r/scarystories

When you're a senior in high school, you think you have everything figured out. You and your friends get together and make plans for the future, fully believing it will all work out. Careers are decided, trips are mapped out and you just know everything will go to plan, but then life comes along and just happens. College, a job, falling in love. Eventually, all those plans grow more and more distant, and the ties that held those old high school friendships together seem to just fade away.  

 

I was on my way home from work on a Friday evening when I got a call from an unknown number. Normally, I would just let it go to voicemail. But today for some reason I decided to answer. I thought that maybe if it was a scam call, I could at least have a little fun with it. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey man, how's it hanging?” Asked a man’s voice. 

“Uh, good. Who is this?” I responded. 

“Oh shit, I guess it has been a while. Its Sam, Sam (Redacted).” 

I laughed, I thought the voice sounded familiar, Sam had been my best friend in high school, but we hadn't talked in years. "Sam! Dude how long has it been? 9, 10 years? 

Sam chuckled, “Yeah, more like 12. How you been asshole?” 

“I've been good man, how about you?” 

“Living the dream bro. Hey, guess who I ran into the other day?” 

“Who?” I asked. 

“Josh, you remember Josh, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah of course. I haven't seen him since high school though, how is he?” 

Sam, Josh and I had been inseparable as teenagers, but over time we had just grown apart. 

“He’s good,” Said Sam, “Do you remember how we use to always talk about getting together and heading down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, but the timing never worked out?” 

It was true, one of us was always busy with work or school, or girls and the long talked about trip never came to fruition. 

“Yeah, I remember.” I said. 

“Well, we got to talking and it turns out we are both free this time around.” Said Sam. 

“Okay.” I said, knowing where this was going. 

“So, what do you say? You still up for the trip?” 

I sighed. “I don't know man, I've kind of got a lot going on right now. I just started this new job and my girlfriend and I are moving in together. The timing is just a bit off for me right now.” 

“Come on Ben, we may never get another chance to take this trip.” Said Sam. 

The truth was, it had been a really long time and we were all different people now. I wasn't sure I even wanted to go anymore. I really just wanted to focus on my career and my future with Alice. On the other hand, it would be really good to see the guys again. 

“Look, I'm not saying no. Just let me sleep on it, okay?” 

“Alright man, give me a call and let me know. Either way we should try to hang out soon.” 

 

When I got home, I had a long talk with Alice about the guys and the trip we had always wanted to take. 

“It sounds like a fun trip, and your friends really want you to go.” She said. 

“I want to go too, I just don't know if the friendship is still there like it was before. I mean, we haven't exactly stayed in touch over the years.” 

Alice smiled, “Look babe, I can't tell you what to do here. If you want to go you should go, just don't find you a Cajun girl while you're down there.”  

I smiled back and kissed her, “How’d I get so lucky to get a girl like you?” 

She grinned up at me, “We both got lucky.” 

 

The next morning, I called Sam to tell him I was In and a week later we were on the road. For the most part we followed the course we had drawn out in high school. We had planned on making more stops when we were younger, really stretching the drive and getting the most of it. But adult life necessitated that we make the 20-hour drive as quick as possible. 

 We took turns sleeping and driving nonstop, which was absolutely fucking miserable. The long drive however proved my previous fears about our friendships to be completely unfounded. The three of us quickly fell into the familiar pattern of shit talking and cracking jokes, just like the old days.  

 

We were a few hours out from our destination when we stopped to get gas. It was one of those old timey gas stations, like you would see in a cheesy slasher flick. 

“You guys want anything?” Asked Josh as he headed for the door. 

I shook my head, “I'm good.” 

“Grab me a baja blast.” Said Sam. 

I stepped out of the Jeep to pump the gas. Josh had been driving but I would take over for the rest of the drive. 

“Pennsylvania huh?” Said a deep Cajun accented voice from behind me.  

I turned to see an old man with a bushy gray beard looking at our license plate. 

“You boys are a long way from home, aren't ya?” 

I nodded and cleared my throat, “Uh yeah, it's been quite a drive.” 

The old man smiled, “Yall come down here for Mardi Gras?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it's something we wanted to do since we were in high school.” 

The old man nodded, “I thought as much. Just make sure y'all stay on the main road, we wouldn't want you boys getting lost down by the bog.” 

I nodded and smiled politely, “No, we wouldn't want that.” 

He leaned in and gave me a sly grin, “Old Dr. Weller down there aint had any new blood for a good while now, and I'm sure he's wantin it.” 

I squinted at him in confusion, “Who?” 

“Never mind son,” He said laughing and patting me on the back, “Just stay out of the swamp and you'll be fine.” 

“I'm back fuckers.” Yelled Josh as he exited the gas station holding up Sam’s baja blast in one hand and a 30 pack of beer in the other.  

I grinned and shook my head. While Sam and I had become marginally more responsible with age, Josh was the same as he always was. 

I turned back to where the odd old man had been standing but he was gone, I glanced around thinking maybe he had walked off somewhere but saw no sign of him. I finished pumping the gas and climbed into the driver's seat. 

“Home stretch boys.” I said putting the jeep into gear. 

I glanced back at the gas station and saw the old man inside talking with the attendant, they were watching us as we pulled back onto the road.  

“Places like that give me serious hills have eyes vibes man.” Said Sam cracking open his soda. 

“Yeah dude I don't know how anyone lives out here in the middle of nowhere like this.” Said Josh. 

“Life, uh, uh, finds a way.” I said, doing my impeccable Jeff Goldblum impression. 

Josh laughed and Sam shook his head as we headed on down the road. 

 

Sam and Josh had both fallen asleep after about a half hour of driving. I checked the gps on my phone but the little car hadn't moved for the past few miles, no service out here. Oh well, I thought, by my reckoning we would be pulling into New Orleans around midnight. Sam snored loudly in the passenger seat next to me, so I turned up the radio to try and drown him out. I was getting pretty tired too, tired and irritable. I looked up from the radio and slammed on the brakes. 

“Oh Shit!” 

Something large and pale dashed across the road right in front of us. The tires squealed as I yanked the wheel to the side to avoid whatever it was, but the road was too narrow. We came to a sudden and jarring stop as the jeep slid off the road and slammed into the swampy water at the base of a mangrove tree. My head impacted the steering wheel, and I blacked out. 

“Ben! Ben!”  

Someone was shaking me. “Sam? What? What happened?” 

I shook my head, trying to clear it of the stars I was seeing. 

“Ben, are you alright?” Asked Sam as he shook me. 

I nodded glancing around, “Yeah, I hit my head, but I think I'm good.” 

There was water up the top of the jeeps hood and that was smashed in around a tree trunk. I turned to face Sam and saw that his face was covered in blood. 

“Dude, your face.”  

Sam shook his head, “Its fine, it was the air bag. Broke my god damn nose.” 

I nodded and turned to check on Josh, “Josh, hey man, you okay back there?” 

There was no answer. 

“Josh?”  

“Quit fucking around man, are you good?” yelled Sam.  

We both managed to get our seat belts undone and turned to check the back seat. Josh wasn't there. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Oh god.” Said Sam staring out through the shattered windshield. 

Up ahead, in the glow of the flickering headlights, was a bloodied and broken body bobbing in the water. 

We both started yelling for Josh as we climbed our way out of the submerged jeep and splashed our way over to our friend. We carried him as gently but as quickly back up and onto the road. 

“Shit, he's not breathing.” Said Sam as we lay him out on the pavement, “Quick there are flashlights and a first aid kit under the back seat.” 

I ran back to the jeep and began searching for the emergency supplies as Sam started chest compressions on Josh. It took me a few minutes, and I had to duck under the murky water, but I could hear Josh beginning to cough as I climbed back out of the Jeep with the kit. 

“What the fuck happened?” Josh yelled between coughs, “What's wrong with my arm?”  

“Ben, hurry the fuck up!” Yelled Sam. 

“I'm here. I'm here.” I said as I stumbled up and flicked on one of the flashlights. 

Sam took the other light, and we shined them down on Josh’s mangled body. 

His body was covered in bleeding cuts, and the left side of his face had nearly been scraped away. His left arm was visibly broken, a shard of jagged bone protruding from the flesh just above his elbow. 

“How bad is it?” Asked Josh with a half-smile. 

“Well man, It aint good.” I said.  

“Fuck man, we have to get him out of here.” said Sam as he paced back and forth trying to get his phone to come on. “Dammit, its dead. Do you have yours?” 

I shook my head, “Mine was on the dash, it's probably at the bottom of the swamp.” 

Josh tried to reach for his pocket then groaned in pain, “I think I still have mine.” 

I bent down and removed the device from his pocked, “Shit.” He had it but it was shattered and soaked. 

“What the hell do we do now?” Yelled Sam. “How did this even happen?” 

I stood up and looked up the road, “There was an animal or something in the road, I swerved to miss it and lost control.”  

Sam shook his head and continued pacing and muttering to himself. 

“Look man, I'm sorry but right now we just need to get Josh some help.” 

“So, what do you suggest we do?” Sam asked.  

“I think one of us needs to go for help, while the other stays here with Josh.” 

Sam thought for a moment before nodding in agreement, “Ok, I'll stay.” 

I nodded, “Ill head back toward the gas station, hopefully I'll run into someone sooner. You guys just sit tight.”  

“Please hurry.” Said Sam, his face lined with concern as he looked down at Josh. 

I nodded and knelt down next to Josh, “Hey man, I'm gonna go get us some help. I need you to stay awake and keep an eye on Sam, okay?”  

Josh raised his good hand in a thumbs up, “Sure thing man.”  

His words were distorted from the wounds to his face. I felt sick, this was my fault. If anything happened to him... 

“I'm so sorry Josh, I...” 

“It's cool man, even with half a face I'm still better looking than either one of you.” 

The three of us laughed for a moment, then I stood and told them I'd be back soon and started walking. 

 

I was about 20 minutes down the road when I saw something up ahead in the gloom. It was distant and dim, but it looked like the glow of a porch light. I thought I would have to walk all the way back to the gas station, but if someone lived out here, I could get help to the guys that much quicker.  

After another few minutes I came to a path that led off of the road to the light source. The path was old; it looked like it was once a driveway but had grown thick with weeds. For some reason, I found myself not wanting to step off of the road. The old man at the gas station came to mind, what had he said? Mr. Weller? Dr. Weller? I shook my head, it didn't matter. That was just some crazy old man trying to scare the out of towners.  

The path curved and twisted around and eventually led to a relatively open area with a two-story brick building, it was overgrown and obviously abandoned. But the outside light was still on. 

“What the hell?”  

I approached the building, there were clearly words printed on the face of the building at some point, but time and neglect had all but wiped them away. Of the letters that remained, all I could clearly make out was “Hospital.” 

You know that part of your brain that tells you when something isn't right? Mine was screaming for me to turn and run away from this place, but I couldn't, my friends needed help. The outside light was on, maybe there was still power inside, maybe there was a working phone. 

I pushed open the front door of the hospital and stepped inside. 

I found myself standing in the waiting room. I shined my flashlight around, the walls were covered in mold, the floors caked with dirt and the old light fixtures dangled brokenly from the ceiling. But the most unsettling part was that all of the waiting room chairs had been turned to face the door I had just entered. I know it makes no sense but seeing those chairs turned at me, I felt an odd sense of intrusion, like I had just walked in on a private gathering. I felt like I was uninvited. 

I nearly turned and left right then but suddenly a sound echoed through the dark building. A phone was ringing; there was a phone here. Someone must have been living in the old hospital, and they had a phone.  

The ringing sounded like it was coming from the second floor, so I quickly made my way across the waiting room to the staircase. 

“Hello?” I called out, not wanting to surprise someone and end up getting shot, “Hello, I just need to use your phone. My friends and I were in an accident, we need help.”  

I stepped onto the second floor and immediately knew where the ringing was coming from. Just like the first floor, the second floor was dilapidated and dark, apart from one room. At the other end of the corridor was a shut office door with light pouring out from around the edges.  

“Hello?” I called out again, “Is anyone there?” 

Still no answer. I cautiously made my way across the corridor to the office door. As I approached, I could make out the name stenciled on the face of the door, “Dr. Weller.” 

I swallowed a lump in my throat and pushed open the office door. The inside of the office was an absolute wreck. There were old files and newspapers scattered in all directions, the desk sat crookedly on one broken leg, and the floor was completely covered in what looked like empty blood bags. curiously, most of them labeled O negative. In one corner of the office was what looked like a makeshift cot, made of chair pieces and lab coats.  

The phone on the desk had stopped ringing when I opened the door, but when I picked it up to call for help there was no dial tone. My stomach dropped when I realized it wasn't even plugged in.  

“What the...” 

I glanced around trying to understand what was happening. My eyes fell on one of the old newspapers. The front page read, “Local Dr arrested for occult practices” most of the article was unreadable due to water damage and age but this was what I could make out, “Doctor promises miracle cure to patients... Experimental type of bloodletting... Multiple counts of exsanguination... Patients and families horrified as...” 

Suddenly the phone started ringing again. I stared at it in horror, that wasn't fucking possible. My heart pounded as the phone kept on ringing. I watched in slow motion as my arm reached out and took hold of the phone. With a shaky hand I raised it to my ear and listened. I could hear voices; they sounded like they were far away but growing closer. My heart pounded harder when I realized it was Josh and Sam; I couldn't make out what they were saying but I could clearly hear them talking to each other. All at once there was the sound of hurried movement and Sam cried out. There was a wet ripping sound and Sams voice rose to a fever pitch and Josh let out a horrified shriek. I stood there, paralyzed as my friends screamed and screamed. 

I broke out of my paralysis and ran for the stairs; my heart skipped a beat when I stepped back into the waiting room. All of the chairs had now turned to face the staircase. This wasn't happening, it couldn't be happening. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought and I was in a coma.  

Suddenly there came the sound of dozens of voices, all talking at once. Of all the horrific things the voices were saying, there was one word that stood out over and over again... “Run.” 

I ran across the room and out the door, I ran down the path and back to the road. My legs ached and my lungs were on fire, but I kept on running until I got back to the gas station. The attendant called emergency services when I told him about the accident. The attendant offered to drive me back to the scene of the accident, but I refused. I would not go back, I knew what the paramedics would find.  

Sam and Josh were never found. The police say there was no sign of a struggle, that most likely Sam went for help and got lost in the swamp. As for Josh, well the amount of blood he lost would have attracted predators. Thats the official story, but I know what happened. I realized it when I was standing in the office of Dr Weller. The pale blur I saw on the road, the thing I swerved to miss. It was wearing a lab coat. 

The doll

I (36M) am a single dad to my son (9M) who loves books and movies. My wife died when Thomas was just 2 years old to the hands of a murderer. She was stabbed for her money, jewelry and belongings and she unfortunately passed away later in the hospital.

Thomas is a curious young man and has taken a liking to horror, he loves the thrill of holding me tightly and peeking through his fingers when something bad is about to happen in movie or having his nose buried deep in a scary book, fascinated by each page. Recently I have been clearing out the attic to try sell off some stuff when I came across a box of my wife's old things.

I never knew about any of this so it came as quite a shock, but still I called tom up to the attic so we could look through it. There were old pictures of her and her family, pictures of us, old school clothes with names on them, signatures from famous people, there was all sorts of stuff in here.

We kept delving deeper until we found this doll, it had black pigtails with an even darker eye, the other one looked as if it had been gouged out, it's skin was pale and its clothes were dirty and ripped, they were black and white school clothes that looked like they were from the victorian times. It really creeped me out, it felt as if it was more than just a plastic face.

I didn't say anything though, I just handed it to Thomas without a word. He thought it was great, he couldn't keep his hands off it, from that point on he started doing everything with that doll apart from showering. He slept, ate, played with it, I even caught him sneaking it to school in his bag once.

Things started getting a bit much when he began talking to it, telling it how his day was, staying silent as if he was listening to it. It really started to creep my out. I decided to send him to his grandparents for the weekend as I decided I wanted to get a little rest.

The first night without him felt a little lonely but still I was grateful for the time alone. I watched movies and treated myself to some whiskey for the night until it was time to get some sleep. I trudged upstairs in the dark, and flicked the lights on at the top of the stairs. They flickered on and I made my way into the bathroom.

I opened the door and noticed black mouldy stains on my roof, I sighed in annoyance before shuffling to the sink to brush my teeth before bed. As I put my toothbrush into my mouth, I looked up into the mirror and for a split second I could've sworn something was behind me. I swung my arm behind me, hitting only the air. I looked around wide eyed, trying to locate what was just stood inches away from me.

Chills slithered down my spine and I hastily spat out the toothpaste, rinsed out my mouth and shot into bed. I could see the image of someone behind me clearly, I could hear creaking of the floorboards just outside my bedroom. I slept horribly for the rest of the night, images of what could be lurking in the shadows lingering in my head.

For some strange reason, the day after I just couldn't get that doll out of my head. It felt like it was infecting me. That black eye had burned in image in my mind. It stared at me always.

A few nights had passed since the incident now and I finally felt like I had got my mind together. Thomas was back now and had stopped talking to the doll, and I hadn't seen it since he had returned, I assumed he'd left it at granddad's but he hadn't even mentioned it.

One night while we were both in the living room i decided to ask him where his doll had gone but he had no clue what I was talking about, I decided to leave it at that and we both went to bed.

As I was just drifting to sleep, a loud smash could be heard from downstairs and my eyes shot open. I sat up, hearing footsteps from downstairs. I looked around and I grabbed the knife I had been using to open a parcel in my room earlier. I had boxers on and I crept out onto the landing.

I stayed silent and listened again, I could hear clanging and suddenly I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I looked round the corner and there was a man I'd never seen before stood before me. I charged him and stabbed him twice in the neck and twice in the stomach, I wanted to protect Thomas.

Suddenly I heard Thomas struggling to breath and wailing, my mind shattered into a million pieces and I snapped back into reality. I looked down at the bleeding corpse Infront of me and saw Thomas, he was bleeding everywhere and losing conciseness. I looked down at my hands and saw I was holding a kitchen knife and that doll. It stared and stared at me, judging me and blaming me. I looked back at Thomas and he wasnt moving. He was dead.

I heard sirens outside and suddenly they charged inside. They tackled me and handcuffed me, they took me into questioning and the doll and knife went to evidence. I told them everything that had happened and they put it down to schizophrenia. It was the doll, it's more than just a plastic face. It's the embodiment of evil, i see it in my dreams, it follows me and hides when I turn around. I'm telling my story in a one storey cabin in the woods.

I've just escaped the insane asylum and I want this story to get out there to prove I'm not crazy, I was tricked by that doll. If you think I would ever harm my son you'd be dead wrong, I'd trade anything in the world to have him in my arms again. To see him giggle, even if it was with that evil doll. I just want my family back, but as far as I see it there's only one way to see them. By joining them.

​

My mother counted out loud when she came through the door.

She'd get off second shift at the linen plant, drop her keys in the blue dish, and say a number. Three. That was it. Three. Her, me, and Junie. Then she'd kick her shoes into the corner and start dinner at eleven at night, because eleven at night was when we ate.

I thought every mother did that.

She fed sheets into the flatwork ironer at Kessler Linen for nineteen years. The rollers ran hot enough to cook the water out of a queen flat in about eight seconds. Every woman on that line had the same forearms, shiny in patches where the steam had found them. My mother had a mark on her left arm shaped like a comma. When I was little I'd trace it with my finger while she watched the news, and she let me, because she was too tired to tell me not to.

She counted everything. Eggs. Cigarettes, so a pack made it to Friday. Days until the light bill. She counted the kids at the public pool out loud, and not just us, all of them, like it was her job. She counted the change in her coat before she counted the change in her purse. If you grow up with money you think counting is math. If you grow up the way we grew up, counting is just what love sounds like.

We rented the bottom half of a duplex on Rowland. Junie was seven and collected bread ties in a Sucrets tin and could not fall asleep unless the closet door was open exactly the width of her own hand. Not my hand. Hers. She'd measure it every night. If I bumped it on the way past she'd wake up and fix it and go back to sleep and never say a word about it, which somehow made it worse.

I was eleven. That's the age I keep coming back to.

The first time it happened was October. I know it was October because the furnace had just come on for the season and the house smelled like burnt dust for a week.

I woke up because the hallway floor was talking. Old boards. You learn a house the way you learn a face.

She was out there in her work shirt, standing between my door and Junie's, and she wasn't moving.

"Four," she said.

Not loud. Not to anybody. The way you'd read a price tag.

Then she went and checked the front lock, and then the back, and then she sat down on the couch and didn't turn the TV on.

Here's the part I want you to understand. Nothing happened. No footsteps on the porch. No face in the window. Nothing happened for three weeks, and every night of those three weeks she said four when she came in the door, and Junie and I would look at each other over our plates and then not look at each other, and we ate.

She started sleeping in the hallway. She said her back was bad and the floor was better for it. She slept with her boots on. There was a claw hammer under the couch cushion that had never been under the couch cushion before, and one time I sat on it and she came out of the kitchen so fast she skinned her elbow on the door frame.

I found the tally marks in November, looking for the good scissors.

Inside the cabinet door under the sink, low, where you'd have to be on your knees to see them. Pencil. Grouped in fives, hundreds of them, going down the wood in columns and then over onto the wall of the cabinet itself. Some of the pencil was so old it had gone silver.

They weren't days. I counted the days once, later, and it didn't work out. They were something else and she never told me what.

There's another night I think about more than that one.

I came out for water around one in the morning. She was at the sink with her back to me, doing dishes in the dark, which she did sometimes because the water heater was better about it at night. Junie was asleep. I stood in the doorway maybe four feet behind her.

She turned around and looked right at me.

"Two," she said.

Then she went back to the dishes.

I told myself she was tired. She was tired. She was so tired all the time that she'd fall asleep sitting up at the kitchen table with a cigarette burning down between her fingers, and I'd take it out and put it in the ashtray and she'd never wake up. Anybody would say two. Anybody would count wrong at one in the morning after nine hours on a hot line.

That's what I told myself for twenty years, and I want to be honest with you, it wasn't hard. It was the easiest thing I ever did.

She got worse. Or that's the word everybody used, worse, the way you'd say it about weather. She stopped going in. Kessler let her go in February and she didn't fight it. My aunt Rhea came and got us for a while and then came and got her too, and there was a hospital and a word and then some pills that made her mouth move on its own.

I was fifteen by then and I was ashamed of her. I need to put that down. I stopped bringing anybody home. When people asked I said my mom worked nights. I let a kid named Dale Petrusky do an impression of her once, the counting, one two three, in the parking lot behind the Amoco, and I laughed. I laughed hard enough that my stomach hurt.

She died in the back bedroom at Rhea's house on a Tuesday in the spring, and Junie and I were both there, and Rhea had stepped out to the porch to smoke.

Three people in that room. Her, me, Junie.

She hadn't talked in two days. Then she opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling and her mouth worked at it for a second like she was trying to get the shape right.

"Four," she said.

That was all. That was the last of it.

We buried her on a Friday and I went back to school on a Monday and I did not think about the number again in any real way for a very long time. I got a job. I got a better job. I met Marla at a wedding neither of us wanted to be at. We've got two girls now, Britt who is nine and Hallie who is six, and a house with a garage, which I understand is not a thing you're supposed to brag about, but I think about it every time I pull in.

About four years ago I noticed I was doing it.

Coming in the door from work, keys in my hand, saying a number under my breath. Four. Marla, Britt, Hallie, me. Four. I'd catch myself at it and feel my face go hot and I'd make a joke to nobody and go put my lunch bag in the sink.

Anxiety, is what I figured. That stuff runs in families like a bad knee. I told Marla about it once and she said her father used to check the stove three times and it turned out he just liked the stove, and we laughed, and that was that.

I count the girls in the pool. I count them in parking lots. I count the eggs.

Last Thursday I was up late at the kitchen table with the light over the stove on and the rest of it dark, because that's how I do it now, and Hallie came out for water.

She's six. She sleeps in a shirt of mine that comes down past her knees and she has her mother's chin and my mother's hands, which is a thing I didn't expect to be true and is true anyway.

She got the cup down off the low shelf herself. She filled it. She turned around.

And she looked right at me, four feet away, sitting under a light with my hands flat on the table.

"Three," she said.

Then she took her water and went back to bed.

I've been up every night since. I go room to room. Marla, Britt, Hallie. Then me, in the bathroom mirror, which is stupid, and I do it anyway.

It comes out four. It comes out four every single time.

I keep thinking about that cabinet under the sink on Rowland. All those little pencil marks going down the wood in fives, silver with age, hundreds of them, and how they never once made sense to me as days.

I'm starting to think my mother was just better at it than I am.

I was ten years old when my family moved to a new town.

My dad had gotten a job at a factory that paid really well—too well for him to pass up. My mom had always been a teacher, and not long after we moved, she found a job at the local elementary school.

Everything seemed to be falling into place.

To celebrate my tenth birthday and, I guess, our new beginning, my parents threw me a huge birthday party.

They rented a bounce house, bought a massive cake, and invited all the neighbors.

Well, I say invited.

It was more like people saw the bounce house and started bringing their kids over. My parents are kind people, though, so they didn’t mind. What better way to get introduced to the neighborhood?

I couldn’t believe how many people showed up. I had never had a birthday party that big before.

Even my first day at my new school went well. I made friends almost immediately. Some of them I’m still friends with to this day.

For a while, everything seemed perfect.

Then, about two months after we moved in, something happened.

I woke up in the middle of the night.

I didn’t know what had woken me. The house was quiet, and my bedroom was dark except for the faint glow of my nightlight.

I glanced at the clock.

It was a little after one in the morning.

My eyes were heavy, and I was about to roll over and go back to sleep when I noticed something.

Someone was standing in the corner of my room.

I froze.

At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.

But the longer I stared, the clearer the shape became.

It was a man.

I couldn’t see his face. The room was too dark. All I could make out was the outline of his body and the faint glisten of two eyes staring back at me.

He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there.

Watching me.

I yanked the blanket over my head.

“Mom! Dad!”

I screamed as loud as I could.

Within seconds, my bedroom door flew open.

My parents rushed inside.

I screamed, “There’s a man in my room! He was just there!”

My dad searched the room while my mom sat beside me.

There was nobody there.

My father looked tired and frustrated, but my mother climbed into bed and wrapped her arms around me.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s probably just the new house. You’re still getting used to things.”

She stayed with me for hours before finally going back to her room.

But I knew what I had seen.

There had been a man standing in the corner of my room.

And that wasn’t the last time I saw him.

Over the next year, he came back.

Sometimes weeks passed between visits. Sometimes months.

But every time, it happened the same way.

I woke up.

He was standing in the corner.

And he was watching me.

By the seventh or eighth time, my parents had started to worry—not about the man, but about me.

One night, their voices carried down the hallway.

“I can’t keep doing this,” my dad told my mom. “I’m barely sleeping. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

After that, I stopped screaming for them.

Or at least I tried to.

Whenever the man appeared, I pulled the blankets over my head, squeezed my eyes shut, and waited for morning.

Eventually, the visits became less frequent.

By the time my twelfth birthday approached, I had almost convinced myself they were over.

My parents decided to throw me another big birthday party.

The night before, I went to bed early because, in my twelve-year-old mind, the sooner I fell asleep, the sooner my birthday would get here.

For once, I wasn’t thinking about the man.

I was thinking about cake.

Presents.

My friends.

I fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning, I jumped out of bed and rushed into the kitchen. My parents were already getting everything ready.

A few hours later, people started arriving.

Before long, the house was packed.

We had cake, ice cream, games, and more food than we knew what to do with.

Then came the best part.

Presents.

My parents handed me a box.

I tore it open.

A PlayStation.

I lost my mind.

There was no way anybody was topping that.

One present after another was passed to me. By the time I was finished, I was surrounded by torn wrapping paper and boxes.

My mother handed me a poorly wrapped gift. It looked like someone had used an old brown paper bag for the wrapping paper and pieces of duct tape to seal it all together.

My dad looked confused.

“From who?”

I looked at the long rectangular package and examined it.

“There’s no name on it.”

My dad shrugged.

“We’ll figure it out later.”

The box was heavier than I expected.

I shook it.

Something solid shifted inside.

Maybe an action figure.

Maybe some kind of water gun.

I ripped away the paper and opened the box.

Inside was an old metal flashlight. My parents looked confused, but I didn’t think much of it, so I tossed it aside and moved on to everything else.

Within an hour, I had forgotten all about it.

That night, after spending the entire day playing my new PlayStation with my friends, the last guests finally left.

I got ready for bed.

My mom came into my room and kissed me goodnight.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

My dad came in a few minutes later.

“Have a good birthday?”

“The best.”

He smiled.

As he turned to leave, he noticed the old flashlight lying among my presents.

He picked it up.

“Does this thing work?”

“I don’t know.”

He pressed the switch.

Nothing.

He gave it a little smack against his palm and tried again.

The bulb flickered to life.

“Huh.”

He set it on my nightstand, wished me a happy birthday one last time, and then left for bed.

I was exhausted.

Within minutes, I was asleep.

At some point during the night, I woke up suddenly.

My bed was shaking.

Not a little.

Violently.

The mattress jerked beneath me.

I sat straight up.

And then the shaking stopped.

The room became completely still.

I looked toward the foot of my bed.

My stomach dropped.

He was there.

The man.

For the first time in months, he was standing at the end of my bed.

Only that night, something felt different.

I scrambled backward until my back pressed against the headboard.

He didn’t move.

I couldn’t see his face.

Then I remembered.

The flashlight.

I reached for it.

My hand was shaking so badly that I almost knocked it onto the floor.

I grabbed the cold metal and wrapped both hands around it.

The man remained perfectly still.

I pointed the flashlight toward him.

My thumb found the switch.

Click.

Light flooded the room.

For the first time, I saw him.

Really saw him.

He wasn’t a shadowy monster.

He was an old man.

His face was pale and weathered, covered in deep wrinkles. His clothes were dirty and worn. Gray hair clung to the sides of his head.

He stood there, staring directly at me.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t scream.

The old man slowly raised one finger.

He pressed it against his lips.

“Shhh…”

His voice was so quiet I could barely hear it.

I dropped the flashlight.

The room went dark.

“No…”

I panicked, clawing through the sheets until my fingers touched cold metal.

I grabbed the flashlight and raised it again.

The beam shot across the room.

The old man was gone.

My heart pounded.

I swung the light around, searching for him.

Nothing.

Then the beam landed on my closet.

The doors were moving.

Just slightly.

Like someone had just closed them.

I screamed.

“DAD!”

My bedroom door flew open.

My mother rushed in first, my father right behind her.

“What happened?”

“He was here!”

My dad closed his eyes.

“Not this again.”

“He was standing right there!”

I pointed toward the end of the bed.

“I saw him! I saw his face this time!”

My father’s concern disappeared.

Frustration took its place.

“That’s enough.”

“But—”

“No.” His voice rose. “You’re twelve years old now. This has to stop.”

“I know what I saw!”

“There is nobody in this room!”

“He went into the closet!”

My father stared at me.

“The closet?”

I pointed toward it.

“He went in there.”

My dad stormed across the room.

“Fine.”

He grabbed both closet doors.

“You want to see?”

He ripped them open.

“Look!”

My clothes hung inside.

Nothing else.

“There’s nobody here!”

He started pushing clothes aside.

“See?”

He pulled shirts and jackets from their hangers and threw them onto the floor.

“Nothing!”

“You’re too old to still be afraid of the boogeyman.”

Then something fell.

My father stopped.

We all looked down.

A small piece of sheetrock lay on the closet floor.

For a moment, nobody said anything.

My father looked at the back wall.

There was a crack in it.

He reached forward and touched it.

Behind it was darkness.

My mother stepped closer.

“What is that?”

My dad didn’t answer.

He grabbed the loose edge of the sheetrock and pulled.

A larger section came away.

Behind my closet wall was an opening.

It was about four feet high and maybe three feet wide.

More than big enough for a person to crawl through.

Nobody moved.

My father shined my flashlight into the opening.

There was a small hidden space behind my bedroom wall.

And at the far end of it was another opening.

One that led down beneath the house.

Into the crawlspace.

My father just stared.

I would never forget the look on his face.

Because for the first time, he believed me.

My father called the police that night. They searched the crawlspace and found scattered garbage and a sleeping bag. They said whoever had been living there appeared to have been there for quite some time.

My parents packed whatever they could into the car and took me to my grandparents’ house.

I never slept in that bedroom again.

Not long afterward, my parents sold the house.

None of us ever stepped foot inside it again.

Years passed.

We never found out who the old man was.
Sometimes I still think About that night.

About the way the old man looked at me when the light finally hit his face.

About the finger he slowly raised to his lips.

About how the old man had been able to crawl out of the darkness behind my closet whenever he wanted. And the thing I think about most is who left me that flashlight.

I was seventeen years old when Harry Sullivan proposed we killed Esme.

And it was on our joint wedding day, eight years later, my hands slick with my wife's blood, when his words finally hit me.

There was a drilling sound in my head.

Sometimes it was loud.

Other times it was faint, barely noticeable.

But it was definitely there, getting closer and closer.

Louder.

I should have known not inviting Esme Lockhart to our party was a bad idea, but I was too tipsy to care. In my muddled mind, I would deal with the consequences later. Sitting on the beach with my knees pulled to my chest, a cool beer skimming my lips, I watched the tide ripple under my toes. The wind was trying to snatch the bottle from my hand, blowing my hair from my eyes.

Behind me, the party was in full swing, and Esme was being weird again.

Even through sharp blasts of wind trying to knock me over, I could hear her attempting to guilt trip Wylan for talking to a girl. It's not like I didn't expect it. Wylan had told me about the weird notes in his locker, the low-key threats in his mailbox to not even think about leaving for college.

I just didn't want to believe our best friend was this kind of obsessed with us.

If I’m honest, though, Esme was long passed obsession.

Infatuation.

This girl was a fucking psychopath.

Downing my beer, I revelled in the scratchy taste. I didn't even like it. But it was better than drinking straight vodka, which made you a psychopath.

Still though, the alcohol was perfect to lower my barriers and force words out of my mouth I had been choking on for years. I liked to think the stars aligned when we were little kids, and fate found us. Five seven year olds with our hands on the last candy bar. Pigtails, Four Eyes, Batman Shirt, Rich Girl, and Yellow Hat.

Initially, we fought for it. I snatched the candy bar up first, claiming finders keepers, only for Pigtails to grab it off of me, waving it in the air triumphantly, only for Four Eyes and Batman Shirt to form an allegiance, taking it for themselves. I shoved Batman Shirt, and he in turn pulled off my hat and made me cry. Rich Girl, who had been wandering around, stepped in.

We already knew who Rich Girl was. Her parents made more money than the Queen. At least, that’s what the rumour was in class. Rich Girl was rich rich, which meant she was either a celebrity, or a long lost princess.

In reality, her father, Jason Lockhart, had bought our little coastal town. Rich girl plucked the candy bar from the boys, and initiated a truce, splitting it four ways instead.

It was when she was handing out chunks of chocolate, did we share our names, grinning at each other with chocolatey mouths.

Pigtails was Ariosa.

Four Eyes, Harry.

Batman Shirt was Wylan.

Rich Girl, Esme.

And Yellow Hat was me.

The rest was history, I guess.

Following that day, the five of us became inseparable. In school, we became an unbreakable clique.

As littles, we made our own games and spent countless hours at the beach on weekends playing pirates. It was fun.

Those summer days and nights will be etched into my mind forever, a blur of swimming in the sea, eating candy, and sharing stories under a late setting sun.

Esme would regularly invite us to play at her house, which reminded me of a palace. She had seven bathrooms. Who needed seven bathrooms?

As littles, we made a pact. On the last day of summer vacation before third grade, we declared best friends forever.

Then, when we were twelve, tipsy on Esme’s father’s expensive wine and spread out on a picnic blanket, we said it again, giggling under a crescent moon.

Best friends forever.

It was when we reached high school, Esme started to take our pact a little too seriously.

I loved her as much as I loved the others.

But she didn't know boundaries.

Best friends forever was something a lot different in her mind.

It started subtly. When other kids wanted to hang out with us, she was adamant that it was just the five of us.

We were fourteen years old and in our freshman year of high school. Making new friends was inevitable. I invited two girls to sit with us at lunch, and Esme immediately stood up, dragging the boys and Ariosa to another table.

When I stood my ground and plonked down, refusing to follow them, Esme came over and politely asked me to join her and the others. By now, I was getting odd looks from other kids. Esme was a well-known name across town, and so was my name, by default.

I was already in way too deep with her family to brush her off. Esme’s father had already insisted on paying for my college tuition. I said no initially, though my mother thought it was a great idea.

Esme had a habit of throwing cash at us when she thought we were going to leave her.

Harry was promised a football scholarship when he showed signs of drifting away to hang out with the varsity team. When Wylan got a girlfriend, Esme surprised him with the guitar he had been saving up for.

Ariosa started getting cosy with a classmate, and that classmate’s parents suddenly won a lottery I had never heard of, and moved away. Initially, she isolated us from other kids, even our family, insisting on weekends away and trip’s to exotic locations. But we were growing up, and best friends forever was looking progressively less likely.

Esme thought our pact was an unbreakable bond, a need to be near each other constantly and be completely isolated from everyone else.

Esme thought best friends forever meant we couldn't fall in love, couldn't form relationships.

She didn't want us to grow up. In junior year, Harry actually went against her wishes and got a boyfriend. Harry Sullivan liked to experiment behind Esme’s back, having been on several dates with both guys and girls. It was well known that he was a player.

Even if Esme shot down those rumours. But I think he truly fell for Ben.

Opposites attract, and Harry, captain of the varsity team, falling for Ben Sykes, a quiet competitive swimmer, was the best thing that had happened to our group. Harry was slowly rebelling, which gave us the courage to fly the nest too. Initially, Esme didn't react or say anything.

In fact, she smiled when Harry awkwardly introduced us, his gaze glued to Esme. He was waiting for her to start screaming, his eyes hard, lips ready to argue. But she didn't. Esme offered Ben a seat. Wylan shot me a look, and Ariosa almost choked on her sandwich.

Harry didn't let his guard down, though. He politely declined her offer, and joined the varsity table instead. Harry Sullivan was slowly but surely moving away from us, away from best friends forever, and our stupid childhood pact.

He wanted his own life, his own friends. Ben was the start of that. Again, I was sure Esme was planning something.

She forced Wylan’s friends to move schools, and ripped Ariosa’s boyfriend out of town, so it didn't make sense to me why she was letting Harry get away with it.

She even restricted us from talking to adults, unless it was our parents.

Harry could have limited conversation with his coach (only in school time) and Wylan was only able to join the drama club if he promised to let the rest of us sit in the audience. If that wasn't weird enough, we were permitted to tell her everything. Every secret we had, or worry on our minds.

Obviously, we didn't.

There was no way I was telling her about my (late) first period, and I was pretty sure the boys would rather die than share their private lives.

Sometimes, we didn't have a choice. Esme would lock us in her car and demand every private detail, and it was less exhausting to just spill our guts.

I made the mistake of talking to a girl, Emma, at the start of the year. Esme may not have been in all of my classes, but she had spies, kids that were paid a decent sum of cash to make sure none of her friends were socialising.

Emma switched classes a day later, and when I tracked her down in the hallway, her eyes widened, like she was frightened.

Emma told me to stay away from her, so I did.

I didn't have a fucking choice.

I should have known the boy watching us gush over TV show crushes was loyal to Esme.

I thought she was okay with Harry dating someone. I mean, she didn't throw a screaming fit like usual.

Which was progress.

I was surprised she was actually allowing someone into the group.

Esme seemed genuinely happy with Harry's boyfriend joining our group, allowing him to come to hang out at her house, and our usual place on the beach.

The holidays came around, and Ariosa proposed a Christmas party at her place.

I was two hours late, after a heated argument with Mom over the car.

When I arrived, I immediately knew something was wrong. There was no music, and the lights were off. I did see an attempt at a party, grabbing myself some holiday themed punch from the lounge.

The figure sitting alone in the kitchen caught me off guard. It was pitch black, so I thought it was the ghost of Christmas past, after Esme forced us to watch Christmas movies with her a few days prior. When I clicked on the light, however, an identity swam into view.

Ben. Judging from the cans scattered on the table, he was maybe five or six drinks down. Harry's boyfriend regarded me with an almost pitiful smile. “Hey, Thea.” His voice was a kind of croak. Ben held up his can in a mocking salute. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hey.” I poured him a glass of water, sitting down hesitantly, my hands wrapped around a glass of punch. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, I'm great,” Ben’s sarcasm needed work. Harry was a master of irony, so maybe he was rubbing off on him. Ben downed another beer. “I missed a swim meet to come to this stupid party.”

Ouch.

Technically, it was an Esme centred party, so we were all there against our will.

I nodded, sipping my punch. It was kind of spicy. “So, where's everyone else?”

Ben met my gaze, his lips curling. “Where do you think?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Did they go out?”

I think Ben was waiting for me to give him a reason to find Harry. I couldn't give him one without going against her family, and putting myself in danger.

The boy scoffed. “Whatever, Thea,” he stood up. “Tell that bastard I never want to see him again,” he mumbled, staggering out of the kitchen.

Ben stopped in the doorway, but he didn't turn around. “You guys deserve each other,” he laughed, and something ice cold prickled its way down my spine. I didn't even wait for Ben to leave, and by the sound of it, he was already emptying his guts in the front hallway. Ignoring him, I forced my legs upstairs, my heart hammering.

There was no way, right?

Because if Esme had done this, then she had won.

The girl had a perfectly calculated plan after all.

Esme didn't want Harry to be intimate with anyone else but her.

I realised that when I stumbled into a lot of tangled legs and flushed faces under blankets. Wylan told me to turn off the light, but I was too stunned to move.

This wasn't what I expected. Esme wanted us as friends. But this was different. This was closer, more intimate, where she could have every part of us, body, mind, and soul. The logical side of my brain wondered if she had become so scared that we would find love and ruin our friendship pact, she immediately wanted us to love her instead.

While the not so alert part of my brain wanted to entangle myself in their weird foursome sandwich.

So, I joined them.

I mean, it was cold, the punch was definitely filled with aphrodisiacs to influence guests, and seeing Harry buried under Esme, his legs tangled around Ariosa, I'd say Esme’s plan had succeeded. I didn't want to know what Ben saw. Later on, I discovered that he walked in on them, and Harry, fully bewitched by Esme’s spell, ignored him. Ben was right. We did deserve each other. Esme had made sure of that.

I was feeling a little more than heated, so yeah, I crawled into bed with them.

I wanted to believe it meant something.

Even if I knew deep down, Esme was tightening her iron grip.

Ever since that night, our relationship became more intimate, which brought us closer together. But we never actually dated. Esme didn't want to date us, she just didn't want anyone else to date us. Most of my junior and senior year was a blur of blindly following orders, and watching the light slowly start to fizzle out in my friend’s eyes.

Esme demanded we move in with her, though luckily our parents stepped in.

When she started talking about friendship marriage, I think that was when we decided that we were done.

Best friends forever would never continue into college. I was sure of it.

Harry was the first to get a football scholarship.

Halfway across the country.

Esme did what she always did. She smiled through gritted teeth, congratulating him with a hug.

I caught Wylan’s Oh, fuck look, pretending to choke on his drink. We already knew she was planning something potentially life ruining.

We took bets.

Wylan was convinced her father would buy the college itself.

Ariosa went down a darker route, saying Esme would burn the campus to the ground.

Esme did neither, attempting manipulation more directly.

In the days following his announcement, Harry had received three anonymous death threats, and a stuffed rabbit filled with pigs blood thrown in his locker. When he talked to his parents, they went straight to the police, only to drop the case several hours later after a talk with her dad.

Harry said it was like his parents had been hypnotised.

Esme turned the whole town against us, so we had no choice but to run back to her.

Wylan talked to a girl during gym, and one of Esme’s spies immediately reported it.

I accidentally smiled at Josh Pieck in AP English, and received a strongly worded email to not even look at him.

Senior year drew to a close, and our only solace was a stupid party on the beach. I made sure to only invite kids who either hated Esme, or had offered us their help in the past. They were too scared to turn up. Emily Littlewood said her family could get us fake IDs and out of town. She sent Ariosa a text from an unknown number, only disclosing her name in cryptic code.

Emily's parents were in a car crash hours later.

Anyone who tried to help us were either hurt, or cut out of the picture.

We were officially on our own.

Presently, I felt sick to my stomach. I got an email from a college I didn't even apply to, congratulating me on my acceptance. The college just so happened to be the one Wylan and Ariosa were accepted into, and of course, Harry was going there too.

The letter was stuffed in my pocket, and I was planning on burning it. It was my way of breaking this stupid pact.

We were not going to be best friends forever, because in Esme’s eyes, she didn't see the four of us friends.

Esme saw us as trophies. Pretty things she could call hers.

Fuck that.

We built a fire on the beach. Harry pulled out his acceptance letter first, and in our own private ceremony, we took turns throwing them into the flames. I wanted to laugh in relief, but I was too scared to laugh, too scared to smile, constantly looking over my shoulder to see if we were being watched.

I started to let my guard down, slumping on the sand to eat charred marshmallows and talk shit, when Esme herself turned up with a crate of beers.

Wylan shot me a death glare, because I was usually the one who accidentally exposed our location.

But I had been so careful.

Ariosa immediately stiffened up, and Harry rolled his eyes, draining the rest of his beer. I think he was expecting it.

We had all mutually agreed that Esme and her family were witches.

Ariosa’s expression twisted with genuine fright, and she panicked, plucking the smouldered remains of our letters from the fire and stuffing them in her backpack. I was sure she burned herself from the way she kept wafting her hand, wrapping her fingers around an icy beer, though she was more scared of getting caught trashing Esme’s gift.

Luckily, Esme didn't notice, excusing herself for being late.

Harry was uncharacteristically snappy, leaning forward in his chair. The boy wasn't even trying to hide his disdain for her. Two days before, he broke down in my car. It was the only place without a camera, without spies hanging around.

Wylan was sleeping in the back, and Ariosa was dozing in his lap. Harry kept it together until I asked him if he was okay, and his body kind of jerked, like he was trembling. He had spent the whole car ride staring into oblivion, his eyes half lidded, lips curled into an almost maniacal smile.

I didn't notice he was clinging onto his seat for dear life, like Esme was going to pop up out of nowhere. I can't do this anymore. He kept saying it again and again and again, until his fingers were clawing at his hair, and he was screaming, his eyes almost feral, like a wild animal. I can't fucking do this anymore, she's going to kill me.

I hugged him. It was all I could do.

Just a few more weeks, I told him.

Then we would be free.

“How did you know we were here?” Harry's eyes narrowed, lips curling. “Are you stalking us, Esme?”

His tone was like warm water washing over me.

I thought it might finally push her away.

Esme shot him a grin. “I always know where you are,” she said, ruffling his hair. “I was just making last minute arrangements for something special.”

Harry wasn't playing around, scoffing through another mouthful of beer.

“And what's that?” he mumbled under his breath. “Another death threat?”

Esme seemed to notice his disobedience, though she didn't say anything, maintaining her wide smile.

“That's a secret.”

Harry sat back in his chair, nursing another beer. Wylan nudged him to stop drinking, but he protested with a groan, slurping from the can.

“I'm sick of being ordered around,” he said, downing another beer, as if in protest. “I'm going to do whatever I fucking want,” his half lidded gaze fell on Esme, who had visibly stiffened up. “You do whatever the fuck you want, and I'll do whatever the fuck I want.” he saluted her with his drink. “All right?”

When Esme didn't respond, Harry threw his empty can at her.

The girl didn't even flinch.

“I'm going to Duke, you psycho sponge,” Harry spat, and I caught Wylan’s wry smile. Ariosa’s expression brightened. Duke was always his first choice.

“I don't want to go to your fucking college, Esme. I don't want to be anywhere near you or your family. You're a leech. You leech onto people and suck the life out of them, and… and then throw money at them when they want to leave! What you're doing is borderline psycho. You take everything away from us. When we find friends, you make them disappear, and when we find someone, you throw yourself at us! Like a leech!”

Gulping down beer, he was just getting started.

“That night with Ben,” Harry choked out, “You fucked with our heads.”

He spluttered on a sob, and Ari moved to grab his hand, but he shoved her away, his lips curling into a snarl, angrily swiping at his eyes.

“No, get off of me, it needs to be said!” his gaze flicked back to Esme.

“You turned my parents into mindless followers of yours so you could keep me under your control. You manipulate us with money and vacations, and fancy scholarships. I mean, who fucking does that, huh? What kind of person goes to these kinds of lengths to keep friends?” he laughed.

“You threaten and isolate us, and seriously think we want to be friends?”

Harry let out a shuddery breath.

“So, here's what you're going to do. You're going to leave me and my parents alone. The same goes for Ari, Thea, and Wylan. You're going to get your father to fire my parents, and then you're going to get your ‘connections’ you keep bragging about to cancel the scholarship I don't even want. If you don't, I'll happily contact the police, and get your ass thrown in jail for stalking.”

His smile was harsh, almost manic, when Esme opened her mouth. Harry tipped his head back, dazedly blinking at the sky. “Not the police under your dad’s thumb,” he said with a snort. “I’m not fucking stupid. I mean outside of town, where you'll face actual consequences.” his eyes darkened.

“After tonight, I don't want to see your face again.” His words were venomous, and I revelled in each one. “Find new friends in college, Esme, and pray that they tolerate your psycho bullshit…”

Harry's voice faded out, the sea suddenly so much louder in my ears, waves crashing onto the sand, before drifting back. “...And don't put you six feet under the fuckin’ ground.”

Esme seemed frozen for a moment, and we all waited with baited breath.

Was this it? Would she finally leave us alone?

Instead of replying, the girl turned her attention away from Harry, and plonked herself down on Ariosa’s lap, chastising Wylan for wearing a short sleeved shirt.

Esme insisted on styling us, like we were dolls. She hated when Ariosa tied up her hair, and I wasn't allowed to straighten my curls. Harry had to wear contact lenses (if he wore glasses, she ignored him for days). When he lost his contacts and had to wear glasses, Esme bought him unlimited contacts.

Harry didn't respond to Esme ignoring him, instead cracking open another beer. He shot me a grin, which was a little too wide. Jesus fucking Christ, I remember thinking. He was losing his mind.

Mission accomplished.

If drunk Harry thought it was mission accomplished, Sober Harry was in for a rude awakening. The girl’s lack of response wasn't a win. It was a timebomb. Esme started talking about her own college acceptance letter, and I caught him glaring at her, his fingers pulverising the can. I hated what she was in the process of turning him into.

Wylan was staying quiet, absently making a mini sand castle, and Ariosa was snoozing on the sand.

The party was primarily to plan a quiet escape, and once AGAIN Esme had made it about her.

I excused myself, escaping down to the shallows.

The silence was a relief. I dropped onto my butt, letting the tide wash over my feet. Sticking my toes in bioluminescent plankton, I wondered how a candy bar had single handedly ruined my life.

Esme was making a fool out of herself again.

In the corner of my eye, she was standing with her hands on her hips, blonde curls being whipped around in the wind. Wylan had done something wrong. I had no idea what it was, though from the sound of her voice, it sounded like he'd been hiding a friend.

It was when I was watching the sea wash up on the sand, I heard it again.

Drilling.

It felt close, but also far away.

“We could just kill her, you know.”

Harry was standing behind me, swaying slightly, a fresh drink in his hand. He looked like a ghost under a moonlit sky, his cheeks were too pale, dark brown hair glued to his forehead with sweat.

He wasn't smiling. Esme said it was his best attribute, so he made sure to never smile around her. I took a moment to drink in how hollow the boy looked, both body and mind, his dark eyes barely focusing on me. Esme had turned him into a shell of himself. Not just Harry.

Ariosa had lost that glow to her skin, and I was sure Wylan was going grey at seventeen. Even looking at myself in the mirror, I was constantly on edge, my cheeks starting to deflate.

Turning back to the sea, I pressed my knees closer to my chest. The drilling was getting louder. It felt and sounded closer when I lowered my head, like if I turned at the right angle, I would hear it better. “You have a death wish, idiot.”

Harry snorted, slumping down next to me and resting his chin on his knees. He reached into his shorts and pulled out a cigarette, lit it up, and took a long drag.

The orange glow settled my dancing stomach. “I’m serious,” he said, lips curved around the cigarette. “We kill her, and dump her body in the sea. Then run the fuck away. Problem solved.”

“Problem still there,” I said pointedly, “You just declared war on a psychopath.”

I shoved him, and he pulled a face, shoving me back. “Since when do you smoke?”

Harry's gaze strayed on the ocean, smoke escaping his lips. “Since Ben.”

His words stung.

“Well, what about Esme’s dad?” I challenged him, changing the subject. I straightened up, stretching my legs. “We’ll have to kill him too, right?” I could see him trying not to smile around the smoke. So, I continued, eager to bring back the boy I grew up with. Even if it was just for one night.

“Psycho sponge?”

He groaned. “It was a good insult in my head.”

“It was a terrible insult! Did you see Wylan’s face?”

Harry laughed, and it was a good laugh, one that made me feel safe, despite knowing we were being watched. “We are going to leave here, don't worry,” He shot me a grin. “I told her to leave us alone, and…” Harry arched his neck, twisting around. “I think she got the memo? I hope she has, anyway…”

Nodding along, I took in Harry's words, though they were fading in and out.

I could hear that noise again.

It was real, a loud drilling in the back of my head. Looking up at the sky, it was suddenly too black, like an endless oblivion that would never brighten.

The sea lapping over my feet felt wrong, somehow.

Like it wasn't even wet.

The sand bunched between my fists was too perfect.

Perfect white sand, filtering through my fingers.

It was the kind of sand I dreamed of, unlike the actual beach which was mostly pointed rocks and spiky shells. It was too perfect. I looked around, gulping down air. Ariosa and Wylan trying to get the fire going, and Esme handing out food. The perfect night.

The stars twinkling above us.

The perfect sky.

“Harry.” my voice sounded wrong, like the words on my lips weren't mine.

He didn't look at me. “Yeah?”

“How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

How many times have we had this conversation?”

Did I say that 5 times?

10?

15?

20?

The moon flickered, and went out completely.

And I fell through the sand, dragged down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

The drilling was louder, closer.

Real.

I could feel it, a blade pulverising through the back of my head, screeching blades dragging my thoughts to awareness. I could feel it seeping from me, blood dripping down my face and neck, pooling across the table I lay on. I opened my mouth to scream, but my lips were detached from me, my voice no longer mine.

Instead, my mind was suddenly in permanent rewind.

I was back on the beach, and this time Harry was smiling. His original words were torn away, that cutting blade slicing its way through my brain. “So here's what you're going to do,” his voice echoed, and he jumped up, picking Esme up and spinning her around. “You're going to stay with us. Forever. Never leave any of our sides.”

“You're a leech!”

“You're the most beautiful girl I've ever met. I want to be with you, Esme. Forever.”

I can't fucking take this anymore. She’s going to kill me.

This time, I did scream, a raw cry ripping from my throat.

I could sense bright light behind my eyes.

My wrists were strapped down, my head pinned to a cruel icy surface.

Harry's voice continued, clanging in my skull.

“I love her, Thea. I love her so much it hurts!”

It was endless.

It never stopped, and my screams died out into whimpers. They didn't even bother sedating me again. I felt everything, every cut and slice, the warmth that glued my hair to my face, and the saw that sheared all of it off.

When the white light faded, and flashing colours dotted my vision, I finally fell.

“Thea?”

When I opened my eyes, I was standing up.

No longer on the beach, I stood barefoot in front of an indoor swimming pool lit up in pale blue light.

I was so close to the edge, a white dress pooling at my feet, my hands wrapped around a bouquet of flowers.

I found myself smiling. Even when I reached a trembling hand to my head, where a veil had been forced into place. I stroked my fingers across my scalp, where old stitches had come apart, seeping red staining the collar of my dress and ruining my hair. When my fingers came back slick red, I swiftly wiped them on my dress, smiling wider.

Roses.

I clutched the bouquet tighter to my chest.

They were Esme’s favorite.

“Thea! Snap out of it!”

The man's voice startled me, reverberating through the room. I blinked, my vision swimming in and out of view. He was older than me, at least in his mid twenties, thick, brown hair hanging in dark eyes that part of me recognised. The flower crown of white roses sitting on top of his head looked like a joke, a mockery of him.

I didn't register the bloody sfrips of white wrapped around his head or the smear of red staining the front of his suit. Instead, I was choking on a name that shouldn't have matched the stranger.

No, not a stranger.

Harry Sullivan was not 25 years old.

Because if he was 25, then how old was I? I looked down at myself. I still felt seventeen, and yet I was taller, my dress perfectly fitted to my figure. I was seventeen, but my body was older, so much maturer, moulded and perfected.

No.

I felt my legs give-way, a cry rumbling in my throat.

I was going to go to college.

I was going to get away from her.

How long had I truly been sitting on the beach on the last day of senior year?

“Thea, listen to me.” his hands found mine, clammy and stained with blood, but his. It was him, and I wanted to cry, wanted to ask how he had jumped forwards in time, when I already knew the truth. I was in denial, and denial was agony. I moved to wrap my arms around my friend, but he shook his head.

“No, don't move,” he hissed out, “If you move, she'll know something is up.”

Opening my mouth, my throat tasted of rusty change.

How long? I wanted to scream, my chest aching.

Harry didn't speak. He didn't explain the strips of white wrapped around his head, or the others’ absence. He pressed something into my hand, delving it between the folds of my dress. The knife slid perfectly between my fingers, the blade pricking my skin.

I didn't feel anything. “Kill the bitch,” he said through gritted teeth. Harry didn't cry. I don't think he could cry anymore.

“Do you hear me?” he whispered, his voice collapsing into a sob. I wanted to know what had happened to him, what eight years had done to my best friend.

“Fucking kill her, Thea.”

The doors flew open, the sound of heels clicking loudly on marble.

Harry dropped to his knees, and I straightened up, fashioning my expression back to vacant. I wanted to help him. He couldn't stand up, his head bowed. If I was going to kill her, though, I had to catch her off guard.

Esme appeared, a blur of golden curls and fluffy pink. She was noticeably older too. Esme Lockhart was still beautiful, almost breathtakingly so. Her expression may have looked maturer, but that psychotic gleam was still there, twinkling in her eyes. “Harry,” her voice was more of a bird-like squawk.

I stayed frozen, watching the girl march over to him, entangling her arms around his waist. “You do realize it's bad luck for the groom to see his bride the night before.” Harry didn't fight back when she pulled out a silk cloth, wrapping it around his eyes, her hand slipping over his mouth. Esme’s lips found his ear, and I heard every word. This was the first time I'd heard her actually scared.

“Since you're insistent on ruining our perfect day, I want to give you your wedding present early.” Esme’s voice was silky smooth, sultry. She held him like a toy, rocking him side to side. Harry didn't move, crumpling in her arms. His frenzied eyes found mine.

Kill her.

“Come on,” she crooned, “Dad is waiting for you.”

I wanted to kill her right there, before she could drag my friend away.

But something snapped in my head, and I was back on the beach.

This time the tide was in, and I was sitting alone.

Behind me, Esme was the only one sitting by our fire.

“Thea!” she shouted, waving at me to join her.

The tide was at my feet, but I couldn't even feel it anymore.

There were no stars.

“Thea.”

Reality was being cruel to me.

It wouldn't let me sleep.

This time, I awoke under a beautiful blue sky.

Above me was a flower arch made of roses.

Rows of strangers with wide smiles sitting under trees entangled with lights.

Standing on my left was Ariosa. Her red hair was piled on her head, perfectly fitted with a flower crown. Her smile was too wide, intricately made up eyes half lidded, and I was sure she had wet herself through her wedding dress.

Ariosa wasn't really herself anymore, her gaze penetrating right through me.

I could see dark red smearing the top of her head.

Neither was Wylan, sculpted in a rich black suit. The boy was unrecognisable, hiding behind a mop of blonde curls, and a nose job I knew he didn't need. Wylan had grown up, maturing into a handsome man. But once I was staring at him, I couldn't stop. I glimpsed tell tale spots of blood staining his collar.

His grin was dazed, drool seeping down his chin. Wylan was standing at an angle, swaying back and forth, that glitter which was my best friend, gone.

“Thea!”

I blinked. Esme was inches away from me, the bride.

“Pay attention!”

I found myself nodding obediently.

In a few simple words, she was going to become my wife.

The knife was tucked into my dress.

Harry was standing next to me. I didn't want to look at him, because I knew what Esme’s wedding gift was. In the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a thin line of black trickling down his temple, scarlet bandages hidden under that hideous fucking flower crown.

His eyes were lazily following a butterfly, and he could barely stand still. Harry was the one who tried to get away, who clawed his way out of her control. Esme had decided to take his free will by force.

The others spoke their vows, like they had been cemented inside their minds.

“I…”

Harry Sullivan.

Ariosa Carlisle.

Wylan Sutton.

Thea Samuels.

“Take Esme Analise Lockhart to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death.”

“I…”

Harry blinked, his lips forming a smile.

“I… do.”

Ariosa giggled all the way through her speech, which was unintelligible.

Wylan sealed his vow, grinning through a mouthful of scarlet.

I think seeing him is what jerked my thoughts to fruition.

She had taken my friends, ripped away their youth, and now took their minds.

I think I said I do.

The wedding party exploded into cheering, and we were showered in confetti.

The officiator turned to me, and I saw bright, intense red.

Fuck. I don't even remember moving.

I had to cut every order she had ever demanded of us directly from her mouth. Parted by death. The officiator’s words were ringing in my skull.

We were free.

She cut into my head and turned me into the perfect wife.

She turned my best friend's into mindless shells.

The wedding party was screaming, and so was I.

Help.

Blood was slick between my hands, but it felt good.

I need help.

There was no sign of my parents, anyone I knew. I didn't even see Esme’s father. I kicked off my heels and ran, and luckily, Ariosa thought it was a game, following me, grabbing Wylan.

Knowing that I would regret it if I left him, I pulled a barely responsive Harry along too, who awkwardly stumbled after me. We made it out of the hotel grounds, and I called the police, who immediately sent us to urgent care.

I spent two weeks in the emergency room, and I got two visitors. Emma, from high school. She hugged me, and so did her five year old girl. The second visitor was a surprise. Ben, Harry's old boyfriend who was now a cop, had been tracking us down since our “death” when we were seventeen. Apparently, Esme faked our deaths.

Ben told me my parents left town a year after my death. He had contacted them multiple times, but no reply.

They weren't interested.

Which was understandable.

If someone told me my dead daughter was in fact alive and forced to marry her best friend, I wouldn't engage either.

I asked Ben if he'd been to see Harry, and he nodded, his cheeks going pale.

He told me the words I didn't want to hear.

Harry wasn't Harry Sullivan anymore. The doctors explained it in more medical terms, a foreign object being obstructed through the skull and damaging the frontal lobe or something like that, I wasn't really listening. Ben started talking about serious damage to the brain, and I was on my knees on cool tiles, choking up my lunch. I knew exactly what it was.

Harry had been partially lobotomised, in a desperate attempt to subjugate him.

So, if my friends were lobotomised, what happened to me?

I was drilled through the head. I got the same treatment.

So, why was I awake and conscious, and they were braindead?

I've been living with Ben for the last two years.

Ari and Wylan have recovered, in a way.

I say in a way because I'm lying to myself.

They're completely different people. Wylan is erratic and acts like a child, and Ariosa repeatedly tells me how much she hates me.

Their lack of emotion scares me. The doctors are puzzled. They didn't think it was possible to make as much progress as they have, but Jason Song was also using technology that they had never seen Before. Ben argued that lobotomies don't control your mind, they destroy it. He was convinced something else was being used, which sent me to sleep for seven years, forcing my body into autopilot. It would explain Wylan and Ari’s behaviour too.

How they had somehow recovered, or sort of recovered from a lobotomy.

Harry spoke for the first time a few days ago.

I have a habit of visiting him when Ben isn't guarding his bed side.

I wasn't there when he spoke. I was buying soda when Ben stumbled out of the room, vomiting everywhere.

Unable to resist, I hurried inside.

Harry was sitting up, propped up on pillows.

His eyes were so much more alert, which gave me hope.

Until he opened his mouth.

Inclining his head, Harry frowned at me. Ariosa and Wylan have been looking behind me a lot. I thought they were staring into mid air, but Harry was staring at the exact same spot. Just behind my right shoulder. He spoke her name with a glitter in his eye, and I think in his mind, Harry could still see her.

And Esme was still the love of his –our– lives.

When I shut the door and sat down, his expression darkened.

I hate that I can see so much of her in him.

And it terrifies me.

Harry was looking behind me, craning his neck.

“Where did my wife go?”

I told him she was dead, only for him to laugh.

“No she's not,” Harry said, like a child acting out. “She was just right there!”

I know Esme can't be alive, but Ariosa and Wylan say the same thing.

That she's always standing right behind me.

My wife printed one hundred and eighty-six missing-dog flyers today.

I know because I counted them, though not on purpose. I was sitting at the kitchen table cutting the tabs along the bottom—the ones with her phone number printed vertically—and counting gave me something to do besides watch her come apart.

Across the top of every page, in a font much larger than necessary, she'd written:

MISSING YORKIE — PLEASE HELP US BRING CINNA HOME

Underneath was a picture from last Christmas. Cinna sat on the arm of our couch in a red sweater, one ear standing straight up and the other folded over. She always looked irritated in pictures, which was funny because she was probably the sweetest dog I'd ever known.

Below the picture Dana had listed everything strangers needed to know: eight pounds, tan and gray, pink collar, very friendly, might be scared.

At the bottom, in bold:

SHE IS OUR FAMILY.

Dana stood at the counter feeding sheets through the paper cutter one at a time. She hadn't slept properly in three nights. Her hair was still twisted into yesterday's knot, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

"That's enough," I told her.

She kept cutting.

"Dana."

"I heard you."

"It's supposed to hit a hundred and two today."

"I know."

"You've already done the whole neighborhood."

"I haven't done the apartments behind the elementary school."

"You did those yesterday."

"I did the front building."

She slid another flyer beneath the blade. I reached across the table and put my hand on the remaining stack.

"Please. Take an hour."

"What if somebody saw her and they don't have one of these?"

"You've put them on every telephone pole from here to Chapman."

"Then I'll go farther."

There was no anger in her voice. I almost wished there had been.

I let go of the stack and told her to take water. She said she would. I reminded her she'd said the same thing yesterday and had come home with nearly a full bottle.

That got the smallest smile.

"Okay, Dad."

"I mean it."

"I know."

She bent down, kissed the top of my head, gathered another armful of flyers and left.

I watched from the front window until she disappeared around the corner.

Cinna had been gone for three days, and I could already see what it was doing to my wife.

People kept telling us dogs got out all the time. Somebody probably picked her up. Yorkies didn't make it far on their own. Keep checking shelters. Put her picture online.

They meant well.

They didn't know Dana.

More importantly, they didn't know what it had taken to get her back.

When I met my wife, she had more energy than anyone I'd ever known and apparently no interest in wasting it.

She worked in marketing for a medical-device company. By thirty she was managing people older than both of us. She ran half-marathons, remembered everyone's birthday and kept a calendar that looked like it required air-traffic control.

She was exhausting.

I loved her for it.

Work was the only thing we really fought about.

I'd make dinner and get a text at seven saying a meeting had run late. We'd make Saturday plans and she'd need to log in for twenty minutes, which had a strange tendency to become two hours.

Once, during an anniversary dinner, I realized we'd spent most of the appetizer talking about a presentation she had Monday.

"Why do you work this hard?" I asked.

"Because I like it."

"I know. But sometimes I feel like you're killing yourself for a job."

She looked at me. "That's dramatic."

"I miss you."

That stopped her.

Sometimes it seemed like her office got the best version of my wife and I got whatever was left at eight-thirty at night. She told me her career mattered to her, that she was good at what she did and wasn't going to apologize for caring about it.

I said I understood.

Usually I did.

For a while we had rats getting into the detached garage behind the house, and that somehow became my responsibility.

I'd promised to deal with them, then forgot.

One night Dana came home after nine and found droppings beside a bag of dog food we'd bought for her parents' Labrador.

"We have got to do something about this."

"I know."

"You've been saying that for a month."

"I'll do it tomorrow."

"You said that last week."

"I've been busy too, Dana."

She dropped her keys on the counter.

"Maybe that's why I stay at the office. At least they don't have rats."

It wasn't her best joke.

We laughed about it later.

The next morning I finally dealt with the problem. Traps, poison, cleaning out the back shelves.

Dana disliked the poison immediately.

"I hate having that in here."

"It's in the cabinet."

"What if something gets into it?"

"Then we'll keep the garage closed."

She gave me the look she used when I'd missed the point.

Later, after she got pregnant and we started childproofing the house, she made me go through the garage again—loose screws, nails, old traps, anything dangerous I might have forgotten back when there were no children to worry about.

Pregnancy was the first thing I'd ever seen make Dana slow down.

She was frightened almost immediately.

There were heart problems in her family. Not the clogged-artery sort everybody eventually worries about, but something congenital. Hereditary.

Her younger sister died when Dana was four. She remembered almost nothing about the girl herself. A yellow dress. Sharing a bedroom. The fact that she hated peas.

What Dana remembered was the night she died: her mother screaming, a paramedic stepping on one of Dana's toys, someone carrying her sister down the hallway with one tiny arm hanging loose.

So every appointment frightened her. Every test. Every pause before a doctor said everything looked fine.

Our daughter was born on a Tuesday morning in March.

Sophie.

Seven pounds, two ounces, an unreasonable amount of dark hair and a scream that sounded too large to have come from her.

When they put Sophie on Dana's chest, my wife cried so hard I thought something was wrong. Then I realized she was laughing too.

I'd never seen another person look that happy.

I loved Sophie from the moment I saw her. Before she existed there had been a version of my life without her, and after I met her that version became impossible to picture.

Dana took four months off work.

Those were probably the happiest months of our marriage.

I know how that sounds.

I'd come home and they'd be there—Dana on the couch with Sophie asleep against her chest, or Sophie kicking in the little vibrating chair while Dana cooked. We took walks after dinner. We ate together. Weekends belonged to us.

Sometimes I'd stand in the kitchen listening to Dana talk nonsense to the baby in the next room and think that this was what all of it had been for.

The house felt right with her in it.

A few months later Sophie started eating purées. Apple and cinnamon was the first one she really loved.

The first time Dana opened one of the jars, I could smell the cinnamon from across the kitchen.

"Maybe that's why the rats never came back," I said.

Dana looked over at me. "What?"

"Cinnamon. I read somewhere they hate it."

"We haven't had rats in two years."

"I know. Something about the smell being too strong." I shrugged. "Covers up whatever else they're trying to sniff out."

Dana stared at me.

"So Sophie is pest control now?"

"Finally earning her keep."

"You're horrible."

She was smiling when she said it.

Sophie saw the spoon coming and opened her mouth like a baby bird, then somehow got half of it on her cheeks anyway.

Dana laughed and wiped her chin.

After that she started calling her Cinnamon.

At first it was my little Cinnamon girl. Then just Cinnamon. Sometimes Cinny when Dana was tired.

"She's going to hate us when she's fifteen and we tell people about this," Dana said once.

"Then we won't tell anybody."

"I'm telling everybody."

"You're a terrible mother."

"I know."

Sophie slapped both hands into the tray and Dana laughed hard enough to nearly drop the spoon.

I remember that afternoon better than I remember most of that year.

The heart issue appeared during a routine appointment.

A murmur.

Maybe nothing, the pediatrician said. Maybe something.

A cardiologist found enough to watch but not enough to panic over, which meant Dana panicked constantly.

She wanted to know whether it was what her sister had. Whether she'd passed it to Sophie. Whether a baby with a heart problem could simply stop breathing in her sleep.

The doctor was careful with his answers.

I wasn't.

"She's fine," I'd tell Dana afterward.

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

"What if it's the same thing?"

"It isn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm her dad and I've decided."

Sometimes that made her smile.

Dana extended her leave another month, then another.

Eventually her company began asking when she intended to return, and Dana decided she was ready.

She missed adult conversations. She missed dressing for somewhere other than Target. She missed being good at something that didn't involve keeping another human alive.

I told her we'd make it work.

Daycare three days a week. Dana's mother one day. I shifted my schedule when I could.

The first time she came home late again, I remember looking at the clock.

7:42.

Sophie was asleep against me and dinner had gone cold.

Dana came through the door apologizing, kissed the baby, kissed me and immediately started explaining some crisis at work.

"Five weeks back and they've already chained you to the desk."

She stopped.

"Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything."

"That tone is starting something."

"I don't have a tone."

"You absolutely have a tone."

Sophie woke before either of us could say anything else.

Dana had only been back at work a few weeks when she died.

We put Sophie down like normal.

That was the part Dana could never get past.

There had been no dramatic warning. No fever, no crying, nothing that would have made either of us sit beside the crib all night. She ate, played, fell asleep, and sometime before morning her heart stopped.

Dana found her.

I don't like remembering what happened after that.

The nursery was cold. Dana was making a sound I had never heard from another human being. Paramedics came. Police came. Our house filled with people while Sophie was somewhere else.

Someone went through the standard questions with us. Medications. Cleaning products. Anything unusual in the house. Anything she might have reached.

Dana answered most of them before I could.

"We babyproofed everything."

Then she looked at me.

I nodded.

With Sophie's heart and Dana's family history, everyone had an explanation ready.

Her sister had died young. Sophie's cardiologist had already found something worth monitoring. Sometimes these things happened suddenly, we were told. Sometimes there wasn't time to prevent them.

Dana heard something else.

You gave this to her.

And because she'd gone back to work, she found another way to blame herself.

"I should've been here."

"You were here."

"I mean with her."

"She was sleeping."

"What if I missed something?"

"You didn't."

"What if I hadn't gone back?"

"Dana."

"I left her."

"You went to work."

"I left her."

For years I told my wife the same things.

It wasn't your fault.

You couldn't have known.

You loved her.

There was nothing you could have done.

Going back to work did not kill our daughter.

Some nights I said it ten times.

Dana resigned two weeks after the funeral.

I was relieved.

That is one of the things I never told her.

Of course she couldn't have gone back then. Nobody could have. But some part of me was relieved there would be no deadlines, no meetings, no laptop chirping at nine at night.

I thought grief might force everything else to become smaller for a while.

I thought we'd simply exist together until we healed.

That isn't what happened.

The first year was unbearable.

The second was quieter.

Dana stopped seeing friends because most of them had children. Invitations stopped coming after enough polite refusals.

She didn't go back to work.

She didn't go much of anywhere.

I cooked and cleaned and handled bills. I sat with her when she couldn't sleep.

I learned there are only so many ways to answer the question, Do you think she knew I loved her?

Yes.

Always yes.

Of course she knew.

I loved my wife through all of it, but after a few years I began to resent the dead.

That's uglier than saying I was tired, but it's closer to the truth.

I resented Mother's Day. Sophie's birthday. The anniversary of the day she died. I resented strangers' children for having the wrong laugh in grocery stores.

Once, on what would have been Sophie's third birthday, Dana wanted to spend the evening looking through photographs.

I told her I had a headache.

I didn't.

I sat in the bedroom watching something stupid on my phone while my wife cried alone in the living room, and for almost twenty minutes I enjoyed the quiet.

I hated myself afterward.

Mostly.

More than anything, I missed my wife.

Not even the woman she'd been before Sophie. I knew we weren't getting that woman back.

I would've settled for someone who laughed occasionally. Someone who wanted to go to dinner. Someone who could sit through a stupid movie without disappearing halfway through it.

I lasted almost four years before I brought home Cinna.

She fit in one hand.

A coworker's sister had Yorkie puppies, and I'd gone over telling myself I was only looking. One climbed into my lap and fell asleep there.

I sent Dana a picture.

She replied:

No.

I brought the puppy home anyway.

For approximately five minutes, Dana was furious.

"We talked about this."

"No, I sent you a picture and you said no."

"That's generally considered talking."

"You haven't held her."

"I don't want to hold her."

"Fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Hand me the dog while I'm telling you I don't want the dog."

I handed her the dog.

The puppy licked her chin.

Dana laughed.

Actually laughed.

Not the polite little breath she'd been using for years when she knew I was trying to cheer her up. A real laugh, sudden and surprised.

For one embarrassing second I thought I might cry.

The puppy didn't have a name yet.

I suggested Penny.

Dana suggested Cinna.

I knew immediately what she meant.

"No."

Her smile faltered. "What?"

"That's weird."

"It isn't weird."

"It's a little weird."

"It's after Cinnamon."

"I know what it's after."

Dana tucked the puppy against her chest. "I like it."

I remember looking at the two of them and thinking that naming a dog after our dead daughter was one grief-therapy exercise too far.

But Dana was smiling.

So Cinna it was.

And I have to give the little dog credit.

She accomplished what therapists, medication, family and I hadn't.

She gave Dana reasons to leave the house.

At first it was walks because Cinna refused to use the backyard. Once around the block became twice, then the park.

Dana started getting dressed earlier because Cinna woke at seven. She spoke to neighbors, then friends.

Pictures appeared on her phone that weren't old photographs of Sophie.

Dana and Cinna at the beach.

Cinna sitting upright in the passenger seat of Dana's car like a tiny disapproving grandmother.

Dana started cooking again. She played music in the kitchen. She made fun of me.

One night about six months ago she laughed so hard at something stupid I said that she snorted.

She clapped both hands over her face.

"Oh my God."

I couldn't stop smiling.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I missed that."

She knew what I meant.

She leaned over and kissed me.

For the first time in years, I thought maybe we'd made it.

After that, the walks got longer. She started having coffee with a woman two streets over who owned some kind of terrier. Once she and Cinna were gone almost three hours because they'd driven to a park across town.

I teased her about having a social life.

I was glad she did.

A few months later, I came home and found Dana at the kitchen table with her old laptop open.

"What are you doing?"

She tilted the screen away from me in a way that was meant to be playful.

"Nothing."

"That's suspicious."

"I'm updating my résumé."

I looked at the screen.

"Just updating it," she said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You did that thing with your face."

"What thing?"

"That thing."

"I don't have a thing."

"You absolutely have a thing."

She smiled and turned the laptop back around.

"I've been thinking maybe part-time. Or consulting. Something small."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be okay?"

She studied me for a second.

Then she kissed my cheek.

For the next week, the laptop stayed on the kitchen table.

I noticed that.

I also noticed she had started checking her email before breakfast.

Neither of those things meant anything.

Two weeks ago she had résumés printed on thick cream paper.

I told her they looked nice.

The afternoon Cinna disappeared, Dana had taken her into the backyard. Her phone rang and she stepped inside to answer it.

When she went back out, the side gate was open.

No Cinna.

We searched until after midnight.

The next morning we called every shelter within thirty miles. Dana posted everywhere she could think of. We drove slowly through streets with the windows down calling Cinna's name.

I kept telling her Yorkies got picked up. Someone probably had her.

That was better than imagining her on a road somewhere.

By the second day Dana wasn't eating unless I put something directly in front of her.

By the third she wasn't sleeping.

And suddenly it felt like five years ago.

The same frantic eyes. The same bargaining. The same certainty that if she did one more thing, searched one more street, something terrible could still be undone.

"What if somebody stole her?"

"I don't think anybody stole her."

"What if she got hurt?"

"We checked the roads."

"What if she's hiding somewhere?"

"Then somebody will find her."

"What if nobody does?"

"We'll keep looking."

This morning the printer finally ran out of paper.

Even that didn't stop her.

She started feeding in the backs of the résumés she'd had printed two weeks ago, and I sat at the kitchen table cutting tabs while Cinna's face came out on one side and Dana's old life remained neatly formatted on the other.

Job titles.

Promotions.

Awards.

Eleven years of experience.

One page after another disappeared beneath MISSING YORKIE.

I didn't say anything.

It's almost ten now and Dana is still out.

I texted her fifteen minutes ago and told her to come home because it's still ninety-one degrees outside. She replied that she has one more street left, which, knowing my wife, means at least three.

I put a bottle of water in the refrigerator for her. She likes it almost frozen.

There's dinner in the microwave too. She probably won't eat, but I'll make her try.

Tomorrow I'll convince her to stay home for a few hours. Maybe we'll call the shelters together.

I'll drive this time.

She's exhausted, and the heat worries me.

The heat has been worrying me for another reason too.

The garage sits at the back of the yard, separate from the house. There's almost no insulation in there, and the little vent above the side door doesn't do much once the sun has been on the roof all afternoon.

I thought I had longer.

Apparently I didn't.

The smell is bad now.

You can't smell it from the house. You can't even smell it standing a few feet outside the garage.

But open the door and it's there.

Dana hasn't been inside since the first day, when we were still grabbing leashes and flashlights and anything else we thought might help us find Cinna.

She hasn't noticed.

Still, I can't leave her there another day.

Cinna is behind the plastic storage bins along the back wall, wrapped in one of our old moving blankets.

She's so small that hiding her wasn't difficult.

The hard part has been listening to Dana call for her.

Yesterday evening she stood at the end of the driveway shaking the bag of treats.

She called Cinna's name.

Waited.

Called again.

Then finally shouted, "Come home!" into a street that had already gone quiet.

I went inside before she did.

I'll move Cinna tonight after Dana falls asleep.

There's a road about a mile from here where people drive too fast. No sidewalk for part of it, only dry brush and a narrow shoulder.

I'll leave her near there before morning.

Nothing elaborate.

Dana doesn't need an investigation.

She needs an answer.

The gate was open.

Cinna got out.

She wandered too far.

Not knowing is worse.

Give someone an answer and eventually they learn to live around it.

Dana already has.

I hate that she's going to hurt.

But she'll recover.

Cinna proved she can.

I'll cook. I'll sit up with her when she can't sleep. I'll remind her to eat. I'll tell her the gate wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have known, that there was nothing she could have done.

I'll say it as many times as she needs.

Eventually we'll be okay again.

We always are.

Before I move Cinna, I should clean up the garage.

Dana hasn't noticed the cabinet over the workbench is unlocked.

Years ago, when we childproofed the house, she made me promise there was nothing dangerous left in there.

I told her there wasn't.

Most of what I'd bought for the rats is gone now. The traps rusted. The cleaning supplies got used.

There are only a few things shoved behind old paint cans and extension cords, including one battered cardboard box I should have thrown away a long time ago.

I'll get rid of that too.

No reason to keep it.

Funny.

I used to think Cinna was a terrible name. Too morbid, I told Dana. Too much history to hang around the neck of an eight-pound dog.

I suppose I owe my wife an apology.

Both her girls always did love cinnamon.

This happened in the summer of 2000, when I was 17. I was staying with my grandmother in Voronezh for the summer, and one night she asked me to go to a small store and pick up a few things for breakfast.

It was around 11 PM when I left the store. I had a plastic bag in one hand and my CD player in my pocket. I was listening to Nirvana and barely paying attention to anything around me.

I was wearing a denim jacket my father had given me for New Year's. His brother, my uncle, had sent it to him from Philadelphia. I was pretty proud of that jacket back then. Having something from America felt like a big deal.

The train was supposed to arrive in a few minutes.

There was almost nobody on the platform.

When the train finally arrived, I immediately noticed how old it was. The cars were dirty, some of the windows were cloudy, and inside it smelled like dust, metal and old upholstery.

I got into the first car I saw.

There were only a few people inside.

The light above the door kept flickering. It never went completely out. It would just become dim for a second and then come back.

I sat by the window, put the bag next to me and turned up the volume on my CD player.

A few minutes later, the train started moving.

I watched the occasional lights outside the window and thought about getting back to my grandmother's apartment.

At the time, I had no idea that a few minutes later, a man would get on the train who I had seen before.

I just couldn't remember where.

At the next station, the train stopped and a man in his mid-forties got on. He looked completely ordinary. Dark pants, a light short-sleeved shirt and a small plastic bag in his hand.

Nothing strange about him.

He walked through the car and sat across from me.

I didn't pay much attention to him. I still had one earphone in, leaving the other ear free so I could hear announcements.

The man looked out the window for a few seconds, then looked at me.

"Nice jacket."

I pulled out one earphone.

"Thanks."

He nodded.

"American?"

I looked down at the jacket.

"Sort of. My uncle sent it from Philadelphia."

The man didn't say anything. He just looked back out the window.

I figured he'd probably seen something written on the label.

The train started moving again.

For a few minutes, neither of us said anything.

Then he asked:

"Been in Voronezh long?"

"No. I got here recently."

"Staying with your grandmother?"

I looked at him.

"Yeah."

He smiled slightly.

"For a month?"

I stopped smiling.

"How do you know that?"

He shrugged.

"Just a guess."

For some reason, I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

I put my earphone back in and turned the music up.

A few minutes later, the man asked:

"Where's Mitya?"

I froze.

I slowly pulled the earphone out again.

"Which Mitya?"

He looked directly at me.

"Your friend."

I didn't answer.

The train suddenly seemed incredibly quiet. Even the music in my ear sounded distant, despite the volume being exactly the same.

The light above the door flickered again.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, it almost went completely dark.

I looked at the man.

He was still sitting across from me.

"How do you know Mitya?"

He was silent for several seconds.

Then he said:

"You wanted to leave early that time too."

"What?"

He turned back toward the window.

"Nothing."

I stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about.

And then I remembered the school.

The abandoned school where Mitya and I had gone the previous summer.

I remembered the basement.

The people with the candles.

The blood on the floor.

The knife.

I still thought about that night sometimes, even though I tried not to.

I wanted to ask the man what he meant, but the train started slowing down.

He stood up.

"This is my stop."

I looked out the window.

There was a small station outside that I had never seen before.

The man walked toward the doors.

Before stepping out, he turned around.

"Don't get off at the next one."

"Why?"

He looked at me like he wanted to say something.

Instead, he simply stepped off.

The doors closed.

The train started moving again.

I watched the station disappear behind us.

Then I took my ticket out of my pocket and looked at the route.

I read the station name several times.

It wasn't on the route.

I figured I must have simply forgotten about it.

A few minutes later, the train started slowing down again.

I looked out the window.

It was the same station.

But this time I noticed something else.

There was an old metal sign with a street name on it.

I recognized it.

It was the street where that abandoned school had once stood.

I immediately took out my earphone.

The train stopped.

The doors opened.

There was nobody on the platform.

Nobody at all.

No people, no cars, no lights from any nearby houses.

Just the old sign, the empty platform and some bushes behind it.

I didn't get off.

The doors closed.

A few seconds later, the train started moving again.

I looked at my watch.

Only seventeen minutes had passed.

The trip from the station where I had gotten on to my grandmother's place normally took almost an hour.

I started getting nervous.

When the train finally stopped at my station, I got off almost immediately.

The street was quiet.

I hurried home.

When I entered the apartment, my grandmother was still awake. She was sitting in the kitchen watching TV.

She looked at me.

"Why are you back so late?"

"The train was delayed."

She frowned.

"What train?"

"What do you mean?"

"You left ten minutes ago."

At first I didn't understand what she was saying.

"What?"

She looked at the clock.

11:17 PM.

I took out my CD player.

It was still playing Nirvana.

I pressed the stop button.

The music stopped.

That's when I noticed the batteries were completely dead

As the title says. I used to frequent looksmaxxing subreddits a lot back in the day, and a long time ago, I made a post about how foids (women) only went for men with certain pheromones. It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but I identified as an incel once upon a time.

I mention this because I'd like to share a story that happened a bit after the pandemic. I had received a message from some guy who saw my post:

"Hey there! Hope you're staying safe! I saw your post on \*\*\* from a few years ago, and on behalf of the incel community, I just wanted to thank you!

The post actually inspired me to create my perfume brand, Gall, and it's finally taken off! I just hit my first 10,000 orders!

As a token of my appreciation, I'd love to send you a pheromone perfume I've been working on—one that's not on the market yet. It blows everything I've ever made out of the fucking water! Just drop your address and I'll send it to ya! Cheers!"

I hadn't been in the looksmaxxing space for a while, and I wasn't sure if I really wanted a mystery bottle from a self-proclaimed incel. But what the hell. I was running out of my Drakkar Noir anyway, and my fiancée said it made me smell like an old man.

So, I reached out, wired some money for shipping, and a few weeks later, it arrived.

It was in a giant box filled with packing peanuts, and the perfume came in a plain glass bottle with a plastic atomizer. On it was a label in Arial font spelling "Pheromone 42: wish come true." It was green and bubbled like a can of Coke. My fiancée would've killed me if she found out I spent 20 dollars on shipping for this. I was worried it was gonna be acid or something.

I sprayed it on my wrist and found myself wishing it was acid. It smelled awful—chlorine, sweat, and burning plastic. It smelled like standing over a garbage fire behind an electronics store.

I threw the bottle back in the box and ran to the bathroom to vomit. I tried washing off the scent in the sink, but that just made things worse. The smell spread out into the whole room, and I found myself bent over the toilet letting out last night's dinner. I smelled my wrist again and let out yesterday's lunch.

That was when I decided to go out and get some rubbing alcohol. I thought it would make the smell go away.

And so, I suited up, wore a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket, and emptied out the rest of my Drakkar Noir.

There was a convenience store down the road, about a 10-minute walk. I walked over, looking around, worried I'd pass someone by, and as I did, I noticed people staring at me.

Not just people I was passing, but folks from across the street. People from up and down the road were watching me. I could see stares pointed at me before I could even make out their faces from up the road. So many people. I began to pick up the pace until one woman came up to me.

"Wanna fuck?" she asked. She was with her son, who looked at me with a chilling fury in his eyes. I kept walking, obviously freaked out.

I passed a couple—the woman looking me up and down, the man looking like he was ready to take my head off.

"Hey mister, you're cute!" whined the woman.

"Back the fuck up before I take your fucking head off, bro," barked the man.

I began walking faster then, as a hundred pairs of eyes stared at me. I felt like an insect in a jar.

Soon enough, I could hear footsteps trailing after mine. I turned back and saw about twenty or so guys following me.

"Hey man! What's your perfume? You smell awesome!" cried one.

"Get back here and fucking fight me, pussy!" cried another.

I began running then, my mind racing. I thought back to my messages with the guy from the internet. He said this thing was long-lasting. But he mentioned something else—something about the perfume:

Top notes of lust

Heart notes of hunger

Base notes of desire

I know a little bit about perfume. Top notes fade the earliest, and the base notes fade last. Was this the smell of lust?

I was almost to the convenience store when the men finally caught up to me. One grabbed me by the collar, another by the arms. They beat the shit out of me. Fists landed on my stomach, and my lungs stopped working. I couldn't breathe as they pummeled me to the ground. I felt one of them begin to do some things I won't repeat here.

"You like that, pussy?!" one yelled as he stomped my head to the ground, blinding me for a moment.

"You're a fuckig dog!" yelled another as he did things to me.

Soon enough, I heard police sirens. The men scrambled, and I was left on the ground smelling like blood and perfume, tasting iron in my mouth. I saw the officers walk up to me, sniff the air, and turn their body cameras off. They used their batons and their fists.

I woke up in fragments then. I remember siren blares, being in an ambulance, being treated by men in masks, being hauled into a white room with white bedsheets, my arms and chest blanketed in bandages. I spent days there, coming in and out of consciousness, watching the window shutter from day to night in seconds.

I woke up to the sound of crying and the rhythm of my ECG. The whole ward was crying as nurses scrambled around the room.

"Doctor, let me eat that man!" one person cried, mummified in bloody gauze, their bed trembling as they struggled to their feet while held down by the nurses. "Please, God, just a bite!"

"I'm starving!" screamed another, his head and eyes wrapped in bandages, his arms cuffed with restraints that were hanging on by a thread as he thrashed in his bed. "I'm starving!"

My chest was on fire and my legs were weak, but I got on my feet and shambled. I needed to get out of there. I put weight on my legs and felt like I was about to fall. One arm was plastered, the other hooked to an IV pole. I just needed to get home and let the smell fade.

The nurses yelled after me, but I kept walking. Luckily, they were busy keeping patients in bed. Most of the folks in the hospital wore masks, so I had no trouble walking through. It was midnight by then, and I'd been gone from home for 5 days.

I kept walking until I saw something familiar. Turns out I wasn't far from home. Luckily, there weren't a lot of people out and about.

I found myself dragging my broken body home. I passed by the convenience store, nightcrawlers staring from behind the glass, watching as I shambled across the street.

As I did, I passed the place where I had been beaten. It was destroyed, as though artillery shells had crashed down on it. Walls were missing chunks, and the ground where I had been beaten was nothing more than a crater. It was wet and smelled awful.

I picked up the pace then and found my home.

It was destroyed. Windows bashed open, front door gaping wide, revealing a black, ominous rectangle where the living room should have been. I stumbled forward, calling for my fiancée. No answer.

I stumbled through the dark living room; the moonlight revealed a destroyed couch, fallen lamps, and destroyed vases. I could smell something else, too—something that wasn't the perfume.

That was when I heard it. Something wet grinding across something hard. Squelching and gnawing. Hundreds.

It was coming from the bathroom.

I snuck forward, fire burning in my legs, my heart thrumming against my ribs. There I found the scene that still lives in my nightmares today.

My fiancée, and about a dozen naked bodies. All of them chewing on the bathroom. There were teeth strewn about the floor, bloody ribbons attached to their ends. I saw my fiancée biting the sink with toothless jaws, the others gnawing on the toilet or the floor. One of them stared at me with indifferent eyes, so focused was he on mastication. Such a wet, disgusting sound, as strokes of red painted the marble counter. I could only call after my fiancée, begging her to stop. She wouldn't hear me.

I spent days locked up in my room. I shat in a corner and recycled my piss. After a week, I had no choice but to come down. In the bathroom lay twenty or so dead bodies, all naked, mouths bloodied and toothless, smelling of dry spit.

Don’t ever buy a used house.

You can never be sure what else is living there.

Everything started when I moved my family across the country. A new job opened up for me in the Midwest, and with our second child on the way, my wife encouraged me to pursue it. It was a few months ago when our moving truck pulled into our new hometown.

“This is a change of pace.” My wife said, sending a smile my way; her voice was a mix of excitement and stress.

With a nod, I returned her smile.

We'd spent our whole lives in Boston, so moving to a small rural town was going to be a hard reset. But we welcomed it. This was the type of place we wanted to raise our kids.

Turning the truck onto a quiet suburban street, I gleefully announced

“Here’s our new street.”

Our 6-year-old son Travis perked up in the backseat, straining his neck for the first view of our new house. Near the end of the street, the truck came to a stop in front of a large Victorian-style house. It was old, though well-maintained, exactly the way it looked in the pictures online. Travis’ eyes widened as he saw the house and the large yard around it.

“Is this our house, Daddy?” he asked hopefully.

My wife and I looked back at him with wide smiles.

“Sure is, buddy,” I replied

“Do you want to go see your room?” my wife asked.

Travis’ eyes remained locked on the house as he nodded in agreement. With a stretch, the three of us got out of the tight cab of the moving truck and made our way to the front door. I unlocked the door with the key that had been sent to me weeks ago, and the door swung out with a low squeak. The house was bare, but beautiful. Its updated interior instantly welcomed us home. Before long, Travis was running laps around the main floor as he laughed to himself. My wife and I stood together in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Erin said with a tired sigh.

The cross-country journey was tiring, but for my 8-month-pregnant wife, it was completely draining. Wrapping her in a tight hug, I said

“Tell you what? Travis and I will handle the boxes for the next few days, and you rest for a while.”

She looked at me, ready to protest, but I placed a hand on her belly and smiled.

“I insist.”

“Daddy?”

Travis stood by the staircase.

“Can I go find my room?”

I nodded,

“I’ll come with; let’s find it together.”

With a smile, he dashed up the stairs. I followed. The stairway led to a wide, long hallway with several doors and a small perpendicular hallway going off to the right. Travis stood at the top of the stairs when I got there; he stared down the hall.

“Which one is mine?” he asked

“I think the one at the end.”

He nodded and ran down the hall; right before reaching his door, he passed the off-shooting smaller hall. He stopped and looked down it; he pointed and asked

“What’s up there?”

I made my way to him and looked where he pointed. The hallway led to a smaller set of stairs, and at the top was an old wooden door. Unlike the rest of the house, it hadn't been painted or renovated. The brass knob was dark with age.

“That’s the attic.”

“Can we go look?”

I shook my head.

“No, we’ve had a long day. I don’t think you’d like it anyway; probably a lot of spiders and weird smells.”

“Okay,” he said in a disappointed voice before his attention shifted to his new room.

It was already late afternoon, so Travis and I unloaded the bare essentials: a few mattresses, a few duffel bags of clothes, and the basic kitchen utensils. That night we ate ramen at a table made from cardboard boxes. We turned in early that night.

“Daddy?”

Travis’ low voice woke me up late that night.

“Travis? Are you ok?” I said, half awake.

“My new friend wanted you to know that he didn’t like what you said about the attic.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Goodnight, Daddy.” With that, he turned and left the room.

Morning came. And I made my way downstairs, where I was met by Erin, who was preparing breakfast, and Travis, who was playing with some toys on the floor. Erin smiled, and I kissed her good morning. Turning to Travis, I said

“Hey Buddy, how’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

He seemed tired

“Hey, what were you talking about last night?”

I was hoping I had just been dreaming, but he said

“Just something my friend said last night.”

“Your friend? Who’s that?”

He shrugged

“Timmy.”

Realizing he was talking about an imaginary friend, I asked

“He sounds nice. Where does he live?”

“Upstairs.”

“In your room?”

“No, above my room. In the attic.”

I nodded slowly and said

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”

I then walked back to my wife. We had a full day ahead of us. I was hoping to get the truck emptied that day so I could return it the next day. Travis and I hauled boxes into the house while Erin told us where in the house she wanted each box. Around lunch, Travis and I carried boxes labeled ‘memories’ into the house. Erin glanced in the boxes before saying

“Let’s put those in the attic.” She said

I signaled Travis to follow me as I headed to the stairs. On the second floor, we moved towards the second staircase; it creaked under my weight as I ascended. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob; it was slightly warm. Before I opened it, Travis said

“Dad, we should ask Timmy if it’s ok to put boxes in his room.”

I smiled to myself, quietly admiring my son’s imagination

“You’re right, son; how could I forget?”

With a grin, I loudly asked

“Timmy, is it ok with we store some boxes up here?”

We waited in silence for a moment before Travis said quietly

“He said its ok.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” I replied in a subtly sarcastic tone that my son didn’t pick up on.

The door was heavy and opened slowly; the space behind it was large and bare. It was a large single room with two wings reaching out in opposite directions, and three small round windows allowed natural light to flood the dusty space. A homemade shelf stood against the far wall. I directed Travis to set his box on it, and I did the same. I sent my box down and realized Travis had moved to one of the wings of the attic. He was down at the end of the space, and I walked towards him. I could see him standing over something.

“Hey, did you find something?”

Coming up right behind him, I saw that he stood before an old wooden child-sized rocking chair. Sitting upon its seat was an old, withered doll. Its dress, which had once been white, was an aged yellow, and its face was faded. Its wide blue eyes seemed to stare right at us. A drawstring on its back made it clear that this doll had a voice box. We stared at it in silence for a moment before Travis reached out and slowly pulled the doll's string.

A crackling, weak voice filled the attic

“Hello, what’s your name?”

Travis stared at the doll intently before whispering

“That’s Timmy’s doll.”

I swallowed before saying

“Well, we got more boxes to move, I bet mom’s wondering where we went.”

Travis didn’t move; his eyes were glued to the doll.

“Come on, Trav, we got to keep going.”

After a long minute, he said

“Okay.”

He was quiet the rest of the day.

At dinner, we ate box mac and cheese. Travis stared blankly at his bowl and absentmindedly moved the noodles around with his spoon.

Erin looked at me, concerned, before turning to our son.

“Sweetie? Are you ok?”

He scrunched up his nose and said

“Yeah.”

My wife pushed further

“Did something happen?”

“My friend is saying mean things.”

My wife was confused

“Friend? What friend, darling?”

“My friend upstairs.”

Erin glanced at me, realizing what he was talking about.

“Well.” She said warmly, “Sometimes friends say things they don’t mean.”

“He wants us to leave.”

“But we just got here,” she chuckled, “and I'm afraid Timmy doesn't get to make that decision.”

Travis looked at her.

“He says he does.”

“Just try to be nice, Sweetie; I’m sure he’ll come around.”

He shrugged

“Ok, I’ll try.”

Before long, we got Travis ready for bed, and it didn’t take long for Erin and me to do the same. Once again, I was awakened in the middle of the night, only this time it wasn’t by my son. It was by a loud thump coming from downstairs. I lay frozen in bed for a moment, quietly holding my breath. Another thump came; I hadn’t imagined it. My heart beat faster as I crept to the door; slowly, I went down the stairs one step at a time. Reaching the main level, I stood close to the wall, trying to be as quiet and still as possible. It was pitch dark, and the darkness felt electric, as if I could sense something standing hidden from sight by its shadows. The light switch was just around the corner.

Swallowing hard, my hand slid blindly along and around the wall. My fingers fumbled around to find the light switch; finally, they did. The light illuminated the empty kitchen and living room. Nothing was there. Feeling braver in the light, I checked the entire floor and found nothing. I didn’t even find the source of the thump. Confused, I made sure the doors were locked and made my way to the stairs, turning off lights as I went.

I reached the top of the stairs and froze as my eyes rested on the tiny shape of the strange doll from the attic. It sat a few feet in front of me, right in the middle of the hall. It sat limply, and its unnatural eyes stared right at me. Shaking my head, I made my way over to Travis’ room, expecting to find him awake. He must be playing a joke on me, but I found him deep asleep. I turned back around to the hall, but there was no doll. I blinked and looked around, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking my head, I muttered aloud.

“I need some sleep.”

Over the next couple of weeks, life began to settle. Slowly, more boxes were unpacked. Most of the time, I worked from home, so we converted one of the spare rooms upstairs into my office. Travis seemed to grow quieter with each passing day. I worried about him, but Erin said it was just a phase, the side effects of moving to a new area at his young age. That made sense; I just hoped it wouldn’t last long.

Travis began spending more and more time up in the attic. He moved several of his toys up there, turning it into his own playroom. Erin thought it was great; it kept his toys out of the living room and kitchen, but I couldn't stop thinking of the strange doll.

A few days ago, I passed by the attic door and heard low whispers coming from behind it. Curious, I slowly made my way up to the door and inched it open, just enough to hear my son whispering in the far corner of the attic. It was a one-sided conversation; I heard him say

“What do you mean?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Please stop.”

At that last one, I gently pushed through the door and announced myself

“Travis? Are you up here? Who are you talking to?”

I found my son sitting on the floor in front of the small chair; he stared at the doll

“Hi, Dad,” he said as I walked over.

“I was just playing with Timmy.”

I nodded slowly

“Alright, Buddy, it's almost lunchtime, so come down soon.”

“Can I eat up here, with Timmy?”

I frowned and shook my head

“No, I’d like to have lunch with you, so come down.”

He stared at the doll for a moment.

“Ok.”

I went downstairs and started to make some sandwiches. Right as I finished, Travis walked into the kitchen. As we enjoyed a family lunch, I figured I should ask Travis some questions.

“So Travis, what does your friend Timmy look like?”

Travis stopped chewing and stared at the plate for a moment before glancing up.

“He’s really tall.”

“Oh, very nice,” I replied. “What else?”

“his eyes are big.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was sitting in the corner of my room the night we moved in. He said he wanted to play with me.”

His answer caught me off guard; I didn’t really know what to say. I took a bite of my sandwich, and as I did, Travis asked his own question

“Dad, what does it mean to kill someone?”

I nearly choked on the bite in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed quickly and asked

“Where did you hear that word?”

“Timmy was talking about killing someone.”

“Who?” I shouted

My son shrank at the table; fear and sadness caked his face. Seeing my son like that I sighed and changed my tone.

“Trav, there are some things that you’ll find out about when you get older, but for now just know your mom and I love you very much and won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

He squirmed in his seat before answering

“I know, Daddy.”

The next day was sunny and warm, and I insisted that Travis play outside. Erin had her final checkup before the due date, and so I used the time to catch up on some work projects. A few hours into my work, I heard footsteps. Loud, heavy footsteps were coming from the attic above me. I figured Travis had snuck by my office and gone upstairs to play. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched, stood up, and moved to the attic door.

“Hey Trav, did you have fun outside?” I said as I pushed out the door.

But there was no response; the attic was eerily quiet. It was empty. I scanned the place intently, wondering if Travis was hiding. After looking over the space, I moved to one of the round windows and glanced out. To my surprise, I saw Travis playing in the sandbox in the backyard. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I slowly turned from the window, and my eyes rested on the child’s chair at the end of the attic. The little doll's eyes were locked on me.

I slowly walked towards it, staring into its unblinking eyes. A few feet in front of it, I stood for a moment. It felt like an eternity, and every moment I looked at it, my courage weakened. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to leave. I froze after a few steps when a crackling, broken voice rose behind me

“Hello, what’s your name?”

I didn’t move; it felt like I couldn’t move. I stood there for an unbearable amount of time; I didn’t dare look behind me. After a few minutes, I swore I could hear heavy, low, deep breathing coming from the back corner. Then a creaking floorboard, then another, and another, then the one directly behind me creaked and groaned under pressure. A warm, damp breath collided with my neck. The sensation ignited my body with adrenaline, and I dashed towards the door, covering the 20 feet in mere seconds. I slammed the door behind me and fled to the main level.

My phone rang in my pocket; it was Erin.

“Hi, Sweetie.” Her voice was kind, but strained.

“Erin, look, I think there’s a problem with the house.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait.” She interrupted me

“The baby is coming.”

Less than an hour later, Travis and I sat in a hospital waiting room. And about six hours later, we met his new little sister, Sarah. There had been a few minor complications, and the hospital staff wanted to observe Erin and Sarah for 72 hours. The four of us stayed the weekend. Away from home, Travis seemed happier, more like himself; he was thrilled to be a big brother.

Soon we returned home; I must admit that the rush of a new child and three days in the hospital made me doubt what happened in the attic; it didn’t seem important compared to caring for a healing wife, an infant, and a six-year-old. We were exhausted, and the thought of sleeping in our own bed sounded like a dream. Only it didn’t last long. Around 12:30 last night, Travis’ screams reached my ears. I jumped out of bed, avoided Sarah’s bassinet, and quickly entered Travis’ room. He sat on his bed weeping.

“What’s wrong, son?” I said

“Timmy is saying bad things to me.”

I sat next to him, wrapping an arm around him.

“He wants me to do something bad.” He whimpered

I hugged him tight until his tears slowed

“Can I sleep with you?” he whispered

“Of course, son.”

I locked the bedroom door, and Travis snuggled in between Erin and me. Around 3, I was awakened by Erin’s frantic cries

“Where’s Sarah? She’s gone!”

I sat up quickly and saw that the bassinet was empty, the door was open, and Travis was gone. Panic filled my veins as I jumped from the bed and ran to the attic. I burst through the door, and there was Travis, his baby sister in his arms. Tears ran down his face as he stared down the attic towards the doll; in the dark, it seemed as though a hulking shadow crouched behind the chair.

“Travis, what are you doing?”

His eyes were fixed on the doll; through tears, he said

“He wants the baby.”

I took a step closer

“Son, look at me”

He tried, but his eyes didn’t move

“Give me Sarah.”

Very slowly, almost mechanically, he moved closer to the doll; I followed.

“Give me your sister!” I yelled

He kept walking; I pulled my daughter from his hands. As soon as Sarah changed hands, a loud screech filled the attic; the foundations of the house shook violently, and the monstrous shadow stood up, its shape filling the back of the corner, and then disappeared from view. The room creaked and shook. I could feel some force trying to pull my daughter from my hands. I backed up; it pulled harder. I was getting closer to the door; several long cuts began to appear on my forearms. My daughter screamed, and Travis cried. Turning my back to the doll, I drew my daughter in close to my chest and wrapped one arm around Travis and dragged him with us through the door.

The house continued to shake and creak; we made our way down the hall, and Erin met us by the stairs.

“What is happening?” she screamed.

“Get outside.”

Even from out in the front yard, we could still hear the screeching and creaking.

Right now we’re in a hotel room; tomorrow we’re leaving. We’ll have a moving company grab our stuff; we’re never going back there.

The kids are finally sleeping, but Erin and I locked eyes as a crackling, broken voice came from the bathroom.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

 

The first time I smelled it, I thought I was having a stroke.

Not because I knew what a stroke felt like. I was eighteen, reasonably healthy, and had spent most of my life treating sleep as a loose suggestion. But everybody knows the burnt-toast thing. You smell toast when there isn't any toast, and you're supposed to call 911 before half your face slides off.

Except this wasn't toast.

I was lying in bed with a bag of peach rings balanced on my stomach when the smell came through my room strongly enough to make me sit up.

Warm and earthy.

Almost smoke, but not quite.

Damp stone. Crushed leaves. Something faintly sweet underneath.

Nothing was burning.

Dad was asleep on the couch. Mom had gone to bed.

Grandma was in the guest room.

That mattered because she'd arrived eleven days ago, and the smell had been happening almost that long.

The headaches had started earlier. Sharp pressure behind my eyes. Then came the pinching.

That's the only word I've found for it.

Something beneath my skin would catch a tiny fold of me from the inside and twist.

My arms. My stomach. The back of my neck.

There was never a mark afterward.

I'd already gone to urgent care. Everything was normal. The doctor told me to drink more water.

Mom bought me an enormous insulated bottle and left chocolate-covered pretzels beside it.

"For hydration?" I asked.

"Those are obviously medicinal."

I've always liked sweet things.

Apparently I had a comfort food group.

Grandma had habits too.

She folded dish towels into perfect thirds. She complained that Dad's coffee tasted like "hot brown water." She watched the evening news at a volume that made Dad retreat upstairs.

And she left glasses of water in strange places.

Behind the front door.

On top of the refrigerator.

Near the hallway leading to my room.

Leaves appeared beside the back entrance. Sometimes I woke before sunrise and found a candle burning in the kitchen.

"Religious thing," Mom said when I asked.

"What religion requires hydration stations?"

Mom smiled.

Grandma didn't.

Grandma was my mother's mother, but I barely knew her. She had spent most of my life in Mexico, and she and Mom had gone years without speaking.

My only clear memory of her was from when I was five.

Maybe six.

A crowded room. Candles. Women speaking quietly. Bowls of water and flowers.

A necklace lay on a white cloth.

I reached for it.

Grandma grabbed my wrist.

She shouted.

I remember crying. Her hand hurting me.

For most of my life, I'd remembered her as angry.

When she arrived at our house, she stood in the driveway wearing a pale blue blouse and looking much smaller than the monster my childhood had preserved.

She hugged Mom.

She hugged Dad.

Then she looked at me.

For one uncomfortable second, she just stared.

"Elena."

The way she said my name bothered me.

She sounded like someone who hadn't expected to see me.

I started avoiding her after the headaches got worse.

Then one afternoon I walked into the kitchen and found her whispering over a glass of water.

Pain stabbed behind my left eye so hard I caught myself against the counter.

"Stop."

Grandma opened her eyes.

The whispering stopped.

So did the pain.

Not slowly.

Immediately.

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Neither of us said anything.

That night I told Mom.

"I swear to you, every time she does one of those things, I get sick."

"She's praying."

"Cool. Why does her praying make my skull feel like it's splitting open?"

"It doesn't."

"You weren't in my skull, so I'm not sure you're qualified to say that."

Mom turned off the faucet harder than necessary.

"Your grandmother loves you."

"She doesn't know me."

Something moved across her face.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Two nights later, I woke at 2:13 in the morning with the smell filling my room so strongly I could taste it.

Earth.

Smoke.

Damp stone.

Then something twisted beneath my ribs.

A strip of light showed under my door.

I opened it.

Grandma was sitting on the hallway floor.

A glass of water rested beside her. My blue sweatshirt was spread across her lap, and she was moving one hand slowly above it while whispering under her breath.

"Are you serious?"

She stopped.

"What are you doing with my clothes?"

"I'm helping you."

"By sitting outside my room with my sweatshirt at two in the morning?"

"I know you are hurting."

"Because of you."

Her expression changed.

Not anger.

Sadness.

That frightened me more.

"You think that because you don't understand."

"Then explain it."

Something pinched the inside of my forearm.

I grabbed it.

Grandma's eyes went straight to the spot.

"There," I said. "You're doing it right now."

Her voice became very soft.

"It hurts because it wants me to stop."

Cold moved through me.

"What does?"

For the first time since she'd arrived, Grandma looked unsure.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I know something is wrong. That is not the same as knowing what it is."

The pinching tightened.

Grandma reached toward me.

I stepped back.

"Don't."

"Elena—"

I locked my door.

The next morning I confronted her in the kitchen.

Mom was there.

So was Dad, although he became very interested in his coffee the second voices were raised.

"What religion?" I asked.

Grandma looked at Mom before answering.

"Lukumí. Some people call it Santería."

I looked toward the glass of water near the door.

"And that's what all this is?"

"Some of it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm praying. It means I'm trying to protect this house. It means I am doing what I know how to do."

"With my clothes."

"Because they belong to you."

The old memory came back so clearly that my wrist seemed to ache.

"The necklace."

Grandma went still.

"What?"

"When I was little. You grabbed me because I touched a necklace."

Mom stopped moving.

Grandma lowered herself into a chair.

"You remember that?"

"Of course I remember it."

"You were very young."

"You screamed at me."

"I was scared."

"You were angry."

"I was scared."

"There was nothing to be scared of. I was a kid."

"I know."

She looked suddenly exhausted.

"Those beads were not cursed, Elena. They were sacred. They had been received for someone else. You should not have touched them, but touching them did not cause this."

"Cause what?"

No one answered.

I looked at Mom.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Mom sat across from me.

"When you were little, your grandmother thought something had changed."

I laughed once because the alternative was not laughing.

"Changed how?"

Grandma answered.

"You became different."

"Kids become different."

"Yes."

"So?"

She folded her hands.

"You had been terrified of water. Then you loved it. Foods you refused became your favorites. Sometimes you knew things that had happened but couldn't tell me anything about being there."

"That's your evidence?"

"No."

"What else?"

She studied my face.

"Sometimes you looked at people as though you were learning them."

My stomach tightened.

Mom said, "I thought she'd frightened you. I thought she was seeing danger because she expected to see it."

"And?"

"And I told her to leave you alone."

Grandma looked away.

"For years," Mom said, "I thought she was wrong."

I pushed back from the table.

"And now?"

No one stopped me when I left.

That night Mom pulled an old photo album from the hall closet.

She didn't explain why.

We sat on the floor of her bedroom turning pages.

Birthdays.

Halloween costumes.

Christmas mornings.

Then the river.

I smiled before I meant to.

"God, I loved that place."

Mom looked at me.

"You did eventually."

I turned toward her.

"What does that mean?"

"You were terrified of it when you were little."

"No I wasn't."

"Elena."

She turned a page.

Dad was carrying me away from the river.

I was screaming.

Not whining. Not crying because I'd fallen.

Screaming.

My fists were twisted in Dad's shirt. My entire body was trying to climb higher into his arms.

I stared at the picture.

"I remember that trip."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Sun through cottonwoods.

Dad's red cooler.

Strawberry candies in a plastic bag.

Warm rocks beneath my legs.

The current outside our tent at night.

I knew all of it.

But when I tried to remember anything immediately before the photograph was taken, there was nothing.

Not darkness.

Nothing.

Just the picture.

A fact with no edges around it.

Mom closed the album.

Neither of us spoke.

The next morning, I lost twenty minutes.

One second I was sitting on my bed watching videos.

The next, I was downstairs with my shoes on and my hand wrapped around the front-door lock.

Dad was standing behind me.

"Going somewhere?"

"I don't know."

He laughed.

Then he saw my face.

"I was upstairs."

"What?"

"I was just upstairs."

"I heard you come down."

"I don't remember it."

Dad looked toward the staircase.

That was the moment he stopped joking about any of this.

That night I dreamed about the river.

I was small.

Someone was carrying me.

I could hear myself screaming.

When I woke, there was dirt on the bottoms of my feet.

Two days later, pain ripped across my stomach while I was walking down the hall.

I folded against the wall.

Dad caught me before I hit the floor.

From the laundry room, Grandma's voice stopped.

So did the pain.

Dad looked through the doorway.

Grandma was kneeling beside one of my shirts.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Later, I heard Grandma and Mom talking behind the laundry-room door.

"I can't keep doing it little by little," Grandma said.

Mom's voice shook.

"You said you weren't sure."

"I wasn't."

"And now?"

"When I pray over something that belongs to her, it reacts before Elena knows I'm doing anything."

A pause.

"It's holding too tightly."

I stepped into the doorway.

"What's holding too tightly?"

Mom turned.

Her face told me everything before she spoke.

She believed her.

That terrified me more than Grandma ever had.

They called what Grandma wanted to do a cleansing.

I called it absolutely not.

"I went to a doctor."

"And they didn't find anything," Mom said.

"So now we're doing an exorcism?"

"It's not an exorcism," Grandma said.

"Stop telling me things aren't what they obviously are."

"I don't know what this is."

"That's reassuring."

"But I know what happens when I pray."

"You hurt me."

Grandma's mouth tightened.

Then she said, "Yes."

Everyone went quiet.

She didn't defend herself.

Didn't tell me the pain wasn't real.

Just yes.

Mom covered her mouth.

Grandma continued.

"I think the pain comes from separating something that has been joined for a long time."

"To me?"

"I don't know."

"What if you're wrong?"

Her eyes filled.

"Then I will have hurt you for nothing."

"And if you're right?"

No one answered.

That was worse.

We did it Saturday morning.

Morning light came through the curtains.

Grandma pushed the coffee table aside. Beside her sat a bowl of water, leaves, a candle, and a piece of white cloth.

Nothing looked dramatic enough.

I had expected, I don't know, thunder.

Something worthy of being terrified.

Instead Dad moved his coffee mug out of the way.

Mom cried silently.

Grandma told me to sit.

"I hate all of you."

Dad nodded.

"That's fair."

Under any other circumstances, I might have laughed.

Grandma knelt in front of me.

"Whatever happens, listen to me."

"Not fight you?"

"No."

She shook her head.

"Fight if you need to. Just listen."

She touched my forehead.

The smell hit me all at once.

Earth.

Smoke.

Water.

And underneath it, something familiar enough to hurt.

Grandma began praying.

Pressure swelled behind my eyes.

She moved the leaves over my shoulders and down my arms.

Everywhere they passed burned.

"Stop."

She kept praying.

"Please."

Mom came closer.

"I'm here, baby."

"Then make her stop."

I tried to stand.

My legs didn't work.

The room lurched upward.

For one impossible second, I became very small.

Not felt small.

Was small.

The couch towered over me.

Mom's face looked too far away.

My name is Elena Morales.

The thought came so clearly that I grabbed onto it.

I'm eighteen.

That's Mom.

That's Dad.

This is our house.

Grandma kept praying.

My name is Elena.

I'm eighteen.

Mom.

Dad.

Home.

Then I heard the river.

Water moving over stones.

Sun through trees.

Candy sticking between my fingers.

Warm rocks beneath my legs.

Dad laughing.

Mom calling my name.

I loved that place.

I—

Cold water.

A scream.

My scream.

Dad lifting me away from the bank.

No.

That hadn't happened.

My name is Elena.

I love the river.

I love—

Candles.

A crowded room.

Bowls of water and flowers.

A necklace on white cloth.

A little girl reached toward it.

Grandma turned.

Her face changed.

She lunged.

Her hand closed around the girl's wrist.

And I watched it happen.

From across the room.

I stopped breathing.

No.

The memory snapped back.

I was the little girl.

Grandma was holding my wrist.

I was crying.

Then I was near the doorway again.

Watching.

Then inside the little girl's body.

Then outside it.

Each time the memory changed, something inside me tore.

"No."

Grandma's prayer faltered.

"That's not right."

She was crying now.

"I'm remembering it wrong."

Grandma touched my cheek.

"No, mi amor."

"My name is Elena."

Behind her, Mom made a sound like she had been hit.

I looked at her.

My mother.

I knew she sang the wrong lyrics to songs even after being corrected.

I knew she kept emergency cash inside an old birthday card in her dresser.

I knew Dad couldn't sleep without the television on.

I knew the squeak in the third stair.

I knew where Mom hid Christmas presents.

I knew Dad always checked the back door twice.

I knew the scar on his thumb came from opening a can when I was twelve.

I knew all of them.

I knew everything.

It was my life.

Grandma pressed her forehead against mine.

"You have to let go."

"Of what?"

"Please."

"I don't understand."

The smell became unbearable.

Water.

Smoke.

Earth.

The river roaring somewhere inside the room.

"I'm Elena."

Grandma squeezed my hands.

Something in her face collapsed.

"No, mi amor."

Something inside me gave way.

It wasn't pain.

It was like reaching for a railing in the dark and finding nothing there.

I reached for my name.

Elena.

Then the river.

My parents.

Peach rings.

Christmas.

My blue sweatshirt.

Graduation.

The boy who kissed me behind the gym and apologized afterward because he'd missed my mouth.

The scar beneath my chin.

Driving alone for the first time.

Dad teaching me to change a tire.

Mom falling asleep beside me during a movie and denying it when she woke up.

Everything I had ever called mine.

All of it came apart in my hands.

I tried to remember my face.

I couldn't.

Then there was nothing.

When I opened my eyes, Mom was holding me.

She looked old.

That was the first thing I noticed.

There was gray in her hair.

Dad looked old too.

I asked what happened.

Mom hugged me so hard it hurt.

Grandma was kneeling nearby.

I became scared when I saw her.

Then I remembered candles.

The necklace.

Her hand around my wrist.

But she looked old now too.

"Where are we?"

Mom pulled back.

"Home."

I knew the house.

Except I didn't.

The walls were the wrong color.

Dad's cabinet was gone.

There was a television where the bookcase used to be.

I asked where my toys were.

Dad turned away.

Mom took me upstairs.

My room was worse.

A big bed.

Clothes I didn't recognize.

Makeup on the dresser.

Photographs covering the mirror.

In one of them, a girl in a cap and gown stood between Mom and Dad.

She looked like me.

I picked it up.

"Who is that?"

Mom made a strange sound.

I knew the answer somehow.

That frightened me.

"How old am I?"

Nobody answered.

Then Mom said, "Eighteen."

I thought she was lying.

I went to the mirror.

There was a girl in it.

She moved when I moved.

I touched my face.

She touched hers.

There was a scar beneath my chin.

I knew that scar.

I remembered Dad wiping blood off my shirt.

I did not remember getting hurt.

Mom said it happened when I was nine.

I don't remember being nine.

I remember the beads.

I remember Grandma yelling.

Then I woke up here.

That is all.

Thirteen years.

Mom said thirteen years are gone.

I don't understand how years can be gone.

That afternoon, Mom brought me peach rings.

She put the bag beside me without saying anything.

"What are those?"

She stopped.

"Your favorite."

I tried one because of the way she was looking at me.

It was awful.

Too sweet.

I spit it into my hand.

"I don't like these."

Mom stared at me.

Then she left the room.

The next morning, there was cinnamon cereal on the counter.

I asked if Dad had bought it.

Mom looked at the box for a long time.

"No," she said.

She put it in the pantry.

Later, I heard her crying in there.

Dad asked if I wanted to visit the river sometime.

I said no.

I hate the river.

I know I hate it.

I remember cold water.

I remember screaming.

Dad carrying me away.

But there is another memory in my head too.

Warm rocks.

Sunshine.

Candy melting against my fingers.

Happiness.

I can see it as clearly as anything.

It just doesn't feel like mine.

It feels like when somebody tells you the same story so many times that eventually you know all the words.

Grandma told me what she thinks happened.

She says she doesn't know for sure.

Something was near me that day with the beads.

Maybe it came with us.

Maybe it was already there.

Maybe it had been close before that.

The beads did not cause it.

She is certain about that.

She is less certain about everything else.

"What was it?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Was it bad?"

Grandma didn't answer right away.

"I thought so."

"Do you still?"

She looked toward the doorway.

"I don't know."

I asked where I had been.

That made her cry.

She said maybe I had been here the whole time.

Quiet.

That is the word she used.

Quiet.

I hate that word.

There are pictures all over my room.

Birthdays.

Christmas.

School dances.

Graduation.

Sometimes when I look at them, I know things.

Names.

Places.

What happened just before the picture was taken.

What somebody said afterward.

But knowing isn't remembering.

There is a boy in several photographs with his arm around me.

I know his name.

I know where he lives.

I know that he hates pickles and lies about being afraid of spiders.

I don't remember meeting him.

Mom forgets sometimes.

Dad does too.

He starts telling a story and stops halfway through.

Sometimes he looks at me like he's waiting for me to finish a joke I don't know.

Once I heard Mom talking to him downstairs.

"I know she's back," she said.

Dad didn't answer.

Mom started crying.

"Is it terrible that I miss her?"

A long time passed.

Then Dad said, "I miss her too."

They didn't know I was listening.

I think about the girl who was here before I woke up.

Mom hates when I call her that.

She says there wasn't a girl before me.

There was me.

But that isn't true.

Not exactly.

She knew Mom better than I do.

She knew how Dad took his coffee.

She picked these clothes.

She learned to drive.

She graduated.

She loved the river.

She thought she was me.

At the end, she was terrified.

She begged Grandma to stop.

Maybe Grandma saved me.

Maybe she killed her.

Maybe both things are true.

I asked Grandma once whether the other girl knew what she was.

Grandma said she didn't know.

I asked whether it mattered.

She didn't answer.

Mom keeps telling me she's happy I am back.

She hugs me a lot.

I hug her too.

I remember loving her.

Sometimes I even feel it before I remember I'm supposed to.

Everyone says I am myself again.

I just wish I remembered being her.

TINK TINK...TINK TINK.....

Ember awoke from a deep sleep to a sound that was not familiar to her. She's very drowsy as she rolled over and asked, "Who's there?" But there was no answer, just another TINK TINK. She sat up to look towards her window when she noticed it. Two eyes glowing Orange with white in the center that looked almost like somebody had cut an orange in half, staring in through her window.

Before she could say anything else she heard a gruff yet almost playful voice ask, "Can I come inside and play......... PLEEEEEESE?" She stared confused rubbing her eyes and then again heard the word, "PLEEEESE".

"Who are you? She asked. "I want to be your FRIEEEEND", said the visitor in a hushed but friendly voice. In a very shy and tired voice Ember replied, "you are a stranger, I'm not supposed to talk to strangers". "Can I come inside and introduce myself so we can be FRIEEEENDS?"asked the visitor.

"I will go ask my dad", said Ember. "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!.....errr" said the visitor stumbled and hesitated to think... "no, your dad works very hard and I'm sure he's asleep because he is very tired, you don't want to wake him up do you?" Replied The visitor.

"He does work a lot" replied Ember.

"Yes, yes he does, why don't you let me inside so we can play and I can help your dad ".

"I don't know " Ember said nervously.

"All you have to do is open the window and we can play all kinds of games and have fun and help your dad together" said the visitor.

Ember very cautiously and very shyly climbed out of bed and walked towards the window. She looked up at a pair of eyes that almost looked like the eyes of her puppy dog or her kitty cat, when it wanted to be petted or to play.

"Okay, but you have got to be good" insisted Ember. She slowly reached up to the window undid the lock and began trying to open the window. "This stupid thing is hard to open", she said as she put more effort into it. She summoned all of her strength and heaved the window open a couple inches. Then she did it one more time and opened it up. But to her shock and confusion, the eyes were gone. She Gazed out onto the field behind her house, the grass, trees and her slide were bathed in moonlight. It was a breathtaking sight. However to her despair she could not see her new friend anywhere.

"Hey friend, where did you go?" She asked. She was startled as she heard a noise that made her turn around and look. Surprised she noticed the cat jumping onto the bed. "You Silly cat Hahaha, you scare meeeeeeee!" That's when two large disfigured hands with broken and chipped nails wrapped around her stomach snatching her so hard that she folded from the absolute Force of it and watched in despair and absolute fear as her feet rushed towards her face and she was pulled out the window. The last Ember sees is her cat curiously watching her as she disappears into the darkness.

Something weird is going on. I am 16 years old and live with my family and 2 dogs in Northern Ireland. This morning, I woke up at 10:30 am and went downstairs to get breakfast.

On the way there, I saw that the front door was open. How strange, my family and I don’t leave the front door open. I quickly close it, dismiss it from my thoughts and continue on my way.

Then, I notice something stranger. There appears to be no one in the house. But all the cars my family have are still out front. A chill runs down my spine at 50mph. Somethings wrong here. Suddenly, I see something that stops my heart.

The dog leashes.

My family don’t take the dogs outside without them.

My body paralyses with fear. What’s happening? The question speeds through my mind. I quickly search the rest of the house, hoping to find my family, an answer to what’s going on, anything. The bedrooms, the office, even the attic. I look in all those places

No sign of them.

My heart starts pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape. I decide to look outside and I see something…very weird.

There’s someone standing at the corner of my street. They’re facing away from me and appear to be standing very still. I suddenly get the feeling that I shouldn’t get closer to them.

I quietly go back inside and close the door gently. Once back inside I try to calm down and take deep breaths. It isn’t working. Soon, I start hyperventilating. My head hurts. The room is spinning. I feel like I’m about to pass out.

I place a hand on the stairs and sit down, my heart racing like an F1 car. Questions swarm my mind. What’s going on? Where is my family? What’s up with the person at the corner?

I can’t answer any of those questions. I don’t like that. Not one bit.

I decide to wait. I open my phone and see that I have no service. How? I’m not in the middle of nowhere. I also see that I don’t have WiFi. I quickly switch on a lamp. Nothing happens. No power, either.

But wait, I saw my digital clock on this morning. Did the power just go out? What time is it anyway. I check. 10:37. 10:37? Has it only been 7 minutes since I got up? It feels like it’s been hours or days even.

With no power, I realise that I should conserve my phones battery. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.

I’m in danger! It’s now about 6:30. I looked out my window and saw a group of people enter a house. But, the people didn’t look normal. Their faces were pale, moans constantly emanating from their mouths. Oh god, oh god, oh god! Is it the apocalypse? Cause I think those people were zombies! I think I know what happened to my family and dogs.

I decided to hide in the attic. I’m trying to be as quiet as possible. I don’t know if those zombies can hear me or know if I’m not infected.

I’m currently in the attic. I can hear the moans of the zombies better now. I think they are only active at night. But I’ll wait a few days to see. I can only hope that someone finds this message.

I never wanted to be a mother. 

My dreams were always filled with images of fortunes and academic successes. Instead, I was stuck with a pile of flesh that was incapable of dreaming. 

Perhaps that's presumptuous. Maybe the thing cooing in the cot beside me has simple visions of its own. 

Whatever they are, I just want to end them with a pillow over its head. 

I'd make it swift and painless, so neither of us had to suffer. Though the creature that I cradled in my arms deserved a worse fate. 

What had so often refused to feed from my bosom, what had ended my ambitions and ideas of glory, what lays in peaceful slumber, is no babe.

I refuse to believe that thing is my child. 

I had plans for college.  

Years of studying went down the drain when I saw the two lines on that stick. I went from potential Ivy League pathways, to barely being able to finish high-school.

One mistake. One mistake and a few too many drinks is all it took. 

The father made sure to move states when he heard the news. By the time his family was done moving him around, it was like he never even existed. 

We couldn't afford a lawyer. His family had an army of them. 

So, I was left with the consequences of our actions.

I wanted to get rid of it.

It was all I could think when the news was confirmed. 

I was unable to hide it from my mother. When I returned from my first secret doctor's appointment I broke down in tears. 

As regret and shame poured down my cheeks and spilled out my throat, my mother insisted on one point.

I was keeping it.

She had once been in my shoes. In her twenties she was left alone with me and only a dollar to her name. 

She managed, she claimed. So could I. 

I refused at first. Then after many arguments she talked me down to at least considering keeping it.

I don't know if she even realised what she was doing. It wasn't like she ever told me to keep it or else. Just anytime I broached the topic of aborting it she'd bombard me with alternative solutions and anecdotes about others who didn't want their kids at first but grew to love them.

By the time I realised argument after argument was only a way to guilt me from making a swift decision, it was too late. 

The labour was long and painful. 

My stomach ached like it was being torn out and everything below my waist felt as if it were on fire.

Yet despite wanting it so desperately to be over, I did not want it to end either. 

Anything to avoid looking it in the face. Anything to avoid being stuck with that parasite for the rest of my life.

My mother insisted that it be as natural a birth as possible, so I endured. I was so disoriented I just accepted whatever she said to avoid talking. But there came a point I could no longer appease her and began begging for any pain killer they had. 

I thought she'd be disappointed, but after the first eight hours of torture she seemed to agree. 

I had grown to resent her. But as I saw her go pale at the state of me and the panic in her eyes, I realized she was still my mother.

My mother, who had given up her own dreams to raise me and never complained. Who despite everything never asked how, why or when. Who married a man she felt little affection towards just to give us a stable home.

And the woman who assured me she loved me every moment she could.

I knew she blamed herself for allowing me to end up with the same fate as her. So, any comments she had to make about my actions remained to herself. 

But if that was all the case, why? 

Just why did she make me keep this tumour?

When I heard the baby's cries, I knew it was over. 

I did not recall the moment of release, or the final push. It was only the sounds from the infant that indicated it was over. 

There was something soothing about it. A new sensation moved within me as my arms reached out to it on their own. 

Everyone told me a mother's love for her child was natural and pure. I had worried I'd never feel such things, but perhaps my fears were unfounded. 

All I desired was to meet what I had pushed out of me.

It was hard to focus and my hands were unsteady. I think the nurses spoke to me, their tones switched from joy to concern. 

I tried so hard to make out what they were saying. 

It was just so hard to hear anything over the thumping in my head.

Everything went black. 

In the void, I could see myself. I held something small and red. I rocked it back and forth with sweat on my brow.

I looked exhausted. My hair was poorly kept together in a bun and my exposed stomach was carved with stretch marks. Despite just delivering a newborn my body was skin and bone.

In my arms, was something wrapped in a blanket. Then those soft cries I heard before everything became dark returned.

It didn't take me long to realise those dreams I always had were to now be replaced with a nightmare.

I reached out to the blanket and moved it to see the child's face.

The crying stopped before I could see anything clearly. It was sudden enough to make me pause. 

Trying to overcome my hesitation, I continued with my motion. 

Instead of soft skin and big eyes, I was met with a clump of red liquid and fragmented bones. 

A small skull with no flesh or muscle was drenched in blood and puss. 

My heart leaped to my throat and I felt this sudden urge to mourn something I never knew. I kept back the tears and tried to remind myself I was dreaming.

That was until something grabbed my ankle. 

Something wet and cold trickled up my leg. 

My neck stiffened, resisting looking down. 

I gave in when the red started to pool on the floor in front of me. 

A hand made of blood and puss gripped my leg, and spread its fingernails into trails of blood up my calf. The blood moved further and further, coming to my thigh just to break apart and drip down to the floor. 

The tighter the hand's grasp, the further the blood would travel. 

I tried to break free, but soon my other ankle was being kept in place. 

No matter how much I screamed and thrashed I could not move. Instead dozens of hands continued to trap my legs. 

When I looked back at the bones in the shape of a babe, I discovered only the blanket remained. 

That was until I felt something caress my cheek.

I awoke with a jolt. 

My body curled, as I gasped for air. My lower half throbbed in agony anytime I moved, so I tried my best to stay in place as I calmed my breathing.

The first thing I discovered was my mother's hand on mine.

The lines on her head were creased with worry. I could tell she was fatigued from the bags under her eyes but had come alive again as I came to.

She called for a nurse nearby to check on me. My head was still fuzzy, the only thing I could make out were the consistent beeps of machines around us.

I pieced together that I was still in the hospital. The only details I could pick up from the nurse was there was some complication during the labour and they brought me in for surgery.

It was when I heard the word ‘baby’, everything came back to me.

Part of me wanted to go back to sleep. Another part of me wished they let me bleed out.

After the nurse left, my mother began to fuss over me. 

Apparently my step-father's flight was cancelled and she had been left alone. I felt guilty making her worry, even if it was out of my control.

Eric was a good man, but he often worked overseas leaving us alone. I thought he'd manage to pull through this time.

I guess we had both been left alone. 

“The baby…?” was all I could muster. 

As if it heard me, a cooing noise came from beside me. 

My mother managed a small smile as she moved to the side to grab what had been lying next to me the whole time. I could see its small hands move as mom lifted it in her arms and rocked it up and down with a little bounce. 

“It's a boy.” Her voice was as gentle as her hands when she set it into my arms.

I stared at its face. Its eyes were shut over, still asleep. Barely the size of my forearm I was scared I would crush it if I wasn't careful. 

I tried to take in every detail and let it grab one of my fingers in its tiny hand.

This is mine. This is my baby. Who I made. 

That's what I kept saying to myself, waiting for the rush of love to enter my heart. Waiting for a tear to form in my eye or my mind to imagine our future together. 

Instead, all I could say was;

“This isn't mine." 

Bewildered doesn't begin to describe my mother's expression. 

“What?”

“This isn't my baby. It was a girl.” 

The confusion morphed to concern, but I could tell she was trying to be mindful of my condition. 

“Diana, you were unconscious before you could see him, how would you know?”

“I could tell from how it cried. Boys don't cry like that.” 

With a cautious look, she began to take the baby back into her arms.

“Well, I was there for it all dear. This is your little angel.” 

Turning away she moved back to the little box the nurses had prepared for it. 

My eyelids felt heavy and the room was still unfocused. My heart said if it was mine, I should've felt something when it was in my arms. But my mind cut through the fog to be reasonable, insisting my mother couldn't be mistaken. 

I kept my eyes on it as it slept. Watching its small breaths in and out.

“I wanted a girl.” 

“You didn't want anything.” 

My mother sounded irritated now. Realizing her patience was wearing thin, I just looked away. 

“I did say that, didn't I?” 

When we arrived home, it wouldn't stop crying. 

Every night without fail it would wail like a banshee. On and on and on. 

This cry was different from the first I had heard. Something about it scratched my brain in a way that drove it mad. It was nothing like the soothing sound I had heard in that hospital bed.

We started to become concerned, so we went back to the hospital. They insisted everything was fine. All tests came back clear and he was as healthy as could be.

If anything, the visit was embarrassing. Because every time he was in my arms the floodgates would open. But every time my mother took him, it was like an angel had rocked him to sleep. 

I could feel the eyes of the staff piercing through me. I could hear all the thoughts they had about me being a poor mother. 

They all thought I was his sister at first, which just made me feel worse.

Shame was my main motivator to grow close to him. 

I was sick of judgemental eyes, but more than that it was my own thoughts tormenting me. 

What kind of monster doesn't love her own baby? 

I was meant to be good at this, right? Maybe I wasn't born with parental skills, but I should feel something, wasn't I?

But when I looked at it crying and throwing itself about in its cot all I could feel were varying levels of anger and exhaustion. 

I'd hold him every night. I'd rub his back and try to sing him a lullaby that my mother always sang for me. No matter the tune or the lyrics or the rhythm in which I patted him on his back, he would not stop crying. 

As I'd hush him, desperate to get some sleep myself, I'd silently beg for him to stop. Anytime I tried to assure him “Mommy loves you.” I just couldn't…

The words would get stuck half way up or they'd be so drawn out they were barely strung together. Maybe it knew they were empty. 

Or maybe it wasn't my baby.

Though maybe that was easier to accept than the idea we would just forever hate each other. 

Why did I have to care for it anyway? What, it leeched off me for nine months to promise me at least eighteen more miserable years with it, and I should feel some kind of bond? 

So what if it came from between my legs and hid itself in my stomach? The one who helped put it there gets to live on without a care in the world. 

Of course people condemn him for leaving, but they accept it. It's some inevitable tragedy about the world. But while his apathy is lamented over in passing, mine is villainised? 

Why can't I run away too? 

Why did he get to do this to me? 

Even now he gets to control my life in this way. He left what is now a baby without a father, but if I leave it I'm abandoning it. I'm ensuring it is alone in this world. 

Why did I have to live with that burden?

All I could do was push on and try to ignore my lingering hatred. If I continued to let my mind run wild, we'd only grow to resent each other more. 

It was hard though.

The damn brat wouldn't even feed from me. 

No matter how many times I tried, it'd always turn its head away. If I attempted to force it, it would just start crying again.

Day after day I'd sit in the armchair in my living room and plead with it to eat. I'd beg and beg until I'd end up crying with it. 

When my mother returned from work she'd often find me despondent with my shirt still down, the baby laying on the couch beside me. 

She knew I was struggling, but didn't know what to do outside of alleviating some of my burdens. 

She'd take the formula and feed it herself. She'd change its nappies and sing it to sleep when I gave up. 

I know she was trying to help, but it just made me feel worse. Seeing her do everything I couldn't make me realise how incompetent I was.

She was doing it all without her husband as well. 

While he'd be home every other weekend, and would help where he could, most days it was just us. 

I wished I could just give them the baby and run. Hell, I wished we'd have arranged to give it up from the beginning.

Instead, I'm trapped.

And sometimes, I swear its wails sound more like laughter. 

One day, I sat once again on that arm chair.

I had no will to fight it. I just made the offer and planned to leave it at that. 

My head was already against the couch cushion, ready to shut my eyes and drift off when it started crying again. 

Instead, I felt a gentle suckle.

I was scared to move. I feared the slightest movement would put it off. 

I looked down from the corner of my eye, to see him taking his fill. He was almost peaceful. 

I sunk a little more into the couch, and in a mindless state began to stroke its little head. I stared up at the ceiling, a smile creeping in from the small success. 

I rested my head and closed my eyes…

Then a sudden pain surged up my body. 

I almost screamed, but it was so sudden it came out as a shocked gasp. I knew the source it had come from and immediately jumped up. 

The sudden movement caused it to start crying again, but I paid no attention to it. Sensing possible danger, I had this instinct to chuck the baby aside. I needed to lay it down fast so I could focus on my wound. 

Once back in its cot I looked down at my bloodied shirt. 

Right where the baby had been eating, was a large bite mark.

It bruised my skin, already going purple in the shape of its little teeth. Red streaks dripping from pierced skin, globbed together with chunks of skin that had been ripped off.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Swearing under my breath was all I could bring myself to utter as I dashed back to the kitchen. I scavenged around for bandages or something to stop the bleeding. 

I settled for an old white towel, and slumped down onto the floor in a panic. 

“Fuck, shit.” Was shit all my mind could muster.

I had no time to process what had happened, as the front door opened. 

I called out for my mom on instinct. 

From my voice, she must have known something was wrong. Dropping her bag she threw herself down in front of me and cupped my hand in hers. 

“Hey, hey, Diana, what's wrong?” Her voice trembled a little, struggling to sound reassuring.

I was incoherent due to me sobbing. 

I wasn't in pain anymore, but the shock had sent my adrenaline racing and now it was crashing.

After getting me to take a breath with her, I finally managed to calm down to explain. 

“I-I finally managed to get him to f-f-feed but” I started through sniffles, “t-t-then he bit me.”

My mother looked confused, but like she was trying her best to understand.

“Let me see, dear.”

With a gentle hand, she moved my arm and the towel away. 

“See, you're fine Diana.” 

“What?” 

I looked down, just to see the wound was gone. 

“The little guy's teeth aren't even through yet. He wasn't going to do any damage.”

“B-but-...” 

I couldn't bring myself to say anything.

Was I going mad? I could've sworn…

“How about we take this as a little victory despite the ending, ok?” 

My mother tried to help me to my feet. 

After that, she just insisted I should rest and she'd take care of the baby for the night. 

I didn't want to protest. 

I had been falling asleep at the time, maybe I imagined it? Or maybe he did bite a little and it caught me off guard?

It felt real though…

I curled up in my bed and focused on sleeping. Whatever happened, all I knew was I was tired.

And maybe mom was right. I should take the little victories, shouldn't I?

That was when the nightmares returned. 

Now instead of a skeleton in cloth, every night the baby that laid in the other room would appear in my dreams. 

And every time I would kill it.

At first it was just when I was going to bed, but soon it became whenever I tried to close my eyes. 

It was the same every time, just with different outcomes.

As always, it would cry.

The sound would get louder and louder and drown out any thoughts I had. It would eat away at me until there was nothing left but blind rage.

I'd give in and do whatever I could to make it stop.

Suffocation. Mutilation. Decapitation. Cannibalism. Dropping it on his head. Letting it fall over the banister. Burning it alive. Throwing it off a building. Leaving it under my car tire then rolling forward. Bashing it against the pavement. Throwing it onto train tracks.

It would be different each time, but the result was always the same.

Sometimes I'd try to resist it. 

I'd summon all the power I had to stay calm. I'd continue to hold it and try to shush it and tell it everything was going to be ok.

When I did, it would eventually stop crying.

That was always followed by it clawing at my skin.

It would rip out chunks as I tried my best to hold him. The pain would make me squirm, but I resisted fighting back.

I'd repeat ‘I won't kill my baby, I won't kill my baby’.

But there was always this other voice that would say, ‘It's not your baby.’ 

I'd usually fail. 

It was so hard not to give in and the pain was unbearable. 

Sometimes though, I'd keep going.

I'd let it tear me apart until my muscles and bones were visible. 

Once it realised that wasn't working, it would just stop. 

Still gripping my skin, it would start to melt down into a fleshy pulp of blood and bone. Creeping down my body it would spread apart and make its way to my legs.

Like clockwork, I'd fall back and try to swipe it away. In this state, it was impossible to remove it all though. 

As I'd try to pull it off mel, the remaining goop would continue up my thigh and do whatever it could to re-enter my womb. 

Even though it was just a dream, I swore I felt everything. All the pain, like my insides were being shredded. 

It was worse than the labour, worse than the surgeries, worse than any pain I had ever felt. 

All I could do was beg for it to stop, but it never would. 

My organs became mush, absorbing with it as my nerves screamed out for mercy. Calling for help didn't deter it, nor would anyone come. 

After a while I wouldn't be able to speak, it was too hard as I gargled on my own blood. 

From there, I'd hear a ringing as the world disappeared…

Before dying alone on the floor. 

Waking up felt like going from one nightmare to another. The sweat pooled together on my back and my body would quiver. 

At the beginning, I'd wake up to my mother asking me what was wrong. Apparently the way I'd shriek in my sleep put the fear of God back into her.

After a while though, I grew used to it and stopped screaming.

Though it always made me wonder, if the baby was crying so much because he saw the same things in his sleep. 

I wasn't sure why I started having such cruel dreams. The message was clear though.

Either I died, or the baby did.

I didn't need a dream to tell me that, it was something I already understood.

I could feel myself deteriorating day by day. My eyelids always felt heavy while my body felt light. Often, I'd forget to eat until my stomach reminded me with searing pains.

Physically and mentally I could feel myself disappearing. My body on auto pilot brought me to the baby to try the same ineffective routine again and again. 

After months of agonising over something that hated me as much as I hated it, I decided to give up.

I rotted away in my bed, shutting the blinds and putting on headphones to drown out that incessant noise. 

Not even the pits of hell could conjure a noise that vile. 

I let my mother answer it. If she wasn't around, I just ignored it. 

Her and my stepfather would persuade me to put in a little effort here and there. But it would just start making that sound again until I found myself screaming back at it.

I knew they were worried. When my step father was home I could hear them murmuring in their bedroom. 

It was only a matter of time before they sent me to some nut house.

A mother who can't look after her own baby, what cure would they have for that?

What hurt more than the empty pit that grew in my stomach and the fear of being fundamentally broken, was that they couldn't hear it.

Why couldn't they hear it? 

It wasn't just crying, it was screeching. 

My mind at first compared it to an animal, then a ghoul. But nothing my mind could comprehend could even begin to describe that awful sound. 

Every time it started my stomach tried to empty itself. 

Worst of all, no one could hear it laughing in-between howls.

I found myself standing, staring at it. 

There was no crying this time, my mother had just put it to bed. 

The more I stared the more it looked like a demon than a child. Some hollow husk that appeared to be a baby, but was really something sinister. 

I sighed and caught myself on the frames of the cot to avoid falling when my knees gave way. 

What was I saying? 

Of course it was a baby. What else would it be?

Was I really more willing to accept that it was some grotesque monster than me being a bad mother? 

I never wanted to be a mother, of course I was a bad one. 

If anything, I could feel myself losing my humanity. 

I hated what I was becoming. All I could do was cry at night and curse the man that fled. 

Even though I wanted to be nowhere near him, I couldn't help but wonder if this would've been more natural for him. 

I couldn't hold myself upright anymore and just collapsed to the ground. I covered my mouth to contain my silent sobs. 

I was scared. 

I was so scared. I needed help. I really, really needed help. 

But who would help someone who wanted to kill their own baby? 

The baby's movement caught my attention. Its arms moved about in the air, as if trying to reach out for someone to pick it up. 

My bones shook in anticipation, waiting for that sound to tear me apart again. 

But it never did. 

It just continued to wait, patient for someone to spot it, or content to go back to bed if no one came. 

While I watched between the bars, there was a moment of peace in my mind. As it dozed off, I rested my head against the cot and couldn't help but smile a little.

I was so used to it crying all the time, I didn't get to see it this way often. 

The small moment only solidified a growing idea in my mind. 

I need to get it out of here. 

The more dark thoughts that lingered after every dream, the more I knew it couldn't go on like this. 

Either there was more to these dreams and they were a warning, or I was losing mind. Both options would only lead to misery for me and the baby.

I knew my mother would never forgive me, but I had to give it up.

Really I should've from the beginning, it was mom who convinced me to keep it. It was always in an irritating way where I couldn't call her out for pressuring me. 

I think she thought I'd be like her. That, despite the struggles, I'd grow to love my baby like she did me. That I'd see it was all worth it in the end.

Based on the fact she clearly didn't know what to do with me lately, I doubt her struggles were anything like mine. 

I felt nothing towards this baby. 

I tried and tried, but the best I could feel was relief when it shut up. 

That apathy mixed with my erratic psyche was a dangerous mix. I knew it was. 

So, the next day when mom was at work, I prepared to leave the baby at a fire station.

I wasn't sure where else to leave it. That's what they did in the movies and shows I watched, it was all I had to go off. 

Anything else that came up online sounded too official, or I'd have to look someone in the eye. I needed a solution I could act upon and not be afraid I'd change my mind. 

It also couldn't be a long process so mom couldn't try to persuade me out of it.

I waited until the evening. 

I didn't want to go out in broad daylight. No one wants to be seen dumping a baby. 

I also felt bad, thinking one day it might grow up and think it was unwanted. It was wanted, just not by me. 

In hopes they'd one day be passed on, I took a couple teddies mom had purchased for him and tucked them in the hand carrier beside him. 

For once, he slept without a fuss. Even as I walked at a rapid pace against the cold breeze there wasn't a peep out of him.

I kept my hood up, in part to hide my disheveled appearance, but mostly to remain unnoticed. We lived in a big town so I doubt anyone would recognise me in this area, but I couldn't be sure. 

My skin on my feet was starting to blister, I had been walking for so long. If I could drive it would've taken me twenty minutes to get there. 

That was a plan for my next year in college though. I had no license and no car. It didn't help that I hadn't been outside in weeks, maybe even months now. 

The light was irritating my eyes. It was dim, just after sunset. When it went fully dark the bright street lights didn't help.

I tried my best to think about having to walk back home. I maybe should've brought money for a taxi on the way back. 

Something about the idea of making small talk with a stranger after abandoning my own kid didn't sound like a good time though. 

I was worried about becoming a monster, but I already was one, wasn't I? 

This kid will forever wonder who I am. They'll want to know why I left them. And if they ever search for me one day I'll have to explain to them I was trying to protect them.

I could just imagine his face when I said I was protecting him from myself. 

The more steps I took forward the more I considered turning back. 

If anything, maybe I should be running away. I should be the one to leave. He could just stay with my mother.

But I had no money. 

Maybe I deserved to rot on the streets.

I was concerned about hurting the baby, but there was always the other option. It wasn't like I cared much for life lately anyway. 

My primal instinct to survive had not yet been overcome however. If it ever came to that though, I wouldn't let my dreams happen. I'd go out on my own terms. 

It wasn't until my two feet stopped by themselves that I realised I was at my destination.

Whoever worked at the station was nowhere in sight. Some lights were on inside however, so I needed to be quiet.

Shit, holy shit, am I actually doing this? 

I started to look around for somewhere to leave it.

I thought there were like designated points or something, where the fuck am I supposed to put it? 

I'm a horrible person. I am a horrible woman. I am a horrible mother. 

I heard movement from an open window. Panicking, I just set the baby by the door. 

I'm sure they'll find it soon. It would start crying then they'd hear it. 

I took a few steps back.

Is that it? Is this what I am doing?

I started to pivot, then hesitated and pivoted back. Just to repeat that again a few more times until I crouched down on the ground wanting to disappear.

Hugging my knees, I laid my head down and hid.

It's for the best. 

You didn't even want it. You still don't want it.

Why would you force yourself to keep a baby you don't even want? 

Hell, it's not even about that anymore. You know it's not safe in your supposed ‘care’. At the rate things are going you are either going to end up killing it or yourself. 

Either way you'd make your poor mother cry.

I took a breath and stood up.  

It was for the best. I knew that. 

I shook myself a little, then got ready to leave. 

When I took a final glance back at my own flesh and blood, the very being I was leaving in the hands of strangers, I saw something move.

From under a gutter, out came a rat. 

Instincts took over as I turned to flee. My disgust was interrupted by a realization.

The baby.

What if it bit it? Or gave it some horrid disease or rabies or something? 

I wanted rid of it but the whole plan was to try keep it alive. I couldn't leave it to be devoured by rodents.

I'd just have to chase it off without making a sound.

When I turned back, the rat was gone. 

I was confused. My best guess was it went back under the gutters. It was weird I didn't hear it though. I heard it's little patters coming out, you would think it would be the same going back in.

I don't know why, but the pitch black void that surrounded us suddenly seemed a lot darker. 

I ventured forward to investigate. I was cautious, only approaching with little steps at a time. 

When I peered over the hand carrier to see where it went, I only found a strange stain on the ground.

It was dark, almost black, with tinges of red and white.

That, and a long thick tail, with no rat attached.

It was then I realized the trickles of white were tiny shards of bone. 

Something was moving. I couldn't see it, only hear it. It sounded like some form of goopy substance, some thick liquid moving every so often.

I felt my body begin to stiffen, but it continued to move to check the one thing it knew it had to. 

The baby was gone. 

My feet acted on their own and broke out into a sprint. 

I ignored the pain on my soles and heels, I ignored trying to hide from people passing by, I ignored everything other than the motion of putting one foot in front of the other.

That thing was not my baby. 

I don't know what it was, but I was getting far away from it. 

Everything became a blur as I passed it. I wasn't even sure what street I was on anymore or if I was going the right way.

Home. Just get home. 

I just wanted to be far away from that thing.

I won't let my dreams happen. I saw the blood move towards me as I left. I won't let it happen. I won't.

Just because I spared its life doesn't mean I have to die.

I could feel my dream coming to life as my imagination ran wild. The thought of it clawing out my insides, mangling me and turning me into a gelatinous mold of blood and mucus like it. 

I could hear it laughing at me as it felt satisfied with its actions. Then that ringing as everything became dark and I was left to meet the nothing that was death.

No, no, no. It won't happen. 

I won't let it.

By the time I was home, I was out of breath. 

Safety was in reach, but I had become so distracted in my dash, I had forgotten to prepare for my mother's reaction.

Her car was parked in the driveway. 

She was home. The baby wasn't. 

That thing wasn't.

I debated telling her the truth. 

Mother may have insisted on going back for it. I wasn't sure what it was capable of, we could all be in danger. I wasn't sure how to explain it without sounding like a mad woman though.

…was I a mad woman?

It wasn't like I knelt down to check the baby. It could've been a trick of the light or it may have been buried in the layers of blankets I swaddled it in. 

No, but that doesn't explain the rat. 

Fuck, I don't know anymore. 

My head felt like it was going to explode. I needed to clear my thoughts.

What was even happening? I felt lucid, I was tired but not on the verge of falling asleep like before. 

But what could possibly explain what just happened other than some kind of misunderstanding. 

The fatigue could've caught up to me. Or maybe I shut my eyes for a moment without realizing and the dream started up again.

Or it was real. I was right. 

That was no baby.

How did it end up like that then? 

I found myself pacing up and down the pavement. 

My head hurt. Thinking about it just made it hurt more. Every explanation I could conjure didn't explain it. I feared feeling vindicated in my emotions, I didn't want to justify the hatred I had for my own child.

But maybe it really wasn't my child.

I tried to collect myself. 

There are two options. That baby was mine, or it was something else. If my assumptions were mad or sane in that regard, it didn't matter. 

The baby was in danger and so was I. That remains true for both options. So either way, it had been left where it needed to be. 

All I could do was deal with one problem at a time. 

I opened the front door.

As soon as it clicked shut, I could hear my mother's voice.

“Diana?!” her voice sounded accusatory. 

I was running just moments before, but now I could barely bring myself to move through my own home. 

I could hear my mother coming to me.

“Diana?! Where have you been?! What have you done?!” 

I thought she'd still be in panic mode, but she was already angry. 

I couldn't lift my head. I just stopped and waited for her to come to me.

“Mom I…” 

My heart froze when she met me in the hallway. 

There she stood beneath the doorway...

With the baby in her arms. 

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 never been one for hookups. I have nothing whatsoever against people who are; I’ve just always preferred to get to know someone for a while before becoming intimate with them. For me, it takes a lot of vulnerability, and I like to know that I can trust someone before I take that step with them.

Staring at the bedroom ceiling of the stranger snoring next to me, I wondered how I had come to trust her so quickly. Thinking back on every partner I’d had before, it had never been this brisk. The soonest I had slept with someone prior to that night had been after a month or so of dating. But she had given me one look from across the bar at Poor Richard’s and had made my heart stop. Then she had been sitting with my group of friends and I, I had learned that her name was Tarah, and we were complimenting each other’s tops and comparing music tastes. Next thing I’d known, we were stepping out of the cigarette-reeking building into the chill night air towards her car, our hands clasped. And now I was here, her pink sheets loosely covering us and her arm resting over my chest. Inhaling, it occurred to me that her hair still smelled vaguely of nicotine. We never showered. Maybe next time?

A thousand thoughts buzzed through my head, underscored by the cheap fan on Tarah’s nightstand. She was the first woman I’d been with. I’d always told myself that if I ever dated a woman, I wanted to take it steady, really savor the honeymoon phase. But there had just been something inexplicable about her that made me want her with blood-warming immediacy. And now I had no idea if Tarah, whose hair was just a bit too short to mask the tranquility on her face as she slept, would even want to date me. Sure, she had given me every indication that she was attracted to me and had seemed to thoroughly enjoy my company, but was it just a good time for her?

When we’d arrived at her apartment, we’d sat by the fire pit on her back porch. She played me a couple songs by Richy Mitch and the Coal Miners while talking about her asshole neighbor. I hadn’t been familiar with the band, but I liked how they sounded. And now, just making out one of their records on a nearby shelf, I wondered if I’d be able to hear their music again without a lump forming in my throat. I felt crazy; I’d only known Tarah a few hours, and already, the thought of not seeing her again made me want to cry. My jeans lay on her bedroom floor, barely visible in the darkness, and I hadn’t even gotten her number yet.

I nearly bolted upright. Where was my phone? I had meant to text my roommate, Jade, that we had gotten to Tarah’s place safely, and I’d completely forgotten. It wasn’t next to me in the bed, and scanning the nightstand, I realized it wasn’t there, either. Maybe it was in my jeans pocket or in my purse? The last thing in the world I wanted to do was lift Tarah’s arm off of me, but not knowing where my phone was would keep me from getting a wink of sleep. Reluctantly, I kissed her fingers and moved her arm away, doing my best not to wake her.

I tiptoed out of bed, nearly jumping when I caught my reflection in the mirror I had forgotten was on her wall, and searched my pants pockets to no avail. My purse, which sat nearby, had my wallet and charger inside, but nothing else. After slipping on my jeans, I crept into the living room, wondering if I had maybe left it on a table or a counter. No such luck. The only possible places it could be were in the car or, god forbid, back at Poor Richard’s.

I breathed as steadily as I could, trying to quell my mounting panic. There was no sense freaking out if I didn’t need to. I had absolutely brought my phone with me that night; there were only so many places it could be. If worst came to worst, I would go back to the bar in the morning and see if I’d left it there. It was probably just in Tarah’s car. I would slip out, check as quickly as I could, and if it was there, I would at least know where it was, and I could get some sleep. As much sleep as I could get while not knowing what the future held for me and the gorgeous stranger whose bed I lay in, anyway.

Before heading for the front door, I peaked back in at Tarah. She breathed steadily, clearly in deep sleep. I made sure there was no mechanism on the door that would automatically lock behind me, and satisfied that there was none, I opened it as slowly and silently as I could and shut it behind me. I would need to be quick; the last thing I wanted was for Tarah to think I was leaving in the middle of the night. She lived on the first floor of a small row of apartments. Every window was black, and there were no streetlights; the only light came from the moon, which was full and clear. Far off in the distance, beyond the trees that covered the neighborhood, I could hear a car rumbling here and there.

She had parked right in front of her apartment, and I realized now that her car was one of only three or four in the little parking lot. It was the middle of December; maybe folks had gone out of town for the holidays early. I stepped to the passenger door and peered in. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, I sighed with relief. I could just make out the vague rectangular form of my phone on the passenger seat. Predictably, the doors were locked, so I’d have to wait until morning to get it; there was no way I was about to wake Tarah up to unlock them. But now I knew I wouldn’t have to go looking for it the next morning.

I turned away from the car and froze before I could head back into the apartment. Though the window of the unit just next to Tarah’s was completely dark, I could make out a figure peering out at me. You’d have never been able to tell that there was anyone there if it hadn’t been for their eyes, which floated in the inkwell of a room. They were the most sickly shade of brownish yellow and had no irises or pupils; it was only possible to tell that they were eyes because they dimly illuminated a few spots of the skin surrounding them. The eyes disappeared into uninterrupted blackness for a moment before reappearing. A blink.

Neither of us moved for what felt like minutes. Every hair on my body stood on end, and my stomach felt almost as icy as my skin. Finally, the eyes moved to the right, never breaking their gaze until they disappeared behind the wall bordering the window. The motion was completely smooth, as if the person to whom they belonged was gliding across the floor. My senses returned, and in one motion, I darted into Tarah’s apartment and locked the door behind me. I took a couple steps backwards, not taking my eyes off the door, waiting to hear something on the other side or for the knob to begin turning. But neither happened. If anyone had stepped out of the next apartment, it was impossible to hear them.

I tiptoed back to Tarah’s room, glad to find that she was still asleep, and closed the door most of the way behind me. I started to breathe more steadily. I had to have been seeing things. There were no glowing eyes in the next apartment; that was ridiculous. It had to have been the reflection of car headlights or the refracted image of a streetlamp or something. As I crawled back into bed and Tarah shifted closer to me, the warm ease I felt cooled some when I remembered that there were no streetlights. And there had been no car passing.

I lay there for a while, comfortable but wide awake. There was a window just above Tarah’s headboard, and the slits in the blinds let in a shallow pool of pale moonlight that just barely showed the details of the room. I went for what I guessed to be fifteen minutes without falling asleep, then thirty. I tried to let my mind wander but kept finding myself pulled back into that dim room by the shadows of tree branches listing across the ceiling, looking just a bit too much like a set of long, knotted fingers. Here and there, a sound that I couldn't quite convince myself wasn't the front door's handle.

I was just beginning to nod off when, barely perceptibly, the bedroom door began to creak open. First a half inch, then two more inches, and then it stood wide open, exposing Tarah’s small living room. I knew perfectly well that the apartment was probably just settling; it was hardly the height of luxury, and it was wholly possible that the doorframe wasn’t very good quality and was causing the door to hang loose. But that didn’t stop the goosebumps from coming back. Even under the covers and with Tarah so close to me, the air felt indistinguishable from the winter outside.

It stayed that way far too long. And maddeningly, Tarah didn’t stir at all, even as my arms grew slippery with sweat. I stared forward, not wanting to admit to myself that I was waiting for something to emerge in the doorway. Nothing did, but I was suddenly aware that something smelled like smoke. It was different from the nicotine scent of Tasha’s hair; the room reeked of burnt meat. Just when I thought my whole body might snap into pieces from its own rigidity, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan came from next to me. Turning over, I was met by Tarah staring at me, her mouth hanging open.

Her eyes were open as wide as they could be; it was as if she had no eyelids at all. I swore that they would explode from their sockets. Her pupils were shrunken to tiny specks which I could only see because the irises surrounding them shown through the darkness a little more than they should have. The sound pouring from her mouth grew louder by the second. My heart raced, and as the groan rose to a sort of whispered scream, I held my hands tightly over my ears and shut my eyes.

And all at once, it stopped. I slowly lowered my hands but didn’t open my eyes. The room sounded as still as it had before, and that rancid smell had dissipated, but I dreaded what I might find when I took another look.

But within about ten seconds, the steady rhythm of Tarah’s deep, slumbering breath resumed. I slowly opened my eyes and found her as she’d been before her eyes had opened, evidently unaware of what had happened. I lay awake for hours, on guard for anything else to happen, but nothing ever did. Though a few times, I thought I caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye in the mirror. I wondered if Tarah had had some sort of seizure, but I had never seen one like that. And for the rest of the night, she slept soundly, not moving any more than anyone else would while asleep. It wasn’t until the birds began to chirp outside that I drifted into my own shallow sleep, and almost as soon as I did, her alarm woke us both up.

“What time is it?” I groaned.

She checked her phone. “It’s eleven.” She set it down, turned toward me, and smiled.

“Did you sleep ok?”

I shook my head. “No. I realized that I left my phone in your car last night, and when I went out to make sure it was there, I…” I doubted that I should say anything. She would think I was out of my mind, and that was a thought I could hardly bear. But her smile had sunk, and replaced by plain worry. I had already begun, so I sighed and continued to explain what had happened. As I finished, her expression went from worrisome to contemplative. “Have you ever—I don’t know—had seizures before? Or, like, any sort of weird fits when you sleep?”

Tarah shook her head. “Not that I know of.” She shrugged. “Well, like I said: my neighbor’s an asshole. He was probably messing with you.”

“I suppose,” I said, hesitantly. “Seems like a weird way to mess with someone, though. And I’m still worried about what happened in here.”

She furrowed her brow. “What, are you saying I’m lying?”

“W—no, I didn’t say that, I just—”

“You just sound like you don’t believe me.” There was a heavy twinge of irritation to her voice that made my stomach sink. “I told you last night: he’s an ass. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s on you.”

There was an almost tangible silence between us. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything. The whole thing just felt really weird.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a weird guy. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you were seeing things.”

“Are you sure you’re ok?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. “I really was worried about you last night. You don’t remember anything? Waking up? That smell?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied flatly. She sighed. “Should we go get your phone? Then I can drive you home.” It was over. The rapport which had developed so effortlessly the night before was gone in a few seconds, and I had no idea why. Tarah had held onto me so gently just minutes before, but now, every inflection in her voice pointed me to the door.

I put on my shoes, grabbed my purse, and was out the door before she was. I didn’t want to stay another second in a place I wasn’t wanted. My eyes were hot with tears. I had wanted so badly for this to go somewhere; I had been more immediately attracted to Tarah than I had ever been to anyone, and she had been so warm and kind. And now it was all too clear that I would never see her again. And if this was how she acted over a small misunderstanding, that was for the best, but I ached for it to not be for the best.

As I waited for her to come out, I glanced at the neighbor’s window, and the despair was immediately replaced with the same icy dread I had felt the night before. I knew I shouldn’t go any closer; no good could come from looking inside. But everything had deteriorated so fast that I could hardly understand any of it, and if I could just assure myself that there was nothing in that apartment to be afraid of, maybe that would give me some tiny amount of closure. I had surely just been seeing things. Or it had been a dream. One of the two. I just needed to assure myself of that.

I would only take a quick peak. The neighbor might have been home, and I didn’t want him to catch me staring though his living room window. I stepped up and peered in with as much subtlety as I could, and when I made out what was inside, my heart stopped. The entire apartment, as far as I could see, was empty. There was not a single piece of furniture or any sign that the place had ever been lived in; only a bare tile floor with a fine layer of dust collecting over it and undecorated grey walls.

Not a single word passed between Tarah and I as she drove me home, and once her car disappeared from view, all doubt was gone that that was the end. Maybe I could have asked for her number, but she never would have given it to me. I took it easy for the next few days, let myself feel sad and stay mostly in my bedroom, but within a few weeks, I met and started steadily dating a woman named Nora, who’s a friend of Jade’s.

Things have gone great with her so far. We’ve been together a few months now, and I’ve found that she’s someone I feel like I can always be myself around. We haven’t argued about anything yet, let alone had an argument like the one I had with Tarah. It did take me a couple weeks to feel comfortable visiting her house, and my first time was in the middle of the afternoon, but with time, it’s felt more and more normal. Nora’s never made me feel judged for being tentative, either, which makes me feel even more at home around her. It’s not often anymore that I think about my first and only hookup. I only really remember it once in a blue moon, when I wake up in the middle of the night from a dream that’s been tinted brownish-yellow.

I've been going to my parents' most weekends for twelve years now. Every time I take the same line, at the same station. On Saturdays, the last train is the 1:07. I usually go during the day, but sometimes work runs over and I take a later train.

One night on the first year I started making the trips, I ran down the stairs two at a time, went over on my ankle halfway, and got to the platform just in time to watch the doors shut in front of me. The clock above the platform said 1:08. Well, guess I'd see my parents next week.

I sat on the bench to take a breather, then ate the rest of the tuna baguette I'd saved from dinner. The station was completely empty now, and so silent you could hear the vending machine humming two platforms over.

Then I heard a train coming.

I looked up at the clock. It said 1:13. Didn't the last one leave at 1:07? At least, that's what the timetable said. I glanced at the train again as it came closer - it had the right destination on the front, so I decided not to overthink it and got on.

The carriage looked normal with the usual scratched floor and an advert for a solicitor's firm that does injury claims. Seats were arranged in pairs either side of the aisle. There were only four or five other passengers, all on their own and sitting spread out. I sat in an empty seat in the middle and we pulled away.

A few stops later, the door at the end of the carriage slid open and a teenager came through. Looked sixteen or seventeen and was wearing big over-ear headphones, black hoodie with the hood up. He came halfway along the aisle and sat down next to a man in one of the double seats - a man in his thirties, scrolling his phone.

Then the man looked up from his phone at the teenager in absolute horror.

I've only ever seen a face make that expression in horror movies. He made a noise like he'd been winded, and he got up so fast he cracked his shoulder off the pole and half went down into the aisle. When he got to the doors, he stood with both hands flat against the glass, waiting desperately for them to open. When they opened at the next stop he went out so hard he landed on his hands and knees on the platform.

He got some odd looks from the few other passengers in the carriage, but nobody said anything. The teenager hadn't seemed to have noticed. I just assumed he must've been on something and got off four stops later.

That was twelve years ago, and other than telling my parents about it at breakfast, I didn't think about it again.

Last Saturday I was down the road from the station at 1:10, which meant I'd already missed it again, for the first time in 12 years. I nearly turned round and went home. Right then, I remembered the other train. I went down, mostly to prove to myself I'd made it up, and sat on the same bench to wait. 1:11 on the clock. Then 1:13. Then the train. The doors slid open.

This time, there was an announcement as I stepped on. A woman's flat, recorded voice.

"For your safety, passengers are reminded to sit alone. Please do not sit beside another passenger."

I figured it was some leftover post-pandemic rule, but the wording was so absurdly blunt that I actually laughed. It was basically the train announcing what everyone who’s ever taken public transport has always wanted - please, for the love of God, don’t sit next to me.

I looked around. As instructed, everyone was sitting alone, and there were more than enough empty seats. I sat by myself and the train started moving.

Then the doors at the far end of the carriage opened, and a teenager stepped through. For a moment, I only thought he looked familiar. Then I looked closer.

It was him. The same dark hair, narrow face, black hoodie with the hood up, even the same headphones sitting over his ears.

And he was still a teenager.

Not in the way someone can look surprisingly young after twelve years - he looked exactly the same. I felt the hairs rise along my arms.

The teenager walked down the aisle without looking at anyone, moving with the same absent-minded rhythm I remembered from twelve years ago. He stopped in the middle of the carriage and sat down beside a man…

Who was scrolling through his phone.

Then, like something following a script, the man's expression changed. His eyes widened and the colour drained from his face as he stared at the teenager like he'd seen something that shouldn't exist. I watched him scramble to his feet and press himself against the doors in exactly the same way he did the last time I saw him, then he threw himself through them and stumbled onto the platform when they opened.

I couldn't believe what I'd just seen. This exact thing, twelve years later.

As the doors began to close, my curiosity snapped me into action. I jumped to my feet and ran for the doors, making it onto the platform just before they closed.

“Hey!”

The man didn't hear me as I ran after him. He was already running towards the stairs. He reached the bottom of the stairs, stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees, and struggled to catch his breath. Then he pulled out his phone with shaking hands and dialled.

“911, what's your emergency?”

The man's voice came out breathless.

“I need you to listen to me. I just discovered something.”

He glanced back towards the tracks.

“A kid sat next to me on the last carriage of the train. The one that comes after 1:13.”

He started pacing along the platform, moving farther away from me. I could no longer hear the voice on the other end of the call. He swallowed as he listened to the response.

“I don't know how to explain it. I don't know if I'm going crazy, but you need to warn people. I'm serious. Please. You have to tell people they can't sit next to another passenger in that carriage.”

The man stopped and listened again for several seconds.

“Okay. But please investigate it. If you find out it's true, put an announcement on the trains. Anything. Just warn people. Thank you.”

Then he hung up, and started walking towards the exit. I started walking towards him.

“Wait.”

He didn't stop - he just turned and walked around the corner. When I reached the corner and looked around it, there was nobody there. Just an empty corridor stretching towards the station exit, like he had vanished into thin air. I stood there, completely still.

And that's when I understood. The announcement hadn't been on the train twelve years ago. It was only there now, because he had discovered what happened when two people sat together in that carriage - somehow, they trap each other. Forever, it seems.

I sure won't be taking that train again after 1:07. But yesterday, I went back to the station, needing to prove to myself that I hadn't imagined any of it. At exactly 1:13, the train arrived. I watched from the platform through the windows as the doors opened. There were only a few passengers inside.

And there he was. The man scrolling through his phone.

I pushed the flowers atop the waters with a knotted stick to watch the ripples dance. A melody of chirping encouraged the symphony of the bog to chant alongside the beautiful display. Many a time I had admired the prose of nature which blessed such things. Bog lilies and cat tails swirled as westward winds provoked their dance. An old magic, they say, had beckoned these attributes to carry on with such delight. A hunger deeper still moved the throngs of nature to carry a tune with provocation and purpose. Yet I found much joy in the simpler things. My sister made hasty steps towards the muddy shores I knelt on, spurned by enthusiastic discovery. 

“Mothan!” She called my name. “A toad rests just behind where you set your basket! An omen, to be sure!” I stood from my perch and gave her a smile. 

“Aye!” I responded smiling. “A good omen, at that! Find ye the prey it sought, and perhaps it shall add to the melody of our search!” Clauran, my sister, lent her eyes to and fro. With an audible gasp she rent a cricket from the mud. 

“Here! I found the whelp nestled amidst the fronds! What do ye reckon it means?” She inquired most curiously. I fancied to kindle her imagination and met by her side. The insect was lackluster in strength, though fully grown, and I couldn’t help but to notice its discoloration. Still, I offered a smile and gestured to the bog. 

“We’ve much more to find! The flowers will do us much good. Set aside yer cricket and help me with the blooms; our basket has room for them yet!” Gleefully she danced about, careful not to step in the muck. Together we collected what we could of the available flora and set it neatly in our basket. A dross mist began to rise from the bog. I took note in my head and made sure the content of our collections was secure.

“Out with us then, I think. Supper will soon be on. Mother would want us home.” 

“Aye!” Clauran agreed. “With the giving so soo, she’ll have our arses if we are late again!” Just then a familiar voice hollered from afar. 

“Mothan! Claura! Lassies, be you in the bog?” I met his greeting with a shout of my own. 

“Aye, Laochra! My sister and I harken! We’ve just filled our basket for the giving! We’d not want to offer anything less than a full parcel.” His efforts through the rough terrain sloshed ever closer as he strode. The green markings of his tabard and metallic shine of the chainmail he wore glinted off the sunset rays. Laborious as his journey was, he still smiled upon seeing us ahead. 

“I fancy you’ve had quite the outing!” He laughed. “Yer mother has requested I bring you home. She doesn’t have the stomach to afford you being out so late. And quite frankly, nor do I. It isn’t the season to be taking such risks.” 

“We’ve not come into winter yet!” I retorted. “First the harvest comes, the leaves will fall and even then we’ve still got a fair bit of time before the snow befalls us.” Laochra shook his head. 

“You know just the same as I it's not right to be out in the dark. Much less in this unsavory mess.” He gestured to the bog. 

“We don't wade into the water.” I laughed. “Mother would have our heads if we dirtied our dresses.” 

“Well then your heads she shall have.” He pointed to the mud caked along the hem of my skirt. “You won't be hiding that mess from anyone, much less your mother. Eyes like a hawk, she has.” 

“It's just a bit of dirt, that.” I offered. “We play in the woods and farmer Gaylen’s fields often enough. Nothing some warm water and scrubbin’ won't fix.” 

“Aye, whatever ye say. Get along then lassies, and make haste. I’ve got a shift tonight and I won't be having you late for supper. Or it's *my* head yer mother will have.” He put his hands on my shoulder and that of my sister. “And don’t forget yer basket.” Claura fetched our harvest and trotted ahead. 

“Last one home is a rotten egg!” She called back, delighted with her jab. 

“Better a rotten egg than a broken one!” Laochra shouted back. He looked at me and shook his head. “Wish I still had that kind of vigor. The older ye get the less runnin’ is fun.” 

“Yer not even yet to your thirties.” I challenged. He shrugged and led me onward. 

“I suppose not. That doesn't mean shite when ye wake with aches and pains you didn't have in your youth. What I wouldn't do for a warm bath, I tell ye.” We made our way through the bushes and onto the familiar trail home. Pressed grasses surrounded by tall trees, the occasional bushel of cat tails and various wildflowers which danced in the wind. I took a moment to break away and admire the thistle. Laochra beckoned me to press on after a short while. 

“They’re so beautiful, yeah?” I asked, pointing back to the violet blooms. Laochra nodded and sighed. 

“I don't have the time to wander the woods like I used to. Joining the guard has proven a time consuming venture, albeit worth the while.” 

“Ye get yer time to rest though, yeah? A day here and there at the least?” 

“Aye, we do. All the same, the days go by ever faster. And when I *do* have time to rest, that's all filled up with the tasks I don't have a chance to tend to while working. With the harvest comin’ up I wager I'll be using most of that time to help Gaylen with the crops. Ever short of hands, he is. A man his age shouldn't shoulder such a burden alone.” 

“Papa told me I'm old enough to help this year.” I started. “I don't know if I'm strong enough to do all the work his usual farmhands do, but I've a good arm for a girl my age and a good eye for produce. Ma says I'm just as good at sortin’ potatoes and cabbage as she was when she was 14.” 

“i’ll bet you are. You’re also quite the forager.” He gestured to my basket. 

“Oh, I can't take much credit for this lot. Ma told me it's pretty much anything that is green and grows that can go in the basket. I like to put more colors together, you know? Though I understand it’ll all wind up in a big pile, it just makes sense that whatever is eatin’ it all up might like the food to look nice.” 

“A baked potato is more appealing with herbs and spices.” Laochra agreed. “That's mighty thoughtful of you, Mothan.” He paused for a moment and looked me in the eyes. A stolid expression overtook his previous smile. “You’ll be soon to join yer folks for the ritual, yeah? This next go round you’ll be of age, if I remember rightly.” 

“Aye, I'll be fifteen come harvest.” I replied. “I look forward to seein’ what it's all about. I’ve had it described to me a time or two by Papa, once by ma. We go verily by nightfall up the hill in the center of town and add what we’ve got to a heap. It's an offering of sorts so that the crops may grow.” Laochra nodded slowly. His eyes searched mine for a moment but he didn't say nothin’ immediately. He heaved a sigh and rubbed his chin with the top of his hand. 

“There's a bit more to it.” He whispered. “Something sinister lurks behind the story of our ritual. Now don't ye be going around tellin’ no one I told you this, aye?” I nodded eagerly. “Good. After the Giving is over and everyone has gone home, lock your door tight. Do what you can to make sure the windows are blocked, nothing gets in or out. Someone gets sick after the heap is fed, you see? Someone is always marked. Whatever they’re feeding in that heap demands a heavy price. I don’t know much else about it, but I do know what the guard and the council have sworn not to tell. What secrets they keep in the dark.” Before he could continue, Clauran came racing around the bend. 

“You two get stuck in the mud?” She teased. “Slow as a tortoise, the both of ye! Papa is out cutting wood, told me to turn back and beckon ye both hurry up!” she scampered off again towards the house, singing as she left. Laochra grimaced and loosed a breath between gritted teeth. 

“Best we get going.” He sighed. “I’ll tell ye more when I get the chance. But heed what I've said. And don't trust the council. Respect them, of course, as ye ought to. But be mindful what questions ye ask, and where your little feet tread.” 

“Why are ye tellin’ me all this?” I asked, grabbing his arm. Laochra turned with a pitiful grin. 

“Yer family has been nothing but kind to me since I lost my kin. Once father died, I had no one left. Joined the guard and was put on the rounds outside the village walls. Yer mother and father fed me now and then, let me sleep in their abode when I needed the warmth of company. Let's just say I count you as kin. The sister I never had. And you deserve to know the truth. Naught but lies, we’re told growing up. And someday, this has all got to end.” 

My name is Albert Nadir, and what I'm about to tell you is the reason I haven't slept in three days. For some background, I am a big believer in the supernatural and the occult. I often go to abandoned buildings to see if I can contact any form of spiritual entity, and I have also attended four seances, and I have used a Ouija board on many occasions. I have never succeeded until three days ago.

My success in using the board came when I went to an abandoned house just outside Baltimore.

The house is well known for it's history of sudden and unexplained acts of violence committed within, as well as a more recent history of supposed satanic blood rituals.

The property was built in the mid eighteen hundred's by a man named Robert Levi Quillon, an eccentric secessionist who claimed a voice in his sleep told him where to build the property. Robert died of a violent seizure soon after the properties construction.

After his death the property changed hands up until nineteen seventy three, and officially became abandoned the following year. Not long after that, the rumors and stories of witchcraft and satanic rituals started and has since been regarded as fact by all those that live near the area; as well as several reports to local law enforcement about this supposed activity.

I excitedly made the arrangements to visit the home.

The word disheveled does not do justice to the state of this house. Grey and rotting with bountiful evidence of nature's reclamation and covered in scattered pieces of graffiti, the property swayed and groaned in greeting. As I entered, a cold chill ran down my spine as if I was hit by wind from a sudden cold front, but there wasn't even a breeze. Now, cold and uncomfortable, I set up my Ouija board in the houses foyer; just before the set of wooden stairs. Planchet in hand I began the usual questions; are there any spirit's with me right now, can any spirit in this house tell me their name, etc. And for a while nothing happened. But right as I was about to call it a day, I felt the planchet begin to move in my hands as it spelt the following.

S.

E.

E.

Y.

O.

U.

T.

O.

N.

I.

G.

H.

T.

Taken aback by this, I quickly packed up the board, but then noticed something that I somehow overlooked in my set up. On the floor, directly where I had placed the board, was the small pyrographed etching of a pentagram.

When I reached my hotel, the dark and cold feelings of the property didn't fade; a new and unwelcome experience.

I can't remember when I fell asleep that night. All I can remember is the dream.

It began, as typical of all my dreams, as a blurry vision of various unknown things and a general feeling of comfort. But this was soon replaced by a vision of the house, so real, that I felt as if I could reach and and grab it if I had any control. But I didn't have control. I was being forced to enter the house, by a will that was not my own. As I slowly crossed the threshold of the door, entering the foyer, I suddenly began to hear the voices of people; shouting warnings and trying to get my attention away from the house.

As I tried to regain control and move towards the people shouting, I heard a voice call to me from the depths of the house. A chillingly soft hiss of a voice; which said "turn around Albert.". With no control, my body snapped forward, and then I saw it. The source of the voice. It was at the foot of the stairs, and had the legs of a goat and the torso of a man, and the head of a black wolf. It also had four horns on it's head, two protruding off the top, and two curving down from it's temples. It was smiling ear to ear.

Before I had a chance to react, it's head warped and changed into mine.

My dream then transformed into another, where this demon with my face, was now standing at the foot of my bed. It then slowly turned and exited my room, repeating "we'll meet again soon.".

I woke up to my door being open.

I had been working as a law enforcement transcriptionist for a little over six years when the officer brought me the tape. I'd never seen him before, but that wasn't too unusual. There were a lot of new recruits and I didn't exactly have the best memory when it came to faces. He wore the customary uniform, which fit him rather well. Even as a straight man, I have to admit he was handsome, almost ridiculously so. Dark hair, a sharp jawline speckled with stubble, and an air of gravitas that was impossible to ignore.

He handed me a cassette tape.
“I need this transcribed immediately,” he said in a smooth, inviting tone. “Don't put it through the usual queue.”
With an eyebrow raised, I asked what the case was about. Instead of answering, he looked at the tape for a moment before looking back at me.
“Just prepare yourself,” he said with a grimace. "It's quite intense.”
I remember laughing a little because I assumed he was exaggerating. But he didn't laugh with me. Before I could ask for any more details, he disappeared back down the corridor.
I've always been quite a curious person. It's what led me to this line of work. So, naturally, I immediately popped the tape in, pulled up Mark43 and began logging.

What follows is my transcription of that recording. I've removed the names and identifying information where necessary, but otherwise I've left it exactly as it was spoken. Be that for better or for worse.
The transcript of this tape– or, more precisely, its contents– makes for difficult reading. The things I heard and witnessed that day remain beyond my understanding. It is for this reason that I decided to share the tape's contents. Perhaps one of you can make more sense of this disturbing tape than I.

###

Tape Recorded Interview
Patrick Morgan/Detective Baron Hauptman
7.23.26

BH This is Detective Hauptman, █████ Police Department. Today's date is Thursday, July 23, 2026. The time is at 11:23 A.M. This will be a taped conversation with the last name of Morgan, M-O-R-G-A-N, first of Patrick, P-A-T-R-I-C-K, middle of Joe, J-O-E. Date of birth 02-20-96.

BH So, Patrick, I've turned on a tape recorder so I can record our little conversation. I'm to understand you've been read your rights and– let me see here– you've declined to lawyer up. Is that correct?

PM Correct.

BH Okay. Well, let's get down to business then, eh?

PM Alright.

BH So, Patrick. I assume you know why you're here?

PM Mhm.

BH Why don't you go ahead and tell me?

PM Because you think I killed–

PM Can you speak up?

PM Because you think I killed people. 

BH The department suspects you, yes. But hey, don't shoot the messenger. (Chuckle)

BH Let's start with… Isabella Moreno. How well did you know her?

PM Quite well. 

BH How's that?

PM She lived down the street. We used to play when we were kids.

BH And when did you last speak with her?

PM Hm… December, January. Something like that.

BH What did you talk about?

PM Why would I remember that? It's been like seven months.

BH Well, I'd think your last conversation might stick around longer. Especially with all that talk of art.

PM What? 

BH Art. You're an artist, right?

PM Yeah– how did you–

BH You take pride in your art, then?

PM I– yeah, I guess I do.

BH Every artist does, I suppose. But most are too scared to put their art out in the open. You have no such reservations, right?

PM What do you mean?

BH You like displaying your work publicly. In all its glory.

PM I have no idea what you're–

BH Really? So you don't look up to a certain… mentor?

PM No. Look–

BH You don't have to explain it.

PM … What?

BH I know.

PM … The fuck're you– Know what?

BH Why you did it.

PM Then why am I here?

BH Because they want to know if you did it.

PM And?

BH And… you did. 

PM What– What's the point of this then?

BH I wanted to meet you. In the flesh.

PM I–

BH I've seen your work. Your real work. Not those flimsy portraits in your apartment.

PM What the hell're you talking about?

BH You know. And I must admit, you are an artist at heart. Just not a very good one.

PM Excuse me? What does that even mean?

BH Her body. I mean, the way you arranged it. Chest splayed open, guts hanging around her neck. And the little message you left beside her. Very theatrical, I must say.

PM I didn't—

BH You spent three hours arranging her. Isn't that so, Patrick?

PM No–

BH You spent the longest on the fingers.

PM Whatever you're doing won't—

BH You wanted it to look natural. But you don't understand hands very well. (Chuckle)
BH Even in your shitty little paintings. It takes a special kind of anti-talent to make them look like the aftermath of a car wreck.

PM Stop–

BH C'mon, Patrick. You made the thing and now you don't want to discuss the composition?

PM Shut up.

BH I suppose it's to be expected. You don't care about the art. You don't even care whether you get caught. You just want to be seen.

PM You're full of shit.

BH You copied someone else's work because you wanted people to look at yours.

PM I didn't copy anyone! (Something slams against the metal table)

BH It's no use lying, Patrick. You read everything you could find about the man. Every little detail on how he displayed his victims. Hell, you even fooled the cops into thinking you were the real deal.

PM You– You don't know anything about me.

BH I know exactly what you are. A copy. You imitate the man, but you've never met him. And yet you've spent the last two years trying to make him proud. That's rather pathetic, Patrick.

PM Stop–

BH Isn't that what mommy always used to say?

PM I said stop!

BH (Mocking tone) The exact same rotten soul as your father! 

PM What– How do you–

BH She threw your paintings away, didn't she? You'd find them in the trash, sometimes even torn in half.

PM Shut up! Shut the–

BH Do you remember the blue one?

BH Oh, c'mon patrick. How could you forget? The one you painted when you were seventeen. The woman standing in the field.

PM Stop– Stop talking about my paintings.

BH Ah, you prefer to talk about your real art after all? (Chuckle)
BH I know you, Patrick Joe Morgan. You started killing because painting wasn't enough anymore. You wanted to make something nobody could ignore.

PM Please just—

BH You wanted someone to look at it and understand you. But nobody did.

PM Stop talking!

BH Not your mother. Not your father. Not the police. Not even the man you copied. And now you're sitting here hoping I will.

PM I–

BH Well I do understand you. And I want you to feel how truly pathetic you are, Patrick.

PM Please– (whimper)

BH Patrick.

PM Please just stop!

BH Look at me.

PM No! I– I won't.

BH (Static crackles. Voice briefly distorts) Patrick, you slime. Look at me!

PM I'll– I'll confess! I'll tell you everything you wanna know, please just–

BH (Chuckle) Oh, Patty. You don't have to do that. I know what you did. 

PM (Unintelligible)

BH Chin up, champ. Smile, and look into my eyes.

(Pause)

PM (Screaming, unintelligible).
PM WHAT– WHAT THE FUCK IS–

(Something slams against the metal table)

BH (Voice warped) Come closer.

PM (Unintelligible whines)

(Something drags across the metal table.)

BH (Whispers something unintelligible)

PM No– no it can't–

BH (Slow, droning) Yes, Patty. You know she was.

PM (Strangled cry. Sobs)

(Something slams against the metal table)

BH There you go. Attaboy.

(Something slams against the metal table several times, with a small pause between each increment)

(The door whines open. The slamming continues.)

BH Ah, good day gentlemen! 

(Frantic yelling. The slamming continues.)

BH My eyes are up here, lads.

(Unintelligible cries. Thuds join the slamming.)

BH This has been Detective Hauptman, █████ Police Department. Today's date is Thursday, July 23, 2026. 

(The slamming stops. The thudding continues.)

BH I'm turning the tape recorder off again. The time is 11:30 A.M. This has been the confession and testimony of Patrick J. Morgan.

###

When the tape stopped, I sat in silence for a moment. The shock of it all had rooted me firmly in place. Eventually, I forced myself out of my chair and scrambled towards the interrogation room. 
I honestly wish I hadn't. 

Patrick Morgan was still sitting at the table. He'd smashed his face into the metal table so many times that there was almost nothing recognizable left. His nose was almost completely crushed into his skull, which itself had been pulverized by the repeated impacts. 
The two officers who'd been monitoring the interrogation lay in a puddle of blood on the floor. The first officer had strangled the second with his own tie, while the second had beaten him across the head with a chair. There was no apparent reason for any of it. It looked like three men had simply gone mad at the same time.

In the weeks and months following, the department searched for Detective Baron Hauptman. Of course, there was no officer by that name at our department. We still don't know how he forged or stole the badge and uniform. We've tried to identify him using the cameras he walked past, but these efforts yielded nothing. It seemed as though he'd wandered in, then walked off the face of the earth.
I still have a copy of the cassette. I made it in case the original was ever destroyed. Still, I haven't mustered up the courage to play it again. The most I've managed is to re-read the transcript I made. I can't wrap my head around what happened. I suspect I never will. 

That brought me here. Perhaps sharing this will yield more results. So please, if you have any information on Baron Hauptman, send it to me. I need to know who– or what– he was. More than that, I wish I knew how he knew so much about Patrick.

My story has been silenced by the U.S government for fifty-two years, but I have now been allotted the privilege of sharing it, provided that I change the names of the people involved, as well as not disclosing any form of government information; such as base names, military rank, etc.

In light of these conditions, for the duration of my story, you may call me John.

When I reached the age of eighteen, I was drafted into the Vietnam War and I served up until I lost my leg to a Vietcong cartridge trap. For those unaware, a cartridge trap was a type of trap that used a rifle round placed in a hollow piece of bamboo with either a sharp nail or anything that could be used to act as a firing pin. These types of traps were placed under small leaves and were designed to discharge once a soldier stepped on them. A soldier like me. The round pierced through the arch of my foot and through my entire leg and hip. Luckily the bullet fired into me at an awkward enough angle to where the shot wasn't lethal, but the bullet still mangled my leg to the point of where there was no choice but amputation.

For most people, this is where the story turns. Where it shifts to the state of things back home and to the treatment of the men who served, and who returned as a shell of who they once were.

This isn't that kind of story.

Due to the earlier stated conditions, I must now state that I am not allowed to tell you which evacuation hospital I was recovering in, but I am allowed to at least tell you that I was in one. During my recovery, I was in a bed situated next to someone; who will be referred to as David, and David was in a similar position to me but for him it was different trap and it took his opposite leg.

Now, at this point in the story I must confess that I do not believe in anything supernatural, but the events that I am about to tell you; which happened on the night before my discharge from the hospital, have no natural explanation.

I awoke at approximately oh three hundred on April 30 1974, to the sound of what I thought was the chirping of crickets. I would have gone back to sleep if not for the fact that I distinctly noticed that David wasn't making any noise. David slept with his mouth open, and his snoring at this point began to act as a form of "white noise" for me as I slept. So to not hear him drew my attention.

When I turned I saw something that has forever changed me.

At the foot of David's bed was a large humanoid figure, that was so dark it became visible in the unlit field hospital. It's body, if I can even call it that, was made from some sort of amorphous substance; which seemed to bend and flow like a living lava lamp. It had tentacle like appendages which seemed to grow and shrink at will; at the moment I turned it had, what you might call it's hand, wrapped around David's mouth and head silencing him. It was making the chirping sound.

I let out a small gasp; which turned the creatures attention towards me, and although it had no visible eyes; I knew it was staring at me. Quiet and cold, it stared at me for what felt like an eternity, and then it moved forward. In a quarter of a second, it moved from where it was to directly on top of me; and began to more closely scan my body up and down. Up and down, it's head morphing and sloshing, probing me with it's tendril's like butcher checking a cut of meat. This process continued for about five minute until it had checked out my entire figure, then it did the same to David. When it finished with him, it let out; what I can only describe as a hissing sound like that of a cobra, and turned back to me.

Then it opened it's mouth.

An impossibly deep cavern of a mouth; which seemed to extend in perpetuity and was filled with every form of tooth imaginable. It opened it's jaw until it hit the floor with a light *thud* upon the wooden floor, and in one swift motion; ate David whole. There was no sound. No blood. Just swift and painful death.

After it closed it's maw, it turned and spoke to me only a single phrase.

"Not time yet, but soon."

The next morning I was found in the corner of the hospital room, and I had a new leg.

I don't know how long it will be before it comes for me. How long is soon for a being of that nature. And did it only eat his body? Or did it eat his very soul along with it?