, however deep it went, it was stopped at an invisible line in the tunnel. Pastor Zane was not as fortunate.

It dropped Pastor Zane’s crushed body, its fingers unfurling almost gracefully. The elders hadn’t run; they simply dropped to their knees and started praying. 

And I got the fuck out of there. 

I wasn’t in the best shape, but I hurried up the stairs with reckless abandon. Where the hell was Pierce? I wasn’t sure what I even would say to him.

I dashed through the empty, moldy room and nearly crashed into the wall outside of the volunteering office. Pierce stepped out, bagel in hand. His warm smile faded when he saw my sweaty, pale face.

“You good man? You look like you nearly died”

I froze, replaying what had happened minutes ago. His assessment was damn near perfect, and yet he had no idea. Pierce loved this place. The truth would only drive him away. 

“Yeah, leftovers must’ve gone bad,” I squeezed out the lie. “I was feeling better after the bathroom, but shit, I guess I still look like hell.”

He put a hand on my guilty shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

I was grateful to see the church shrink in the rear-view mirror. Pierce turned down his music and let out a big, grateful sigh.

“Crazy message today,” he said. “Honestly, I swear these sermons are made for me. Do you feel the same way?”

I barely nodded.

“Thought so,” he reached for the volume knob. “Wonder what’s coming next?”

 Days have passed, and Pierce has already texted me once again about going to the next service. I was going to reply three times, but I’ve deleted each attempt. The part that I doubt my therapist would understand is that my thoughts of my insignificance have returned. 

The only time they’ve fully gone away is when I’m standing in church, right above the thing that made them disappear. 

I don’t really know how to tell this story in a way that will make you believe me. Truthfully, I have a hard time believing it myself; if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it.

There are some places in the world that people aren’t meant to see, and if they do, they aren’t meant to come back from. Places so quiet you can’t even hear your own thoughts. Places thought to exist only in dreams—places where life has never existed.

But I feel as though I’m getting ahead of myself. I guess the best place to start is the river.

More people than usual disappear near rivers. Ask anyone who lives by one. I suppose it can be attributed to a mixture of human stupidity and the river’s natural dangers. The currents are strong, yet children swim in them during the summer and fish along their banks when the weather turns cold.

Still, I’ve always felt there was more to it.

My grandmother used to say that a river was a divide between worlds. Each bank held its own story, its own place in time. I always thought it sounded almost poetic—one of those strange little things older people say that you remember without ever really thinking about.

In this part of the country, the glaciers didn’t flatten the land. The Mississippi and its various tributaries carved deep valleys into the sandstone, leaving rolling hills and deep valleys all around. It is some of the most picturesque scenery in the Midwest, which is why I chose to attend college there.

River Falls was a beautiful small town. It was surrounded by forest but was still a quick 20-minute drive to the Twin Cities for any shopping needs. Two rivers ran through it, connecting to the Saint Croix and then the Mississippi just a few miles downstream. The college was smaller but homey and offered various wildlife activities to help me become acquainted with the area; it was also fairly close to home, only about a two-hour drive north. The first day on campus, I joined an outdoor club that took us to various parts of the Driftless Area to fish, canoe, and hike. That’s actually how I met Dale.

We were partnered together on a canoe trip as part of our outdoor recreation club. I had seen him at events before, but the club was large, so this was the first time we ever truly talked. He was quiet at first, but when football and various video games came up, he quickly opened up. Before I knew it, we were cracking jokes, splashing each other, and ramming into other canoes to try and rage-bait the others in the group.

We didn’t have any similar classes, but that didn’t stop us. I had a single dorm, and Dale wasn’t very fond of his roommate, so most days after class he would be at my room. We quickly found out we had a lot in common. We both played guitar, albeit poorly, and tried to learn songs together at night, making our RA pretty pissed. We both liked the same sports teams and video games. It’s always strange meeting someone so much like you. Someone that you could always make time for. While I had many friends in grade school, it was easy to say that Dale, in the short time I had met him, had become one of my closest.

As soon as our first year of school was over, Dale, a few other friends, and I decided to get a house together just off campus. Most of us were paying for our own schooling, so being able to split our rent seven ways and not having to be on the school’s terrible meal plan was a blessing. Although I basically lived in a closet. The house was giant and had plenty of room for all of us. If we wanted to see one another, we could sit in the living room or hang out in the dining room, where we put an old pool table. If we wanted privacy, we all had our own space to ignore the outside world.

During this time, I was looking for a job. All the money I had was from high school or the times I could go home during the year and work at my family's restaurant. Dale had just scored a sweet gig from his girlfriend’s roommate at a local daycare and told me to apply. The place was known for hiring college students and worked well around my school hours. I applied and was contacted the next day about an interview. 

The place was called Treetop Learning Center. It was on the edge of town, right next to the forest and the Whitetail Ridge biking trails. A few other friends and I had biked those trails many times. I had driven past this place often but never put two and two together. The building itself was nice, with many windows and a large, fenced-in backyard with a playground.

The interview went great, and they especially liked that I was going to school for education, saying that the more TED courses at college I completed, the more my salary would increase. The next week, I started training with Dale. We acted basically the same in the room with kids. We made jokes and messed around until our boss eventually decided to separate us. We were there every day in the summer, getting as many hours as possible. I was put in a toddler room, so my day was filled with finger painting and diaper changes while Dale was in the 4K classroom teaching kids about letters and numbers.

I say all this now, but at the time, it was just a normal job and a normal life. I worked there for over a year before the incident, and during all that time, nothing truly strange ever happened.

Sure, the occasional angry parent complained about something trivial, and now and then a child insisted they had seen or heard something strange out on the playground, near the forest. But children see things that aren’t there. They hear noises and turn them into monsters. That’s just childhood imagination running wild.

During that year, only two instances struck me as odd.

The first took place in the second week I worked there. We were outside with the students. It had just rained that day, and we had to check the kids’ hands often to stop them from picking up and eating the worms that had crawled up on the concrete. While we were focused on that, a boy named Jack decided he should try to climb to the top of the old wooden playset.

I had turned around and looked at the playground the moment he fell. The smile on my face from one of Dale’s dumb jokes disappeared almost instantaneously as I ran to try and catch the falling boy, knowing damn well I wouldn’t get there in time. He landed hard on his arm, cracking it as it made contact with the woodchips. He was already crying by the time we got him up. He had long sleeves on, but you could tell the bone had made its way through the skin.

I tried to calm him down as best I could while Dale called 9-1-1 and went to our boss to get her in contact with the parents. The kids were gathered around us, all asking questions and some trying to touch Jack. I had stood Jack up and started walking him to the center entrance when I heard it.

At first I thought it was a cicada buzz, but as it grew louder, I stopped in my tracks. It was like a foghorn, only different, like it was mixed with the sound of an elk’s bugle. The sound grew louder, buzzing in my head. The children all stopped playing and looked toward the woods where the sound emerged.

I turned my head to the forest, expecting to see something. Maybe an animal or some grooming machinery for the bike trails, anything that would help me make sense of the noise. There was nothing. It had been windy that morning; I could see the trees in the playground rustle, but at the forest edge not a single branch shook.

Abruptly it stopped; the playground became quiet. Every child, like me, was looking into the woods. Even Jack, who just moments ago had been screaming, had gone quiet. That realization hit me, and I looked down at him. He was staring into the woods.

He finally looked at me. His face had gone pale. In that moment, I began to panic as I thought he was losing blood. I got down to his level.

“Are you ok? What’s wrong?”

He raised his good arm and pointed toward the trees. My eyes followed his finger. Near the edge of the treeline stood a deer. A white-tailed buck. Its horns were still velveted over. By now, all the kids had run over to the fence to scream and stare at the animal.

“Holy biscuits, Mr. Simon, it’s a deer!”

“It’s so big!”

Some kids even began to throw stones in its general direction as three- and four-year-olds normally do. It was probably thirty or forty yards away, although it was hard to tell, and was hidden behind the brush of a few small maples. I could really only see its head and upper half of its body. What was striking, however, were its almost silver eyes. I had never seen any deer with that eye color. It seemed almost unnatural how silver they were.

It wasn’t particularly large or doing anything out of the ordinary; it just stood there and watched. I was surprised that it hadn’t yet run away, considering all the screaming and commotion; you’d expect any animal to bolt. Instead, it just stood there. Its ears were twitching in our direction, like it was listening.

“Is that what you are looking at, Jack, the deer?” 

He nodded.

“And the man.”

I jolted my head back to where the deer had stood. It was gone. I couldn’t even hear it running in the woods. By now, all the kids had lost interest and were back to swinging and playing in the sandbox.

I looked back down at Jack. “It’s nothing, little dude, just trees.”

Just trees.

As I said that, Dale came running back outside.

“Hailey got a hold of his parents, and the ambulance is on the way.” He stopped when he saw us. “What are you guys looking at?”

I snapped out of it. “There was a deer, and it just…” I trailed off.

The deer was gone. It was bothering me more than it should have. Not because the deer had left, but because I hadn’t seen it leave. The woods had enough openings that I should have seen it running, but there was nothing.

“It probably just got spooked. My bet is Liam was chucking rocks at it.” He looked over to the sandbox. “Liam! You throwing rocks at wildlife again?”

Liam smirked and hid his head in his shirt.

“That’s what I thought. Damn kid is going to be a serial killer, already sounds like Ed Gein.”

“Dude.” I nudged him and pointed down to Jack.

“My bad.” Dale helped the kid into the center.

Jack was taken to the hospital, and thankfully the injury wasn’t as bad as it looked. He came to daycare the next day as happy as could be because all his friends got to sign his cast.

I asked Dale and a few other staff about the sound I had heard, and they all said they'd heard it before too and that the owner told them it was just the barge whistle from the large shipping freights going down the river. The deer probably hear it all the time and aren’t scared of it.

None of the kids said anything about it either.

Except Jack.

A few days later, I was helping the kids clean up after lunch when he walked over to me. He tugged on my shirt, and I looked down.

“What’s up, Jack?”

He stared at me for a few seconds, then asked, “Do the deer and his friends live in the woods?”

I smiled. “Yes, they do.”

He nodded and went back to playing. I didn’t think about it for years, as it was just a random question a four-year-old asked. I didn’t understand the difference at the time. He asked me if the deer lived there—the deer and his friends.

This brings us to the second strange occurrence I've had—the spring after the deer incident. A young girl named Olivia drew me a picture in class. I was in the 4K classroom that day as Dale was sick, and although I didn’t get to see these kids often, they seemed to love it when I came to visit. The class was primarily girls, so they would all run up and hug me. Some of them, like Olivia, would draw me some pictures and ask me to bring them home to show Dale and our other roommates.

The picture was nothing special, but it was clear she put a lot of work into it, and I showed her and the rest of them my appreciation with a dance party. The picture was of me and her in the sandbox on the playground. The two people were stick figures, one with long hair and one with three little tussles coming off the top, and arrows pointing to either of us with our initials on them—OW for her and SG for me. 

I took the picture home and hung it on the fridge.

A few weeks went by, and my friends and I decided we wanted to go for a bike ride out on the Whitetail Ridge trail. The ridge itself was quite large and had a small stream cutting through it called the South Fork. About half a mile in, the swing bridge stood. By then, it had become a local landmark, even with a brewery named after it. The bridge itself was wire-suspended and hung over a fairly deep ravine to the river below. The ravine was a spot where kids got busted a lot for underage drinking. Across the wires were wooden boards that got changed regularly but always seemed to rot faster than normal planks. The whole area was covered in dense forest, but from the middle of the old relic you could see down into the valley and the entire town.

At night, it was breathtaking. The city lights illuminated the valley.

On the other side of the bridge was a small trick park where we could attempt to be X games athletes. The trick park was made of old bridge planks and was prone to breaking. We still found it fun even with the danger. The day we rode there, we didn’t see anyone else on the trail.

Whitetail Ridge was very well known and usually packed on the weekends. We had left early, however, and the morning fog hadn’t completely rolled out of the hills. We followed the trail the way we had every time, taking a right at the mossy rock and going down the steep decline to the bridge.

It felt much longer today because of the fog. I knew it wasn’t, but something just felt weird. We made it to the bridge, it creaking and shifting under the weight of our bikes. As we made our way across the bridge, I looked over the side to the ravine below. The only part of town you could see was the campus water tower and its red light on top.

The ravine was still overtaken by fog. It looked as if it went on endlessly. We stopped halfway across the bridge, admiring the sight.

“Smoke and a view,” Dale said and pulled a pre-roll from his pack.

We all snickered as Dale pulled out his lighter and tried to light the joint. We passed it around while we sat on our bikes overlooking the city.

“You ever regret not going somewhere else?” I asked my friend Tyler. He was born and raised in River Falls. I remember him telling me that when he was applying to schools, his parents didn't even expect him to fill out any application besides this one. He grew up watching this Division III team play football and admitted to us drunkenly one night that his dream was to be out on that field.

His dream did come true. He was there starting tight end. His parents couldn’t be prouder.

“Nah,” he said, taking a long pull from the roll. “I like it here.”

“Of course you do,” Dale said. “You're River Falls royalty.”

“Not my fault my grandpa is the best personal injury lawyer in the county.”

Tyler passed the joint to me. I was about to take a pull when the sound began again. It seemed louder than the last time, echoing through the hills. We all stopped and listened. Goosebumps rose on my arms. It went on for so long that the joint was down to the roach. It singed my fingertips, and I instinctively dropped it, letting it fall between the planks.

“Dipshit!” Dale yelled. “There are still one or two good hits off that thing.”

He and Chris, our other friend, went to find a stick so they could pull the roach up from between the boards.

“The barges go downriver in this fog?” I asked.

“Barges?” Tyler said, half laughing. “That’s his horn.”

“His horn?”

He scoffed. “The antlered one.” He stopped for a moment. “It means you're close to the pale country.”

My eyes widened. “Really?”

Tyler slapped me across the back of my head. “No, dumbass.” He laughed hysterically, coughing as his lungs ran out of air.

I rubbed the back of my head and mumbled. “It wasn’t that funny.”

“Both of you shut up and stop moving,” Dale said. Using two sticks, he lifted the remainder of the pre-roll out from the bridge. “Fucking brain surgeon precision.”

We finished the joint and threw it over the ledge into the fog. We then rode the rest of the way across the bridge and into the trick park. We spent a few hours there being dumb and trying our best not to fall when we would hit jumps. We saw a few other bikers by then, and they gave us weird looks, probably because they could smell the weed on us. By noon, we were all tired and realized we hadn’t packed any food.

“I’m beat,” I began. “Let’s bike over to Kinni Café and get a bite.”

We all nodded in agreement, but before we left, Chris stopped us. 

“Hey, Simon,” he said, smiling at me. “I bet you lunch you won’t launch off Old Faithful.”

Old Faithful is what they had called the oldest ramp in the park that was high, unsteady, and dangerously close to the ravine edge.

“You're joking,” I said dryly. 

“Come on, dude, don’t be a pussy. It’s free lunch.”

I looked at all three of them. Tyler was grinning, and Dale had a smile from ear to ear while holding two thumbs up.

“Screw it.” I don’t know if it was pure pressure or the good amount of weed in my system, but I began to bike toward the ramp. I gained speed and finally hit the ramp. It felt fine at first, until it teetered under my weight, bucking me to one side and making me fall off my bike and roll dangerously close to the edge. I caught myself just before reaching the edge; all the breath had escaped me, and I was gasping for air.

In the distance, I could hear my friends yelling my name and pedaling toward me. But that wasn’t what had my attention. In front of me was a small rock with a picture carved on it. It fit into the palm of my hand, and I wondered what something like that would be doing out here. I picked it up, and quickly the daycare crossed my mind. 

They bring the 4K out here every year for an end-of-the-year hike. I bet one of the kids made this. It was very worn, so it must have been from a few years ago. In that moment, I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I quickly put it in my backpack so I could bring it in the next time I worked and show the daycare kids.

My friends helped me up, and we rode out of the woods and back into town.

That night I sat at the kitchen island looking at the rock I had found. It was later in the evening, and Dale emerged from his room to make dinner.

“What’s that?” he asked as he opened the fridge to grab his milk.

I turned the rock around and showed him. “It’s this rock I found in the woods today. I think one of the old 4K groups drew on it.”

“That’s pretty cool,” he said in between gulps of milk. He set his drink back and closed the refrigerator door. “Did you have to draw it on a piece of paper too?”

I was confused by his question and looked up. My heart sank into my stomach. On the fridge, where I had left it weeks ago, sat Olivia’s drawing. I looked down at the rock.

They were the same.

These moments, while weird, never struck me as the kind of thing that deserved more than a moment’s thought. Weird shit happens. The rest of my first year at the daycare was normal. Life was normal. Summer had rolled around, and Dale and I began working full-time again. Each day melted into the next. We enjoyed our jobs, but after countless 60-hour weeks, even the best minds get exhausted. 

On the second-to-last day of the summer program, the normal 4K teacher called in with the stomach flu, but Dale hypothesized she didn’t want to be here. It was the 4K hike day, and all the kids were extremely excited. Reluctantly, our boss put Dale and me together in the 4K classroom because I knew the trail pretty well by this point. Most times when I hike, I like to wear longer pants and shirts, but since the trails themselves were so well packed in and it was a particularly hot August day, I opted for shorts and a breathable Packers jersey.

The hike was very straightforward: we went down the trail to the swing bridge, crossed it, and had the kids play at the trick park while we got a few photos for the parents and newsletter. It started fairly normally. We walked through the woods; I was able to flex my ecology and bug knowledge on the kids and Dale. In that moment, I truly felt like a teacher. The kids themselves were thoroughly engaged. They laughed at Dale’s dumb jokes and me eating basswood leaves, and listened quietly as I explained the bird sounds to them.

Eventually we reached the swing bridge. Some kids were extremely excited to cross the bridge while others cried and were nearly carried by Dale. Jack was one of those kids. He held my hand tight as I told him not to worry about it. I got down low to him and, with some encouragement, got him to walk across with me as I held his hand.

The boards of the swing bridge creaked as they always did. Just before halfway, I told Jack to look. He held me tight, and I could see his eyes were glued closed. I reached down and picked him up, placing him on my shoulders.

“Open your eyes, Jack,” I said. “I have you; there is nothing to worry about.”

It took him a few seconds, but he finally opened them, a giant smile streaking across his face. Dale and the rest of the kids had already made their way to the trick park and were playing around. I decided to enjoy this quiet moment a little longer.

“I have to pee.” Jack blurted out, breaking the serene moment. I laughed a little and set Jack back down on the bridge. As we walked across the middle of the bridge, the temperature dropped noticeably. I shivered a bit as I made my way across the bridge. The temperature wasn’t the only noticeable difference. While the trees on the other side of the bridge were still very much green, these had begun to change color into the oranges and yellows of fall.

I told Dale that Jack needed to go potty, and we went a little deeper into the forest to find a secluded spot for him to pee. We came to the top of a hill that overlooked the trick park. From there I could observe all the students, but they couldn’t see me.

“Alright, Jack, just go right here.”

“On this tree?”

“Yes.”

“My mom says I'm not supposed to pee on trees.”

I sighed. “We are going to break that rule just this once.”

“Promise you won’t tell my mom.”

I smiled and turned away from him. “I promise.”

Jack began to pee, and I watched the other kids play from the hill view. It was a perfect day. It came to me at that moment that the forest had no sounds aside from the children playing. I looked up at the canopy. No birds. It was strange, as if everything had left this place.

Then the noise came.

Before, it had started quietly and gotten louder. This time it rang like I was standing right next to the bells of a church. I covered my ears and turned to Jack. He was crying from the sound. I came down to him and covered his ears with my hands, enduring the sound that rattled my skull. It lasted about 15 seconds before it stopped.

When it ended, I opened my eyes. My ears were still ringing, and I looked around to see if anything had changed. Everything looked the same. I grabbed Jack by the shoulders.

“Are you ok?” I yelled, not realizing how loud I was being.

He nodded his head yes, eyes wide.

“Not you,” a voice whispered in my ear. It was as quiet as a mouse, but it cut through the ringing in my ear. I could almost feel the person who said it breathing on the back of my neck.

I spun around, startled, but there was nothing there but trees. My ears finally stopped ringing, and I took Jack’s hand. “Let’s get back.”

We rounded the top of the hill overlooking the trick park. The woods had become eerily silent, but not like before; the kids had stopped yelling. As we got to the top, we stopped. Dale and the other 15 children were gone. The silence intensified.

At first I thought it was a joke. “Haha, very funny, Dale,” I said aloud, Jack still clenching my hand.

We walked down to the trick park. Not a sign. Not even a sound. I thought about how the hell he had kept these kids this quiet for this long.

“Dale!” I yelled. “4K!”

Nothing.

I tried over and over again for what seemed like hours. 

“Dale! This isn’t funny, dude; you are scaring Jack!”

Silence.

I looked around for anything -wrappers, footprints- but nothing was there. I walked back up to the hill, screaming for Dale as loud as I could. The only sound I heard was Jack’s deep breaths.

“Maybe they forgot and left us here,” I said aloud, trying to convince myself. I saw Jack; he was terrified. “Don’t worry, little man; we will get back. I know the way.”

Jack began to cry.

“Jack, it’s ok we will just head back,” I said with a smile, knowing damn well that as soon as I found Dale, I was going to kick his ass.

We walked to the swing bridge and began to cross. Each step felt heavier than the last. As we neared the middle of the bridge, I felt something. A feeling that told me not to step forward. I grimaced and powered through the thoughts. Jack was upset, and we needed to get back. I took my next step across the threshold. 

It was as if a light switch had been flicked off.

One second I could see the green canopy above me, the brown boards beneath my feet, the river stretching below. The next, there was nothing. No trees. No sky. No bridge or river. I couldn’t even see Jack.

“Jack?” My hand was still wrapped around his; I could feel his trembling.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

I pulled him in tight, covering his head; for several seconds, neither of us moved. Then something touched the back of my neck. I spun around and opened my eyes.

Nothing was there.

I looked forward again, and the blackness dissipated. We were standing on the bridge, but it was now nighttime. I looked around in shock; the wind blew fiercely, biting at my face. The trees and ground were bare, covered in snow. I stared at my arms. The cold prickled the hair on my legs. I was still wearing shorts. My jersey was doing little to keep out the cold.

“What the fuck?”

Jack continued to cry. He wasn’t in winter clothes, and the wind was getting harsher.

“It’s ok,” I said and put him on my back. Terror flowed through every vein. “We just need to get back to the center.”

I took a step forward and realized just how deep the snow was. It had nearly reached my knee. Each step sent cold spikes up my leg as my arms began to go numb from the cold and from carrying Jack. 

“Just hold on, Jack!” I yelled as I pushed myself to walk further and further in the forest.

Every part of me was numb, and I began to sway back and forth through the treeline; I just wanted to rest. I needed to rest. I fell to my knees in the snow. It was getting darker. My eyes began to close when Jack spoke up.

“Simon, look.” Jack pointed to the light coming from the center’s parking lot.

I was so close. Slowly, I stood. I channeled everything I had into keeping my legs moving. I could feel nothing. Nothing but Jack's labored breaths on my back. Just a little further, I told myself, ready to collapse from exhaustion.

I reached the door and fell once more, dropping Jack. Slowly, I began to dig in the snow for the spare key; my fingertips had turned black, splitting as I shoveled more snow back to find the rocks, finally finding the fake rock with the key inside.

I struggled to put it into the keyhole; my vision had become blurry. I finally heard it click open and pulled the door as wide as I could with the snow packed in front of it. I pushed Jack in before squeezing myself through the door and collapsed face-first on the tile floor. The heat instantly hit us. I began to weep, lying in the doorway. I looked down at my legs. Parts of them had begun turning black. I was scared to take my shoes off and look at my feet, as they had gone numb before anything else. Jack and I were soaking wet and shivering in the doorway. He just stood there looking at me.

“S… S… Simon?” he whimpered.

I turned my head to look at him, barely conscious. “Get the phone, Jack.”

I pointed to the landline sitting on the receptionist’s desk, my arms barely able to lift. He ran there and grabbed the phone. I was beginning to fall in and out of consciousness. He handed me the phone. Weakly, I dialed 9-1-1. It rang…

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

I tried to speak; nothing came out.

“Help,” Jack yelled to the phone before I dropped it and slipped into the blackness.

I awoke in a white room. A fan above me blew air where I sat. I could hear beeping and a TV playing some sitcom in the background. My eyes darted from side to side, trying to uncover where I was. I saw machines and tubes all over me.  Finally, it clicked: hospital, I’m in a hospital.

“Honey!” I felt a hand touch my face; I flinched and turned my head. It was my mother. “Jared, get the nurse!” she yelled to my dad, and I watched him run out of the room. 

I tried to talk but realized there was a large tube going into my mouth and down my throat.

“Don’t try to talk,” she said, then reached down and gave me a large hug. I looked down at my hands; they were wrapped in bandages and extremely sore. One was also handcuffed to the side of the bed.

I couldn’t speak, and my body was as stiff as a board. I pointed to the door with my eyes. She looked at me, confused. “What is it?”

I pointed again, straining my throat to get any sound out. “Jack.”

Her expression changed. It was small but noticeable—a tightening around her eyes.

“Who is Jack?”

I began to push against my restraints. It shot waves of pain through my body, but I needed to stand. My father rushed in with a nurse. “He just woke up. I don’t know what happened.”

My heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. “Jack?” I wheezed out again.

The nurse came toward me, putting her hand on my shoulder. I stared past her. At the hallway. At the fluorescent lights and people walking past, peeking into the room.

There he was.

Standing at the end of the hall, barefoot, wearing the same yellow shirt and blue shorts. His skin was pale; he looked soaked to the bone. He was staring directly at me. My eyes widened. I tried to scream.

The nurse held me down. “We need to sedate him!”

Jack raised one finger to his lip. “Shhh. You won’t hear him.”

He turned and walked away from the door. I ripped at my restraints with my free hand, trying to claw my way out. My mother was weeping as my father and the nurse held me down. I felt the needle go into my arm but couldn’t look away from the hallway.

As Jack disappeared around the corner, the nurse pulled the curtain shut. I began to go limp, the sedative taking effect. I looked over at my father. He was comforting my mom; he said something I couldn’t make out. It was getting darker.

Finally I felt my eyelids shut. I was sitting in blackness, though my ears still worked. I remember that because, as I drifted into that induced sleep, I heard it. Somewhere beyond the hospital walls, impossibly far away and close at the same time. I heard it again. That terrible horn. It drowned out everything else as I drifted to sleep.

“Simon.”

I opened my eyes again to the hospital room. It was quiet; dusk had settled, and it shot rays of crimson into the room around me. I saw my parents sitting in the chairs next to me, watching my eyes. The nurse from before was on the other side, writing down numbers from the machine.

“Simon.” The voice said again.

I turned and looked in front of me. Two police officers stood there. I coughed out a weak “yes.” The tube had been removed from my throat, but it was still sore.

“I’m Officer Clemons, and this is Officer Rodli.” He pointed to the man beside him. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but we would like to ask you a few questions about…”

“Jack,” I said, cutting them off. “Where is Jack?”

The two men looked at one another. “Are you referring to Jack Cunningham?”

“Yes, I carried him out of the woods; he dialed 9-1-1 for me.”

The man took out a notepad and began writing down what I said.

“Is he ok? Where is he?”

“Simon, nobody was found with you when the police and ambulance arrived.”

“That’s impossible,” I said hoarsely, my throat still itching from the tube. “He was there, he got me the phone, I…” I paused.

“What about Dale and the others? We couldn’t find them, and then that snowstorm came out of nowhere.” I looked around at everyone in the room. They all held grim faces. “Please tell me they made it back safe.”

Their hardened faces softened. “They have been declared missing, and so had you until yesterday.”

I scoffed. “Missing? We just walked to the swing bridge; we were only gone a couple of hours.” 

“I’m afraid you were gone much longer than that.”

“How much longer?”

The room fell silent.

Tears began to well in my eyes. “Please tell me they are ok.”

My mother was crying again, my dad’s arms around her, covering her face.

Officer Clemons took his hat off and wiped his brow. “Son,” he began. “You have been missing for two years.”

For obvious reasons, including job security, I can’t tell you my real name or what state park I work at, but what I can tell you is that the land we’re on has seen some shit. The site itself has native history dating all the way back to the early 13th century, a Spanish mission by the 16th, a fort that mysteriously burned down in the 18th century, and a milling industry that came to a screeching halt in the 1920s after several men from the site started disappearing. The area it’s settled in is a no-name town on the Eastern coast of the US, and its roots go back to the 1730s. 

The point is, its old and it’s seen a lot. From massacres to burnings, wars to local murders, blood has been spilled here more than a few times and continues to be. There are things here in this town that don’t make sense, and most of them seem to concentrate around my place of work.

I’d like to go ahead and say that despite that description, I love my job. I love history and I love teaching people about it. I used to be a teacher, and when I was younger I had hoped that profession would fulfill that itch. Safe to say, it didn’t. I quit after three years.  Middle schoolers suck and their parents are even worse. I was getting angry emails every other week about teaching topics that “weren’t appropriate” for their little Billy. I mean, God forbid I follow the state standards and teach a 13 year old about the horrors of slavery in the US. Meanwhile, little Billy is vaping in the bathroom during lunch and calling the special needs kids slurs. 

Compared to all of that, working outdoors in the heat and changing air filters is a vacation enough. I get to have conversations with people here who are actually interested in history and I even reenact out here for special events. It’s honestly a dream come true in that regard, but the occasional bumps in the night sometimes leave me questioning whether or not I have the nerve to work in this town. 

There have been small things here and there. Shapes in the corner of my vision, noises that could be owls but have the slightest uncanny element to them, that kind of stuff.  However, every once in a while, something dangerous or really messed up happens, and we’re all left scratching our heads. 

A recent tragedy in the township resulted in the loss of a good friend of mine and has left me with a desire to record it all. He always told me to “write a book or something”, and I guess this is the “something,” I can muster. 

This is for you, Lenny. I hope you’re better off, wherever you are, and safer than any of us in this quiet little town. I miss you.

It’s a big site with a lot of ground to cover and even more events, so I’ll start off small and try and work my way up from there.
Here’s one:

When I first started, I was cleaning the blacksmith display and went around the corner of the structure to get something. I distinctly remember hearing the sound of a hammer striking the anvil several times. I came back, ready to tell off the jackass teens who were more than likely screwing around, but found no one. There wasn’t time or room to hide before my arrival, but everything was empty nonetheless. The only thing I found was a piece of iron, struck flat on one end, and a small hammer resting on the anvil’s face. A hammer that I had put away in a locked tool box moments before. A box that, by all inspection, was still locked. I had the only key. I ended up blaming it on my heat-addled mind, and went about my day. I double checked with my co-worker at  the front desk of the welcome center and she firmly assured me that no one had come into the park yet, and that none of the other rangers were scheduled on site that day. 

Things got much weirder after that. 

My first full year in, we got a series of complaints, all stating that a “half-naked lunatic” was running around on the hiking trails, shouting and chasing travelers who were out alone. It happened on three separate occasions, and each time, we called the cops. It’s not the largest property in the world, but it’s large enough that it’s a pain in the ass to search. Every time the cops did a sweep, nothing turned up. The last time it happened, they took a boat up the river the site sat on, blaring sirens and using that stupid microphone speaker to try and spook something out of hiding along the river brush. Once again, they’d found nothing and finally lost their patience with us. 

“Look,’ the sheriff told us, “clearly you got some pranksters out here trying to make some spooky video or something for the ‘youtubes’.” (I swear to God that’s how he said it.) “Unless someone ends up bleeding or- God forbid- if you see something yourself, please refrain from calling us.”

My boss gave them a curt response and let them head out, but he pulled me aside not long after they left. 

“Have we had any reenactors out recently?” he asked. 

“Not that I’m aware,” I said. “Why?” 

My boss went quiet and replied with something I didn’t expect. “Read up on your local history and start doing some regular walks down the nature trails. Make sure your radio is on. Understood?” I nodded but I didn’t understand a word. If he sensed my confusion, I couldn’t tell. He only bit his lip and sighed. “Close off the paths to visitors, for the week. Still patrol, but make sure no one else goes out there.” He tucked his black hair into his ball cap. “I gotta call the Nation.” 

I don’t know if I was supposed to hear that part, but regardless, I knew it was some serious shit. The “Nation” he was referring to was the center for native affairs and tribal government. The indigenous people of the site were the ancestors of the modern Muscogee tribe, though they long predated them. My boss, Henry, was a member of the tribe, though contact and collaboration was difficult. Due to that son of a bitch Andrew Jackson, they and several other tribes had long since marched the trail of tears and resettled in Oklahoma. We get ambassadors and native historians from time to time who work with the site to promote and preserve the indigenous culture of the site, but I had no idea why on earth Henry would contact them about this. Henry wouldn’t elaborate either, but I really didn’t want to pry.

Then came the dead gator. 

A few days after that last incident with the man in the woods, a guest ran up to me screaming that something was wrong and I had to come quickly. I tried to calm them down, but they were near hysterical, saying:

“Sweet God they killed it! They killed a gator near the pond! They killed it!”

No matter what park you’re in- at least on the state level- this is a serious offense. A federal one, in fact, and one that could land you behind bars for a hot minute. All animals are protected from hunting and violence by law, so any intentional harming of a critter on state property is prosecuted. Sometimes we get cruel teenagers trying  to stomp a snake to death or we deal with some dumbass campers shooting at birds overhead. Satisfyingly, eight out of ten of those cases end up with a ride in a squad car. This case, however, ended up being much different. 

The gator was lying belly up on the side of the hill overlooking the pond, red blood oozing from the several cuts and slashes on its belly. What I could only assume was a sharpened stick was speared right down the poor things open mouth, shish-kebobing it. Its guts were spilling out of it and there were so many cuts, I couldn’t even attempt a definite count of the wounds. I radioed in for Henry and he called the police, but while I waited, I noticed something in the cuts. 

For some reason, little pieces of glittering stone were littered around the tissue in various places. They were very small, and thin, almost like slivers of glass. I tried to examine it more, but Henry pulled me away. We needed to wait for the cops and a DNR rep to respond before we could do anything about the body. He told me to close off the nearby walkway and redirect any nosy visitors. 

As I was walking away, though, I could’ve sworn I heard him say something to himself. 

“Just like they did it…” he muttered.

I didn’t get much out of him after the fact. To this day its still one of the most gruesome things I’ve ever seen happen to an animal. But, like all things, the grind of work makes even serious issues distant memories over time. 

At the end of that month, we’d thankfully gone a week and a half without any further incident, and programming proceeded as normal. One of my favorite parts of the job is reenacting and living history, and thankfully, to take my mind off all the craziness, we had a small event planned. We set up an encampment and portrayed the Spanish and French explorers who traveled and settled through the region. I was dressed up like a renaissance explorer and got to demonstrate how matchlock guns fired. It was honestly a great program besides what happened after. 

We were shutting down around four that day and I was walking my gear to my car when I saw a flash of movement in the treeline near a forking nature path. At first I thought my eyes were messing with me, but sure enough I was looking at the shape of a lean tall man running off into brush. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I radioed in that someone was still in the park and that I was investigating. Henry told me to wait, but curiosity had already taken hold of me. So off I went, carrying a 16th century replica gun, dressed like Shakespeare, and chasing down this elusive figure. 

I ran for what must have been only a few minutes, but when I finally stopped, dusk was settling in overhead. It finally dawned on me that in my excitement, I’d not only dropped my radio, but had forgotten a decent flashlight as well. I was alone in the growing darkness, chasing something that was most likely an owl flying low to the ground. All of it could be explained by tricks of the light and an overactive imagination, yet I followed it, and now stood in a thick patch of woods with no way to contact help. I did have my phone, so I thankfully wasn’t completely blind, but I had no signal. 

I used my tiny phone light to help me find the nearest path and I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew the paths all wound in a big circle, so regardless of direction, I was going to make it back to home base eventually, but it took only a few steps along the trail before my fear came back to me.

You learn a lot of things being out in nature, and one of them is only apparent when you lack it.

Nature is rarely completely silent. Even in the darkness, and even when no one’s around. Maybe it’s different in other places, but by then I knew my woods, and I knew the sounds of my park. Crickets, owls, rustling leaves, twigs snapping, cicadas droning… I heard none of them. 

It was like the woods were filled with something else, as if it were holding its breath, waiting patiently to exhale. It felt like something new was with me, and I couldn’t see it. Something felt like it was supposed to happen, but I had no idea what. Then, without prompting, my brain started to count as my whole body trembled.

One-one thousand…. Two-one thousand…. Three-one thousand….

Then it came.

Like a crack of thunder so loud it rings your ears, I was engulfed by the sound of high pitched whooping and screaming. Several voices, hundreds of them, echoed all around me and shook my whole body numb. I don’t think I’ve ever felt panic like that before, and I haven’t since. It was, without argument, the scaredest I’ve ever been.

All of the voices rose and rose like a million shrieking furies, undulating, angry, and vengeful. I hadn’t made it but two steps forward before a strong sharp pain struck my shoulder and sent me tumbling to the ground. My back hit the packed dirt of the trail and forced out any remaining air in my body. I was helpless. I pissed myself from the fear and pain, but realized the other wet feeling surrounding my body was blood. I still had my phone light and could barely raise it to my shoulder, but I saw clearly enough. A large deep gash cut through my clothes and flesh, gushing blood as easy as a water fountain. I closed my eyes and tried to pray but my mouth couldn’t stop chattering. All I could do was close my eyes as the noises grew louder. In the blurring vision of the ever growing night, I swear I saw someone standing before me, fuzzy and almost one with the darkness, but they too left me. I blacked out, terrified those cries would follow me into my dreams.

I woke up in the hospital with Henry sitting next to my bed. He was dressed in plain clothes and stood up as soon as my eyes opened. I asked him what happened. 

“We found you out on one of the trails, along with your walkie. Don’t worry we grabbed your phone too. It’s  dead, but I’ve got it on a charger-” 

I told him that wasn’t what I meant, and his demeanor changed. He gave me a look like a disappointed dad who just caught his son sneaking home late, but it quickly changed to guilt and pity. “When we found you, after I told you not to go into the fucking woods, you were in bad shape. You were bleeding from some wound in your shoulder but we couldn’t tell at the time what was causing it. That is until we got you here and the doc pulled this out of you…”

He took a plastic bag from his pocket  and dangled it in front of me. In it was a stone arrowhead, but not one of those traditional flint ones. This one gleamed like frosted glass and had a chip where the point should be. 

“Don’t worry,” Henry told me, “they got the other piece out, but I need that for something…” He shook his head. “Nevermind. The point is, this is yours now.”

“What?” I thought he was joking but he explained to me that the hospital was concerned it was some native artifact and didn’t want any hot press about destroying one, even in a surgery. People in the area were kind of nutty about that, but I still couldn’t believe it.

“It’s quartz,” he told me. “There’s not a ton of flint around here, so the early natives used quartz, though it’s a tad too soft to be as useful.” He tossed the bag on my lap and shoved his hands in his jacket pocket. “Oddly, there wasn’t a shaft attached to it. Doc said you must’ve fallen pretty hard for it to get lodged so deep. You’re lucky it was only a fleshwound.” He gave me a stern look and  emphasized. “Are you feeling any better since the fall?” 

He said that word with such a punch that I understood his meaning clearly. I nodded my head and he gave a small smile. He told me he’d see me at work when I was feeling better, and that I wouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting for a while. He was about to leave when I blurted out:

“Did… did you hear them too? When you… you found me?

His eyes went grave, as if I’d resurrected a forgotten terror, but he blinked it away. 

“No, I didn’t,” he said, pointing at me, “and neither did you.” 

He left and I was discharged from the hospital the next day. Besides managing the shock and stitching up the giant cut in my shoulder, there wasn’t much else to do for me. I told my shrink about the incident and he told me to up the dose for a bit on my anxiety meds. I was out for a full week from work before returning, and I used most of that time to relax and focus on hobbies. I sewed, played video games, and even found the energy to mow my lawn, but on the Sunday before I went back, I was cleaning the house and found a book I’d misplaced. It was the guidebook they’d given me when I started work. It laid out the full history of the site and, although I was supposed to read it back when I first started, I figured that a year later was better than never. 

I thought I knew most everything I needed to know about the site, but the book surprised me. It had several facts and dates I didn’t know, and it held my attention better than I expected. I was on my couch with it for an hour or two when I read a timeline entry that made me stop cold. 

The date I’d injured myself was in it. No exaggeration, the same day and month over four hundred years ago was in the book. I almost wrote it off as some crazy coincidence, but then my eyes fell on the description.

1597- Native uprising against the Spanish.

I stopped reading after that. 

I came back to work to discover Henry and a friend of his from the Muscogee Nation had gone on a hike down the same trail I was found on, and that no other incidents of the man or butchered reptiles had occurred. It’s stayed that way, but they aren’t the only weird thing out here. 

This town has a deep history, covered in blood. Assuming nobody from management discovers I’m typing this, I’ll update with more stories from the site, both my own and my colleagues. 

Wish me luck out here, and remember to stay safe in the woods. I wear that arrowhead as a necklace now, just as a reminder.

Hey, everybody. I had to sleep it off, but I feel better, now. Assuming anyone’s listening, I’ll continue my story about the Zirkus. I remember hearing I had to make sure people could access the previous part from new parts, so here it is [(Part 1)](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/XQ1z93Vg3o).

To settle something, I’d like to say that- despite the many, and I do mean many, weird encounters around this circus in my all too long tenure there, I think the worst part was that none of the Performers ever truly acknowledged the incidents after they happened. They’d treat me as if nothing changed. Treat everyone as if nothing had happened. And it does seem like they’re still holding to this idea, since they’ve come back to town after the incident that I was allowed to quit over.

To continue sharing my traumatic experiences, the second incident I remember had to do with Heinrich. Even if I hadn’t worked there and thus known him more personally, he would’ve struck me as strange. He was a scrawny old man with long, thick limbs like trees, and while he had rather long, well kept black hair and a matching beard, he must have applied some form of spray or something, because no matter how his head moved, the beard would stay in the exact same position, stiff as a board. While all three of the Performers had been tall, Heinrich was the tallest. If I had to guess, he was well over 7 feet. I would watch him turn in for the night to his trailer, and he would quite literally duck down and fold himself through the door like a marionette. And that’s another thing, he didn’t move like a person. He moved like he was a marionette being puppeteered by an invisible hand, staggering around like a zombie and standing with his feet at odd angles.

Despite his unnatural gait and quite disquieting appearance, he was by far the nicest and most human of the three in his demeanor. He was polite, and rarely spoke except to announce things to the audience or the other Performers. He spoke in quiet, curt sentences to me with a thick Eastern European accent, and usually spoke with similar or near identical phrases, depending on the situation. “Here is Money, Mr. Brant.” Was what he’d say every time he came to deliver my pay. And Yknow, as kinda funny as it is to say, he paid me far better than any other job. I’d get paid at the end of every 3 days the circus was in a town, once all the money to be made had been. He would pay me 1,000 dollars exactly, each time.

Back to the point (sorry I’ve always been a rambler), this particular incident with him took place in Summer. We were in a coastal town somewhere in the colony states, I don’t remember where, and business was good. We had a lot more customers than usual, and I remember thinking that would mean I’d get paid extra for my “dutiful” work as a ticket clerk.

It was late afternoon, maybe 4 PM, on the second day. Now- usually around this exact time, and always on the second day, Heinrich and the other Performers would hold a special act that involved all of them participating. I was never there to see it myself, I had to sit and watch the entrance, obviously, but I would always wonder what went on in there. The sheer amount of cheering from inside would give anyone a bad case of FOMO.

Whenever the show would run, business tended to slow down, so I found myself reading a magazine to pass the time. The disadvantage of that was that, as the typically aloof bastard I was, I would get immersed in it, and hardly pay attention to my surroundings until I was called for. So you understand when I nearly jumped out of my skin when I looked up for a moment, and saw Heinrich leaned through the ticket booth, his nose nearly pressed to mine.

He pulled back with a wooden laugh after that, and had said something along the lines of “Is just prank, Mr. Brant.” Sure, whatever. Weird, but not criminal. He handed me my money early, and spat out his recorded words. “Here is Money, Mr. Brant.” I took it, though before he could walk away without another word, I caught him by the wrist.

“Why are you giving me my money a day early?” I asked him.

He pulled his wrist away, and I couldn’t help but shudder as it left my grip. It felt like a slug slipping through my fingers, if said slug had gotten tree bark stuck to its back. He turned to face me once again, tilting his head up slightly, almost haughty. His beard knocked against my own chin, and I grunted.

“Is not full pay. Is just extra for good work and diligence.”

I looked down to the money. $400. Definitely not the usual pay, so I had no reason to believe he was lying.

“Okay,” I mumbled after a moment. “Thanks.”

I think he smiled, but his mustache and beard were so stiff, so matted to his face, I couldn’t have been sure. His eyes just squinted up at the bottom, and his dark brows rose.

“Of course, Mr. Brant.” He chuckled dryly. He turned to leave once again, but directed his gaze to me before he walked off. His neck audibly popped like an achey joint on an action figure.

“Feel free to clock out early. Show will be extra long tonight, with so many in attendance. You understand.”

He had said it like it was a choice, but somehow I knew it wasn’t. He wanted me in my trailer, for some reason, off the proper circus grounds.

“…Okay,” was all I could manage to say before he walked off with that same signature stumble. I closed up the ticket booth and returned to my trailer, cooking an early dinner, and treating myself to an old movie.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep. Because when I next knew what time it was, it was midnight. The first thing I had processed after the time was that the Big Top was still lit up, shining through my window. The trailer walls did nothing to muffle the mirthful laughter, and roaring of an unknown waltz coming from inside.

Heinrich had said the show would be extra long tonight, I reasoned. But why would there still be so many people there this late at night? Certainly parents would bring their children home, right? But, no. I could hear children’s laughter in the cacophonous noise of the Big Top.

And then, much to my paranoia and nyctophobia’s dismay, I realized something. I could finally see what all the fuss was about. And something, maybe curiosity, hell, maybe even spite, urged me to take the opportunity.

I pulled on my boots and exited my trailer, not caring to be quiet. The Big Top was so loud it would mute any sound for miles. I slowly approached the enormous tent, my boots digging into the surprisingly wet dirt with murky squelches. It must have rained while I had been sleeping.

I approached the Big Top, and gently pulled away the doorway flap, entering inside. The space within was enormous. Large wooden bleachers curved with the tent, filled with every person I could remember giving tickets and then some. There was something.. off about them, but I wasn’t sure what.

The Performers were stood in the middle of the dirt floor, The Contortionist and Vivienne stood lifeless behind Heinrich himself. He was completely still, save for the uncomfortably fluid, rapid movement of his arms and hands as he expertly juggled large, colorful plastic balls. I couldn’t count the exact number. I guessed 6, but there may have been more. He stared directly at the audience, juggling continuously. I stood there for a while, watching this happen, and he didn’t stop once. His arms just kept moving.

I managed to leave without garnering attention, this time, returning to my trailer, and locking the door tight. As big a hazard as it was, I even barricaded the fire door shut. I wasn’t about to be forced to participate in the show. I had planned to just- hold out till morning, stay up until the tent died down at least, but it didn’t. I was struggling to stay awake already, and the fear had caused exhaustion. I drifted off against my will.

I woke up again, and found the sun had risen. No one had come for me, no one was even at my door, but as I looked out my window, I realized the show was *still* going. I checked my alarm clock. 6:00 AM on the dot. What the fuck was going on? I considered calling the cops, but there was even less base for concern here than with The Contortionist. What was I supposed to tell them? “Hello, police? Come to the fairgrounds, there are irresponsible parents and a circus show that doesn’t meet labor guidelines!” Fuck that. Besides, the cops were no help last time, why would they be, now? No. I was done. I was going to leave. For real, this time. Or at least, that was the plan.

I got in my car and began to drive to town, but I must have made a wrong turn, because a few minutes later I found myself at the circus again. I turned and left once more, but same difference. After nearly wearing out my gas, I realized that I was either really bad at driving, or the circus was keeping me here. So I gave up. I got out of my car, and started back to my trailer.

As I passed the Big Top, I could see the audience still inside through the entrance flap, laughing and cheering. Vivienne and The Contortionist still stood behind Heinrich, but his position had changed. He was standing in front of the entrance, still juggling with no life or vitality other than his arms. But now, upon closer inspection, I found he was juggling skulls painted red, yellow, and blue. Had they always been skulls, even when I first saw them..?

He held an intense staring contest with me as he did this, his face uncaring and his eyes held wide. I stared back. But, he won out. My eyes wavered for just a moment, and I blinked a few times to soothe the pain. When I could see again, the skulls had become fully fledged heads. The heads of my family. My parents, my sister, my stepmom and stepsiblings.

He finally broke his perfect juggle when he dropped my stepmom’s head, and it cracked audibly, denting inwards like it was made of straw. Heinrich froze entirely, now, and the rest of the heads fell as well.

“Oops! Mein Mistake,” he said playfully, still holding unblinking eye contact. I couldn’t move as he approached me, the other Performers following in perfect step, with his exact gait. They all stopped a few feet away. I saw my younger stepsister’s head roll by my foot, as Vivienne had apparently kicked it while she was following. The worst part was that her face looked at peace, like she had already been laid to rest before Heinrich had collected it. But- she wasn’t dead. She was still very alive, last I had checked.

Me and The Performers held another few moments of silent eye contact, before I began to tremor.

“Danke,” Heinrich said. I don’t know what he was thanking me for. And I still don’t. I just- ran back to my Trailer and barricaded the doors and window for the rest of the night. When I next left it, everything was back to how it had been the day before. Heinrich nor the other Performers said anything, and I made sure to buy the local newspaper to see if any news came out about all of this, but nothing. No one cared. No one but me.

Call me stupid, but I can’t live with myself if I don’t go see The Circus. I know that place better than anyone in my current hometown, and while I don’t want to go there, I can’t imagine the guilt I’d feel if I hadn’t at least tried to protect my neighbors and friends from anything that may try to harm them. So I’ll be going, after I post this.

If anyone is curious why I’m writing all of this, I only have one thing to say. It’s therapeutic. After I saw the ad, all of the traumatic memories I had tried to hide in the depths of my psyche welled back up like mold on a stew. I had to share it with someone. I couldn’t hold it in, anymore. So I decided to come here. I’m sorry I’m making you listen to a near 50 year old man ramble about his spooky times at a circus, but I appreciate if you took the time to read this. Took the time to hear me out.

I’ll be back later with information on how my visit went.

I'm 27, live alone in a third-floor apartment, and I haven't been sleeping well since I moved to this city. New job, new walls, the kind of silence that makes your ears ring.

Mina, my coworker, noticed I looked like shit. Last Saturday she insisted on taking me to see someone she called "Mr. Liang," a psychic who worked out of a cramped room above a phone repair shop downtown. I thought it was a joke. She didn't laugh.

The room smelled like ash. A ceiling fan clicked overhead. Mr. Liang grabbed my wrist without asking, closed his eyes, and counted under his breath. Then he asked, "Which side of your bed faces the window?"

I told him.

His face changed.

"A woman will come for you at midnight on Tuesday," he said. "Before twelve, you must hide beneath your bed. Stay flat. Make no sound. She cannot see what is below."

I asked if he could give me a charm or something. Mina kicked my shin. Mr. Liang didn't smile. He wrote TUESDAY, BEFORE 12:00, UNDER THE BED on a receipt and pressed it into my hand.

I told myself it was bullshit. By Monday I almost believed that.

Then Tuesday came.

I was brushing my teeth at 9:40 p.m. when I noticed the receipt sitting on the edge of my sink. I hadn't taken it out of my wallet. I checked. My wallet was still zipped inside my jacket in the hallway closet.

My hands were shaking before I even decided to believe it.

I locked the front door. Checked every window. Wedged a chair under my bedroom door handle. Then I sat on the bed and watched the clock.

11:50.

11:55.

11:58. I lowered myself to the floor and slid under the bed. Dust against my lips. The wooden slat inches from my nose. I could see the carpet, the bottom of my door, and the red glow of my alarm clock.

I held my breath.

12:00.

Something hit the pavement outside my window. Not a thud. A crack. Wet and heavy, like a watermelon splitting on concrete.

Silence.

Then: crack. Crack. CRACK. Joints popping. Bones rearranging.

My front door opened. I locked it. I know I locked it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not footsteps. Something hard and round hitting my hardwood floor. Dragging closer. Through the living room. Stopping outside my bedroom.

The chair scraped. The door swung open.

The tapping entered my room. Stopped beside my bed.

My phone buzzed against my chest. I nearly bit through my tongue. I tilted the screen just enough to read:

MR. LIANG: I made a mistake. She didn't hang herself. She jumped, landed head first. Her head is on the ground. YOU NEED TO BE ABOVE HER. GET HIGH. NOW.

The mattress above me sank. A slat pressed against my cheek.

I turned my head toward the edge of the bed.

A face was already there.

Sideways on the floor. Cheek flattened against the carpet. Wet black hair fanned out like a puddle. Her eyes were open and locked onto mine. Her body rose above her, upside down, balanced on the crushed skull, knees and elbows bent at wrong angles.

She smiled.

I screamed.

I shoved myself out from the other side of the bed, shoulder burning against the carpet. She moved instantly. I heard the skull scrape across the floor, the snap of limbs unfolding behind me.

I scrambled to my feet and ran for the door. Behind me, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, fast now, like someone drumming fingernails on wood, except it was her head bouncing off the floor with each stride of her inverted body.

I made it to the hallway. Slipped. My knee hit the floor and I felt something cold brush the back of my neck. Fingers, wet, sliding down my collar. I twisted away and grabbed the bathroom doorframe to pull myself up.

The hallway was dark but I could hear her. The tapping didn't stop. It got faster. Closer. I could hear her breathing now. Short, quick inhales through a crushed nose, like someone sniffing for a scent.

I reached the front door. Fumbled with the lock. My fingers were numb. I could feel the air behind me go cold, could hear the wet drag of hair across the floor right behind my heels.

The lock clicked. I threw the door open and launched myself into the stairwell.

I didn't look back. I took the stairs three at a time. Up. Mr. Liang said get high. I hit the rooftop door with my full weight and burst into the night air.

I spun around to slam the door shut.

She was at the bottom of the stairwell. I could see her through the gap. Head on the ground. Body arched above. Smiling up at me from three flights below.

Then she started climbing.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Her skull hitting each step. Fast. Too fast.

I slammed the door. There was no lock. I pressed my back against it and felt the thuds getting closer, vibrating through the metal.

Her hand punched through the gap under the door and grabbed my ankle.

I woke up gasping.

Ceiling fan. My bedroom. Sheets soaked with sweat, twisted around my legs like something had been pulling them.

A dream. A fucking dream.

I sat up and pressed my palms into my eyes until I saw stars. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

I grabbed my phone. No messages. I looked at the alarm clock.

11:51 PM. Tuesday.

I let out the longest breath of my life and fell back against the pillow. Just a nightmare. Just my stupid brain replaying what that old man said. I almost laughed at myself.

The apartment was quiet. Completely still. Just the hum of the fridge and the ceiling fan clicking above me.

I closed my eyes.

Then, from somewhere far below, the pavement, maybe three floors down.

A wet crack.

Silence.

Thud.

A pause.

Thud.

Closer.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Coming up the stairs.

My eyes shot open. I jerked my head toward the alarm clock.

The red digits weren't moving. The colon between the zeros didn't blink.

12:00.

There comes a time in every young adult's life when they must strike out on their own, forge their own path. Leave behind old habits and routines, and the safety and comfort of their bubble. Change the world and have it change them. Or so they say. To my mind, there is nothing more base, more defiling, than change. The very concept is an affront to human control and dignity. No, I would not change. External circumstances may force action, but I intended to keep as much the same as I conceivably could. 

I lay in bed, staring at my slowly rotating ceiling fan. Periodically it would wobble, and each time I hoped it would come loose and smash my skull. After a few more minutes of blinking and quiet prayers, I unfortunately had to get on with it. I peeled my shirt from my sweaty, moist body, and sat up to take inventory. A laundry basket filled to the brim, even more clothes strewn about. A half eaten pizza on my desk, flies buzzing and darting about hungrily. How long had that been there? Sniffing my armpits, I decided that question was best left unanswered. 

The good news was, I cleaned up well. The bad news, it was the first day of my new job. The one thing everyone tells you about a liberal arts major is that barista positions are at least guaranteed employment. Well, after four years and a degree later, I can confirm that’s not the case.  Even though I applied to every coffee shop, fast food restaurant, and Walmart in a fifty mile vicinity, I hadn’t received so much as a call back. I was desperate, and to avoid being kicked out onto the street, I had to broaden my search.

“Come on, come on,” I said to myself, digging through a relatively cleaner looking pile of clothes near the foot of my bed. 

“Get down here now!” A shrill scream came from downstairs.

“Jesus Christ Mom, I’m coming!”

Quickening the pace, I opened the dresser and thankfully scored. One last pair of underwear, still clean. Pulling together some khakis that passed the smell test, a wrinkled collared shirt, and my worn pair of shoes, I darted across the hall towards the bathroom. A shower of muffled crying later and I was downstairs.

“Look at the time!” My mom scolded, wagging her finger at me. Her appearance always reminded me of a sad bull dog with nasal congestion. “Late on your first day. Pathetic. No son of mine.”

“Still going to make it,” I said with a smile and a wink, before tearing out the front door.

“I sure hope so or you’re out first thing tomorrow!” She called after me.

The sun, just beginning to rise, cast long shadows across the yard. Fumbling with the keys in my pocket, I hurried to the street sign where my bike was locked. A white slip was stuck to the handlebar and in disbelief I examined it. A parking ticket? I swiveled my head up and down the street, the soft and wet early morning an illusion that would soon give way to blistering heat. A lone crow stared at me from the powerline.

“I don’t suppose you did this!” I shouted at it. It cocked its head in curiosity. If crows were smarter I could’ve sworn it was mocking me.

“Shut the hell up dumbass we’re trynna sleep!” A neighbor barked at me from one of the uniform, suburban houses across the street.

I smiled sheepishly, jammed the ticket in my pocket, and unlocked my bike. With a polite wave in the general direction of the voice, I was off. Pedaling like a madman, I blasted down the street, weaving past curbside trash cans rudely placed in the bike lane. I swerved to avoid another bin, and a car, blasting 2010’s music on the radio, probably too poor to afford an aux, slammed the horn. I raised my fist in anger, and he returned the sentiment by glaring daggers at me through the side mirror. Peculiar red blemishes encircled his eyes.  Promptly, I put my hand down and stared straight ahead like I didn’t see him. The old thing sped off with a cough and sputter of the engine. The smoke made my eyes sting. 

Eventually, I arrived huffing and panting to my destination. Located atop a steep hill, a view gave way to the sprawling city in the distance. Suburbs and quiet residential neighborhoods transformed into densely packed skyscrapers. I took a deep breath in and enjoyed the sight for one last lingering moment. 

The building to my left was at least eighty stories tall, and its width nearly took up the entire block. Each floor progressively became nicer and more well maintained. The bottom floors were old and in need of renovation, with cracks in the glass and peeling paint. Conversely, the higher ones were gleaming, a sleek finish and spotless windows. Some floors from the top, a massive balcony jutted out; from my position, I could only catch a glimpse of the tops of palm trees that, presumably, gathered around a pool. Above the entrance was a logo with an eagle holding curved swords in its talons and the acronym ‘ASIB’ in bold letters. 

Steeling my nerves, I parked my bike and strode confidently inside. At the reception desk, an old woman typed absent mindedly at a keyboard. Her saucer sized glasses reflected the dull glow of the computer screen.

“Hi.” I greeted. “I’m a new employee, part of the investigation and processing department.”

She didn’t respond. I swear I even saw a bit of drool escape her lips and pool on the table. I got closer, cleared my throat, and tried again.

“Hello? It’s my first day on the job and I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction?” 

Without peeling her eyes from the computer, she raised a frail, shaking hand and pointed to my right towards the elevator. Thanking her, I proceeded. When I was about halfway across the room she mumbled, “Seventh one this month, poor things. Won’t make it. Won’t make it.” 

I spun around, only to be greeted by a yellow smile that contained a hint of sadness, before once more she became absorbed with the screen.

I hurriedly mashed the elevator button, and as I was waiting, a long list of names next to it caught my attention. They correspond to floor numbers and had all sorts of self-important titles. What even is a Director of the Partial Operations Committee? Nice job Mark Wallace, doing good work there!* *I rolled my eyes. 

When the elevator arrived, it didn’t take long to find my department. Located on the seventh floor, and down a hallway, I was met with an open floor office. Desks pressed against each other, creating a claustrophobic maze, and people darted to and fro. A young woman, a bit older than me, stood waiting as I entered. She was dressed in business casual, pleated black pants, leather belt, collared white shirt with stripes, and a black tie. Her dark hair hung in a helmet bob and her gray eyes sparkled with friendliness. 

“Hi I’m–” 

“Yes, you must be the new recruit! Stevie, right?” She said cheerfully, looking down at her watch. “And timely too.”

“I try my best.” I rubbed the back of my head, trying to forget the mad rush of the morning. 

 We made our way to the center of the room, where I sat down across from her at a cluttered desk. Hurried people rushed past us, juggling stacks of paper and cups of coffee. The general noise and chatter faded into the background as she pulled out an envelope.

“My name is Emma, and I’ll be your performance supervisor," she said with a smile. “Before we can send you on your first field mission, there are some final questions I have to ask.” 

“Shoot."

“Okay! First, and this is purely customary, are you an organ donor?” She questioned, her eyes glancing up from a notepad. 

“Organ donor?” My gaze drifted to the ceiling and I wracked my brain. “You know, is there a maybe option? I can’t really remember.”

“I’ll put: open to the possibility on his deathbed. Next, any phobias, mental health disorders, prone to panic in high stress environments?”

“Am I a pussy? No.” I shook my head vehemently.

“Ok that's that!” She shut the notebook and got up.“Time for your first assignment. One last thing. You watched the training videos sent to your house, correct?”

“Yes I did." Of course I would never admit I spent the previous afternoons avoiding them in favor of videogames, movies, and masturbation. What, you want me to get fired on my first day?

A few hours later we found ourselves parked in front of an unassuming family home. The newest addition to our crew was Frank, my mentor. Apparently, each new recruit is assigned both a supervisor and a mentor. The supervisor, Emma, to make sure everything goes smoothly on the first few assignments and to file a new employee report to the bureau. The mentor to show you the ropes long term. 

Needless to say Frank was a lot less glad to be there. Sat in the front seat, he had a half-finished cigarette in his mouth and his hair was fighting a losing battle with his forehead. Emma in the passenger seat left me feeling like I was babysat in the back. 

We got out and stood in front of the car. The swingset in the yard creaked back and forth to a light breeze, the chains clinking together. 

“Hey kid, grab the gear in the back.” Frank commanded in a gravelly voice. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and twisted his shoe over it. His trenchcoat was soaked in sweat, particularly around his armpits; evidently worth the cool factor on this increasingly hot day.

Walking around back I opened the trunk and my eyes widened at the sight. Wires, coils, and odd looking machinery lay in a heap. “Uh, which one do you want?” I called.

“Lord in heaven,” He huffed, raising his hands to the sky in exasperation. “You’re so perfect up there, while I’m stuck with the assholes down here. They get worse every year, don’t they?” 

“You know as well as I do there’s a learning curve!” Emma chirped.

“Learning curve or that word I’m not allowed to say anymore. I can never tell.” Frank retrieved his worn cowboy hat from the front seat and strode towards the house without looking at me, his coat blowing in the wind. Jackass. Emma followed, file diligently in hand. 

“Grab the suction-burst and three pairs of knuckle dusters.” Frank said over his shoulder. 

I nodded in confirmation, grabbed the entire tangled mess, and a circular disk fell out of it and hit the ground. There was a flashing red light and slight vibration emanating from it. I picked it up, put it into my back pocket, and trailed behind them. Up close the previously normal looking house revealed ominous strangeness. The blinds were shuttered and one of the windows was slightly cracked. Despite still being sunny, the day felt darker, as if an invisible shadow had been cast around the perimeter of the house. My hair rose into goosebumps. 

“What do we got today?” Frank grumbled.

“Should be a ten-five. So nothing more than a negative-two-PPW.”  Emma gave a reassuring grin. “Nothing too serious for the new guy.”

I gave her a nod in return, my arms starting to burn from carrying the pile of junk.  Believe it or not I flipped through the employee training manual. But these terms were in one ear out the other. 

“Anyone home?!” Frank boomed, his fist banging on the door. There was no response. He waited a moment and repeated. The air filled with hollow thuds then an oppressive silence. 

“Never that easy,” Frank sighed. “Looks like we're going in.”

“Got it. I’ll meet you guys inside after I report back to HQ on our status. Should take ten minutes to upload, outdated tech and all, " Emma said and turned back towards the car.

“You’re with me kid,” Frank said.

With that slight acknowledgement of my existence, he raised his foot and kicked at the door. The wood cracked and squealed in protest, but it wasn’t long before it splintered open. The interior was pitch black. Frank walked in and tried the light switch by the door. When there was no response, he flicked on a flashlight, its beam penetrating the inky darkness. Dust hung in the air, its swirls and twists like an oil painting. 

I walked in tentatively and dropped the gear. Frank tossed me a flashlight, it sailed through the air, and I fumbled it in my hands trying to catch it. Even though I couldn’t see him I could almost feel the eye roll. 

“I’ll take the upstairs. You clear down here,”  Frank said.

“You want me to clear this all by myself? On my first day?” I protested. “I know what kind of work this is. What if it’s dangerous?”

“Listen, and I hope this can get through your dense head.” He walked closer to me, his eyes narrow and his face barely lit in the dim glow of his light. Up close, his breath smelled of tobacco and sour mint. “You signed up for this, knowing the risks. Do your damn job.”

Although I hated to admit it, he was right. At that point, all I could do was imagine the sweet smell of the paycheck arriving in the mail, grit my teeth, and do as he said. Besides, everyone knows the upstairs is where the shit usually goes down. If there’s any trouble, Frank’ll be the one to encounter it. Best case scenario he dies and I get promoted, a medal for my bravery, or at the very least a better mentor. 

The living room connected to the dining room and kitchen. So, after a few sweeps of my flashlight, I moved on to a hallway near the staircase. Down it, there were two doors that faced each other and one at the very end. I took a couple steps, the floorboards creaking. One particularly loud one made me cringe. The hallway in front of me stretched and warped, a faint, flickering light under the rightmost door. I decided to check that one first. I stuck out my hand, now slightly trembling, towards the doorknob. It was cold, cold enough that I flinched my hand back at the sudden change in temperature. 

I told myself that they would never send a rookie on a dangerous first assignment. I told myself to trust Emma and the department. Any other day I might’ve been right. Too bad I’m an unlucky bastard. 

I inhaled in through the nose out through the mouth and pushed open the door. A rush of frigid air pushed past me, and I couldn't tell if it was that or fear that made me shake more. Inside was a bathroom with a tub in the center. Overflowing with running water, a man lay there, mouth agape and foam bubbling out. A red ring surrounded his eyes, which darted about erratically from side to side as if searching for an invisible mosquito.

I took a step back, too shocked to say anything, my grip on the flashlight faltering. It clattered to the ground, slicing the room in two. In the shadows of the corner, the light revealed a shape and eight pale dots that shimmered to life. It let out a nauseating sound, like teeth grinding and clicking together. Then, it scuttled into view, illuminated fully. 

The size of a large dog, it was spiderlike in all but one feature: it was entirely composed of human body parts. Arms jutted out of the two abdomens, contorting at the elbow joint and ending in hands with wiggling fingers. Its eyes were human and aware, but they didn’t seem like they wanted to be there. Instead, they were wide open and terrified. One of them even seemed pleading, with tears dribbling out. And the cherry on fucking top was that weird bump or whatever they have on the end. It was a human penis, undulating and veiny. Though I would never admit afterwards, for a brief moment the thought did occur that it was bigger than mine. Shameful, but I quickly buried the thought, because I’m not gonna be one upped by a spider. 

It took another curious scuttle towards me, then stopped, almost like it was testing me. For minutes that felt like eons, this teasing behavior continued. It would move forward, stop, and resume after a short pause. I was completely frozen. Viscous spittle oozed from its mouth. Its fangs, actually two thick fingers with sharpened nails, rubbed together impatiently. Finally, the silence was broken by Frank stomping down the hallway.

 “Nothing up there, kid!” he hollered. 

The spider’s and my head both snapped toward him. Frank stopped and looked at me, backed up against the wall. Then he looked at the spider, which was now in the hallway, only a foot or two away from me. “Wh–” he started, a tired realization setting in. “Ah. One of these pests.”

“FRANK HELP ME!” I screeched, my trance broken and my voice a few octaves higher. 

Frank immediately sprung into action. He first threw his hat at the spider, sending it flying through the air and with little air drag. It momentarily drew the spider's attention and Frank took the opportunity. He charged down the hallway, lumbering but with surprising speed. I caught his eyes for a moment, and his face communicated condemning disappointment, and perhaps a hint of concern. The hat landed square on the spider's face. As it tried to shake its head, Frank, now on top of it, raised his hand and punched hard. A loud crack permeated the air as his knuckles connected with the hat and face. The spider stumbled back a few steps.

I took the opportunity and quickly shuffled along the wall, not taking my eyes off it or showing my back. My sweat smeared in a trail behind me, deepening the shade of the paint. Frank and the spider were now in full swing. The best way I could describe it is like listening to jazz. There were sudden bursts of movement, the spider swiping one of its limbs and Frank dodging; or Frank going for a strike and the spider deflecting. It looked, on the surface, like random movements with no logic, sporadic and unplanned. But the more I observed, the more it was like a well composed piece of music. I must say I was impressed, the old guy knew what he was doing. 

For all the flair in the world, however, the spider was actually gaining the upper hand. Frank was on the back foot now, and step by step coming closer to me. He grimaced, his teeth clenched. The spider seized the moment, striking with one of its hands. Frank blocked, but it grabbed his arm, slamming him to the ground. The other arms of the spider pounced, all at once springing towards him. I moved my hands to my mouth. Should I help him? What the hell could I do?

“HA HA HA!” A maniacal laugh came from behind me. The sound of a motor starting as well, humming with intensity. I turned around, and there was Emma, a wild grin across her face, her eyes wide and ecstatic. In her arm was some kind of contraption, one of the machines I brought in. It was similar to a garden hose, and a sparkling red energy was bubbling from the spout. It tousled her hair.

“TAKE THIS YOU JERK!” A blast of energy erupted from the thing, cracking towards the spider and Frank.

Frank barely got out of the way before the beam collided with it, but it wasn’t the prettiest of landings. He hit his head on the ground, not having enough time to cover it with his arms. The spider fared far worse. It was sent flying across the hall and smashed right through the door. Splinters burst out in all directions. I covered my eyes with my arm and a few needles burrowed into it. 

Emma was huffing now, her hair a mess, but still with that unraveled smile of the insane. “Got it!”

Behind her another spider crawled from the ceiling to the floor. It braced itself, its fingers rubbing in anticipation and its penis spewing white.

“H-Hey watch..!” I started, but it was too late. The thing jumped onto her and they both crashed to the ground. There, it laced its fingers around her mouth. I tried to move, raising my hand, but the spider hissed at me and I stopped in my tracks. It dragged her up the stairs and no amount of flailing broke its stern grip. In Emma's eyes ecstasy was gone, replaced by a bottomless, calculating gray. Then they were up and out of sight.

A panic washed over me. If there were more of those things, if they had made such quick work of the “experts”, what the hell was I to do? The only thing flashing through my mind was to get out, to survive. I moved on instinct, sped-walked through the house, and paused by the door. Next to it was still that pile of wires and gadgets.

 I weighed my options. I could get out of here, make a run for it. But if I left now that could be game over for both of my superiors. The last I saw of Frank, he was out cold, and who knows if that beam took out the spider, it could be feasting on his organs. Emma could be torn in two or worse. On the other hand I also knew I didn’t want to stay here. After all, I could get ambushed and I couldn’t shake the prickling sensation of being watched. So I compromised. I grabbed the pile of stuff and flung open the door. I would figure out one of these weapons, then triumphantly return and save them! Hopefully. 

The same mundane neighborhood greeted me, the sun setting and casting vibrant oranges and pinks across the sky. The air was still and quiet, the world indifferent to the whole debacle I just went through. A handful of people were walking about and enjoying the evening. I threw the pile on the lawn and wiped my forehead. Ok, it shouldn't be too bad. I bent down and untangled the wires to separate the machinery. There was another one of those hoses that Emma had used. It was connected to a small box with a control panel on it. It should be as simple as pressing a few buttons, totally intuitive.

I picked up the box and flipped it around. There were no words, just a simple diagram that showed a guy getting vaporized with a red X covering it. Not helpful! I tried a few buttons but it beeped back at me, like an annoying bird. I was a noodle, my arms and legs weak. I looked back at the house. Out of all the people to help them they were stuck with me. 

My self pity was interrupted by the sputter of a car engine in the distance. Drag racers in a suburban purgatory like this? There must be fifty ‘slow down kids at play’ signs. Obviously not deterred, it gradually increased in volume, until its roar and the screeching of tires rippled through the serene evening. Rounding the corner and careening into view was that same car from earlier this morning. The piece of shit was blasting ‘Kickstart My Heart’ on the radio this time. By now I was completely unfazed, nothing could surprise me, so I just stared with my mouth slightly agape at its approaching. 

The pedestrians regarded him first with mild annoyance. When they realized he wasn’t stopping, they tried to get out of the way. Unfortunately, some guy walking had his earbuds in. The car, going about eighty miles per hour at this point, rammed right into him. The poor guy went over the windshield and turned into a red streak the second he hit the pavement. I leaped out of the way, the car blurring past me. It rammed straight into the house and crumpled with a crunch. Glass shattered and the driver was flung from his seat and splatted against the wall. 

Sprawled on the ground, I still clutched the hose box. Dry grass pressed against my arm and it itched terribly. I thought the idiot took care of himself. Soon enough, however, his joints popped back into place and he peeled himself from the wall. His entire face was red now, not only his eyes, and blisters of varying sizes covered his skin. He shambled over to me and let out a groan of pleasure. I used the box to yank the hose spout towards me and started mashing the buttons at random. It beeped and beeped, until, with the right order, a jingle played.

“Fuck you!” I hollered and pressed down. It took a second to rumble to life and released with a violent burst, the energy tearing through his face. Brain matter dripped inside the hole that was left behind and his teeth floated in a pool that had formed in his throat. He gurgled a bit and collapsed. When I let go of the trigger, the hose sputtered out as well. I got up and raised my hands into the air triumphantly.

 “Holy shit, I did it!”

“I wouldn’t celebrate too soon.” Frank said, staggering out of the door and holding his arm. He raised a shaking finger and pointed to the house next door. The beam had also taken off part of the roof. Shit. 

“Ah…”

“It means more paper work for me, that’s for sure. At least you didn't die.”

“You know what's crazy, I saw that guy earlier today. Small world.”

“Him?” Frank walked up to him and poked him with his foot. Blood squirted out of the hole and stained his shoe.  “He’s part of their reproductive cycle. Must’ve been out late at night, ambushed. They plant their eggs in them, then they’re drawn back to the nest.”

“I mean what are the odds though.”

“Listen, kid, as long as I've been here, I would be less surprised if I won the lottery. Call the clean up crew.” He tossed a phone to me and limped to the car.  

“Hey, is Emma alright–” 

“You got one, nice job! ” Emma interrupted, coming out of the darkness of the house like a phantom. She was all ruffled up and covered in fluids of all kinds. Some were clearly blood but I don’t want to speculate on the rest. “He’s right about the paperwork though. We made a real mess this time!”

“Paperwork? So the day isn't over?” I groaned. “But it’s evening. Isn’t that like a union violation or something?”

As a matter of fact, it wasn’t, because we’re not unionized. That’s all I could smolder over as I wrote out report after report and signed page after page. I don’t even think we get breaks, and I’m pretty sure I saw a timer in the bathroom stall when taking a shit. So no safe haven to scroll on my phone to kill time. When I got home, it was well past midnight, and I was beat. Yet I had to be in the office by 6:30am sharp tomorrow. Thank God for that angel, my mom, who was waiting for me with dinner. I was grateful for cold spaghetti for the first time in my life.

“So how did your first day go, my sweetie pie?” She pinched my cheeks.

“Ah ma stop it.”  I brushed her hand aside. “It was fine. Intense at points. I might quit.”

Her face darkened immediately. “No you won’t, or it’s the streets.”

“Yeah I know, I know.” I stirred the spaghetti and blew on it out of habit. My mom pensively got up and took a picture from the counter. She set it down on the table. It was my college graduation photo. My mom and dad and I were smiling and had our arms around each other.

“You know, that was the proudest and happiest day of his life," she said, her eyes watering. "His son, finishing college. He knew you were meant for great things.”

I studied the picture for a moment. Then, I finished my meal and went upstairs to my room. I moved some dirty clothes off it, plopped down on my bed and stared up. The ceiling fan was wobbling all the same. I went through the day in my head, all the stress and the horror. There’s no way I’m keeping that job, I thought. Risking my life, plus those poor people who died, the hours, no benefits, the paperwork…

My eyes drifted to the window and I recalled the day of my graduation. I wasn’t happy, far from it, more so anxious and dejected about the future. But my mom was right, I don’t think I saw dad with that much joy in his eyes. A strange flash caught my attention from outside the window. I got up and peered through the blinds. All that was there was a black van driving down the street. 

I paced the room. Maybe I could apply to grad school, maybe I could find other work. Where though? I had to admit, too, it was a bit nice keeping busy, and the money didn’t hurt. I could even climb the promotion ladder, my degree could be useful too. I could get off the street and into a cushy office job. No more risking my life, complete safety. With that, I resolved to keep the job. If things got worse, no biggy, I could step back and reevaluate. My days of being a loser were finally coming to a close. That comfort lulled me into an exhausted, dead slumber. 

Part 2

The first thing Serena stole from me, she took with both hands around her tea.

I was her nurse on a locked psychiatric ward.

At 8:14 p.m. the sugar packet beside my coffee was gone. She drew it out of her sleeve and set it back down.

"That one was me."

She pressed two fingers against the outside of her right cardigan pocket.

"The hand in here wasn't."

Her eyes moved from my face to my hands.

"Watch both hands."

Fourteen minutes earlier, Nunzia had given me the strangest police summary I had ever received at handover.

Serena worked as an escort. The thefts were a separate business, and she was apparently excellent at that one too.

That morning, hotel cleaners had let themselves into a room and found one of her clients still inside. He was unhurt. Before he said anything else, he asked them twice to shut the door and forget the room number.

They called security anyway.

His wallet, watch and cash were in Serena's handbag. Reporting the theft would have meant explaining the rest of the morning.

The theft brought Serena to the police. Her condition brought her to us.

By then she had gone almost three days without sleep. She knew her name, not where she was. She kept tearing at the lining of her coat because she believed fingers were moving inside it. She kept trying to leave, and could not name a single safe place to go.

A doctor proposed it, a second confirmed it, and the mayor signed the order that held her. A judge would come to the ward within two days to hear her before deciding whether it stood. She was told, in writing, how to fight it.

"Don't let the paperwork fool you," Nunzia said. "She can sound completely clear for five minutes. Then she starts searching for hands inside her clothes."

Nunzia closed the chart.

"There's one more thing. She keeps asking about a photograph from the man's wallet."

"What photograph?"

"The police say there wasn't one."

Serena looked exhausted and was still striking. The red on her lips had been applied before the hotel; by handover it had cracked at one corner, but it held.

Her advantage was not the makeup. It was the precision of her attention. She knew when to hold eye contact half a second too long, and what a man would offer to fill the silence after.

"Married," she said, touching her own ring finger.

"We're discussing you."

"We were."

She smiled as if I had passed a test.

I put the sugar packet in my right scrub pocket and went on with the medication round.

At 8:57 p.m., Marta came out of the bathroom with a dark stain spreading across the back of her pajama pants.

Serena saw it before anyone else did.

She stepped behind Marta and walked so closely that her own body blocked the view from the common room. She kept talking about the broken coffee machine while Giulia brought clean clothes.

Marta never had to explain herself.

When Serena returned, she said nothing about it. She sat down and began separating the paper layers of a tea bag with one fingernail.

Twenty minutes later, my blue pen disappeared.

I had clipped it inside my chest pocket after signing the medication record. Serena had passed close enough for her cardigan to touch my sleeve.

I found the pen behind her right ear.

"Give it back."

"You watched both hands."

"Give it back, Serena."

Her smile vanished. She placed the pen on the table.

"I needed to know that one was me."

I documented the boundary violation and told her not to touch my uniform again.

She nodded. No joke. No attempt to bargain.

At 10:38 p.m., Serena called me from room 4.

Her right cardigan pocket was hanging inside out. A flat black comb she had placed there was now inside the left pocket.

Marta was in the common room. Serena had been alone.

"It touched my elbow first," she said.

She pointed to the inside of her left arm.

"Then here."

Her right hip.

With Serena's consent and Giulia beside me, I examined the cardigan. The lining had split between the pockets. Giulia pushed the comb through the opening. It disappeared between the two layers of fabric and emerged inside the other pocket.

"There," she said. "Bad stitching."

Serena gave one dry laugh.

"Cheap stitching is still criminal."

The explanation held. Loose fabric could brush her skin. An object could move between the pockets. Pulling against the lining could turn one of them inside out.

We locked the cardigan with her other belongings and gave her a pocketless ward top and pants.

Serena looked down at her sides.

"No pockets," I said.

"Good."

Her shoulders lowered. She drank another tea and slept in the common-room armchair for thirty-four minutes.

The radiator under the window ticked as it cooled. The building is older than the ward it carries. It was built for people who stayed the night, whoever they were.

At 12:33 a.m., she woke without lifting her head.

I was standing beside the table, entering an observation into the chart. The sugar packet was still in my right scrub pocket.

Paper crackled against my hip.

Then something pressed the inside of my left elbow.

Not a brush. One measured push.

My body turned toward it before I decided to move.

Nothing was beside me except the table.

Across from me, Serena had both hands wrapped around her cup. She looked at my elbow. Then at my right pocket.

"Left first," she said. "Then right."

I pulled out the sugar packet. It had been crushed into a tight square.

I put it back and wiped my palm on my thigh, twice, before I noticed I was doing it.

Giulia said I had probably pressed it against the edge of the table. That explained the paper. Fatigue could explain the sensation at my elbow.

It was a good explanation.

I called Stefano, the on-call psychiatrist, and described Serena's escalating fear before mentioning what I had felt.

"You found the torn lining," he said. "She hasn't slept."

"She isn't wearing the cardigan now."

Silence. Then I heard him typing.

"Keep her where you can observe her. Offer the medication already prescribed. Call again if anything changes."

Serena refused it.

"I need my hands awake."

She remained in the common room. Giulia sat near the ward station while I took the chair across from Serena.

At 1:26 a.m., she told me where the touch came from.

Her mother had taught her to pick pockets when Serena was ten.

The method was simple. A knuckle pressed against the inside of the left elbow. The body turned toward the contact. Two fingers entered the right pocket while attention was somewhere else.

Serena improved the technique when she got older. She no longer needed crowded markets. Her face did the turning for her.

She claimed she had never taught the method to anyone.

Her mother had been dead for eleven years.

In the hotel room, Serena had already placed the wallet, watch and cash inside her handbag. She had checked the bathroom and wardrobe before he arrived. No one else should have been there.

Inside the wallet, behind one of his cards, she found a photograph. She pulled it out and slid it into the right pocket of her cardigan.

Then something pressed her left elbow.

Two fingers entered that same pocket.

"What did it take?" I asked.

Serena looked toward the locked room where we had stored her cardigan.

"Nothing the police believed existed."

At 2:17 a.m., she pushed away from the table and backed against the dining-room wall.

Her hands rose to shoulder height.

"Watch both hands."

They were shaking now.

Giulia moved to one side of the room. I approached from the front with my palms visible.

"Don't touch me," Serena said.

I stopped.

She twisted the pocketless fabric against her right hip, trying to hold it flat. Her breathing shortened.

Closing the distance would only give her another pair of hands to fear. I pulled a chair into her line of sight and sat six feet away.

"Put your hands on the table," she said.

I placed both palms flat where she could see them.

"They're here."

Serena came forward slowly. She placed her palms opposite mine. Giulia remained near the entrance, watching her.

For several seconds, no one moved.

Then a knuckle pressed into my left elbow.

My body turned before I chose to move.

Two fingers pulled at my right scrub pocket.

My right hand left the table and clamped over it. The lining came through with my fingers. The sugar packet dropped onto the floor.

Serena was still sitting across from me. Both palms were flat against the table.

"Did you feel the second hand?" she asked.

My mouth had gone dry.

"I felt my pocket move."

I looked at the fabric hanging outside my uniform.

"I don't know why."

She lowered her head but kept her hands where we could see them.

"The photograph was my mother."

I said nothing.

"In his wallet," she continued. "The same photograph we buried with her."

"The man could have known her."

"She had been dead eleven years."

Giulia examined the seam of my pocket. It was intact. She had been watching Serena's hands, not mine. She could not tell whether the pocket had turned before I grabbed it or because I did.

I called Stefano again. I reported Serena's distress, her exact words, where each of us had been sitting, and the objective condition of my pocket.

My interpretation stayed out of the chart.

Four days later the order was lifted and Serena was discharged. Two officers were waiting outside the unit to take her back for questioning about the man from the hotel.

Serena covered both cardigan pockets with her hands and ignored every question about the stolen property.

Before she left, she looked at me.

"Does he still carry my mother?"

I still use that scrub top. The seam has never opened.

I keep the right pocket empty now. My wife asked about it once, folding laundry, and I told her the fabric had gone thin.

Three weeks ago I found something in it at the end of a shift.

A sugar packet, crushed into a tight square.

I don't take sugar.