r/shortscarystories

“Daniel!”

He came walking to the door, still dressed from our evening out. 

“What’s up, Love?”

I pointed at the kitchen cabinets. “She did it again.”

He looked to see all of our utensils rearranged. He sighed. 

“I mean, it’s not that big a deal, right? They’re just forks and spoons and knives. You can still find everything.”

This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. His mom wasn’t the worst, but she had an annoying habit of snooping around our house and interfering. She’d rearrange things the way she wanted them, heedless of how much more difficult that made things for me. It was like she couldn’t help interfering in our life. And I’d maybe be ok with it if Daniel had my back, but he always just made excuses for her. 

“This is getting old. She’s your mother - please talk to her.”

“Honey, you know how she is.”

“I know exactly how she is. Which is why you need to talk to her. Why does she even need to have a key anyway?”

“It’s for emergencies, honey. Besides, it makes her feel included.”

“But she doesn’t only use it for emergencies.”

Another sigh. “Alright. I’ll talk to her.”

Two days later I came home from an evening out with some old family friends. I went to put away the bracelet and earrings I’d worn when I realized that my jewelry box had been tampered with. It was still there, but I could tell that it had been moved and someone had attempted to open the lock. 

“Daniel!”

“Yes, honey?” he asked as he walked in. 

“Look at this,” I said, showing him the box and the tampered-with lock. 

“What am I looking at?”

“Well clearly someone tried to force open my jewelry box. I wonder who that might be? Who has a key to the house and has shown an interest in my things?”

“Come on, honey. You aren’t suggesting that my mother tried to steal your jewelry?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Remember that outfit that went missing from my closet last month? The one we saw her wearing in the pictures from her night out?”

“I asked her about that - she said you lent it to her.”

“I didn’t.”

“Maybe you forgot?” he suggested awkwardly. 

“Again, I didn’t. Why are you so willing to take her word over mine?”

“Of course I take your word. But she’s my mother. You know she doesn’t mean any harm.”

“All I know is that she somehow, without my consent, has a key to the house that I bought.”

This had been a bit of a sore subject for us: Daniel was enough of a ‘traditionalist’ to have a slight issue with how much of our life I paid for. I didn’t mind doing it - I loved him and had plenty of money - but it rankled him, so I didn’t usually bring it up. 

“That’s not fair. I asked you if giving her that key was ok.”

“It’s not really asking if you’ve already given it to her.”

He went silent. “I’ll talk to her, alright?”

“Like you did the last time?”

He turned and walked out. It was clear he would never do anything about this. So I’d have to.

A few nights later, I came home from a work event. My husband was out of town, so the house was quiet. I went to the bedroom to change and found a sight waiting for me. 

Sitting on the middle of the floor was my jewelry box. It was fully open - likely because I’d ‘accidentally’ left it unlocked. The jewelry inside had clearly been rifled through. 

But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. 

Standing in the middle of the floor was Daniel’s mother. Impeccably dressed. A shocked look on her face. 

And her body turned entirely to solid gold. 

I went over and picked up the stone she’d dropped in her surprise, putting it back in my jewelry box. I’d had a feeling this might happen - I’d hoped I was wrong, but I’d had a feeling I wasn’t. Well, now that problem was solved. 

I pondered the ancient jewelry box, remembering the story I’d been told when I’d inherited it from my mother, the warnings I’d been given about keeping it in our bloodline. And I read the name etched in Greek into the lid.

“Midas.”

My wife was in a car accident a few months back. Let me tell you, the shock that comes with finding a loved one in a crumpled mess of a vehicle is not something I would wish upon my worst enemy. I mean, obviously, but still.

I just had to be traumatized. Had to find her hanging upside down while blood dripped from the gaping wound on her forehead. It’s an image I’ll never forget… unlike her…

That’s the thing. She never gave me any signs that she was regaining her memory. No randomly remembering my name, no recalling of her job, just emptiness.

And it’s not like I didn’t try. Day in and day out, I was taking care of her. Nursing her wounds. Feeding her. Bathing her. Keeping her safe at night.

I guess that’s unfair, though. I’d have never been able to afford those medical bills. It was kind of my responsibility to look after her. What was I supposed to do? Bankrupt myself so doctors could do what was effectively common-sense operations? Please.

Even still, I expected she’d at least SOMEWHAT remember the man who pulled her to safety. Acted as her guiding light through what was undoubtedly the most traumatizing event of her life. But no. No, all I received in return from her were cold stares and blank faces.

Didn’t deter me, though. If it was the last thing I did, I was going to see her smile again. Really smile. None of that fake nonsense that she seemed to be doing on purpose.

I started letting her do things. Stand out in the yard. Embrace the outdoors to hopefully trigger some sort of “A-ha” moment. And all she had to offer was the same old “where am I?” nonsense.

I tried cooking her favorite foods, putting on her favorite shows. I even went as far as to sit through the entire Star Wars series because I knew just how much she loved those movies.

I’d laugh at her favorite parts, cry at the saddest ones, all while glancing over at her occasionally to see if she had any kind of spark in her eye, but all I’d ever find were tears and confusion.

Efforts waned, I must admit. I just couldn’t be bothered to try when no effort was being made on her part. I just figured I’d let it all work out naturally instead of trying to force it anymore.

That’s when the notes started. Little sticky note reminders that I’d find around the house.

At first, it was annoying. It was like she was deliberately testing me.

“This isn’t my house.”

“You need to get out.”

Just little things like that, you know?

However, those notes pretty quickly evolved into something that started feeling more and more like an attack on my masculinity.

I’d find em’ on the bathroom mirror, on my nightstand, stuck to each of the 7 master locks I kept on the front door for security. All of them repeating the same thing.

“That’s not your husband.”

“That’s not your husband.”

“That’s not your husband.”

Like, okay. I get it. We’re gonna have to try harder to make you better.

But if you’re reading this…

Don’t worry, sweetheart.

You’ll feel more like yourself soon.

Marla T. Watson passed away peacefully at the age of 93 while at her residence in Jamestown on Tuesday, August 4th, 1998.

Marla was an avid baker and was known for the monthly ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Hope Bake Sale’ - providing hundreds of her famous cookies every month up until a stroke in 1994 left her partially paralyzed. Ms. Watson was also known as a lover of poetry.

She was survived by her younger sister, Sandra Watson-Kemp of Welhall, and her two cats, which are being placed with foster families thanks to the Jamestown Animal Association.

Ms. Watson asked that all donations be sent to the Jamestown Animal Association upon her passing.

As a lover of poetry Ms. Watson requested that a final poem be published at the time of her obituary. Despite concerns about the subject matter, we have decided to publish it to honor our promise to Ms. Watson, who - despite what this poem alludes to - was considered a valued member of the Jamestown community. A final note from our editor will follow the poem below:

Cursed night snuck upon,
Much like my knife from kitchen drawer,
The boy’s life was the cost,
To live to thirty-four.

Emaciated lover true,
With name not spoke by beast nor man,
Visited upon me late one night,
And told me of the plan.

Die, you will, at thirty-three,
Unless favor you do for me,
A child’s blood, drop by drop,
Fed to the willow tree.

And so I did that asked of me,
Steel cut soft neck did bleed,
Then told another ten I had,
And then repeat the deed.

And such I waited forty-three,
'fore lover return to me,
Many nights stalked until did again,
I fed the willow tree.

Lover said the deed’s not done,
To live to an old age,
You must follow these directions here,
From old tome she ripped a page.

A recipe of treat so good,
All will eat with gluttonous glee,
Within this treat is just one pinch,
Bark from that willow tree.

And so I baked and handed out,
A deed I did for long,
When each that eat meet their time,
To my lover their soul shall belong.

Emaciated lover true,
Saved me from my fate,
The cost two children and the souls,
Of all of those who ate.

A note from the editor: 

Ms. Watson had provided us with a sealed envelope containing this poem and verbal directions shortly after her stroke, stating to not open it until the time of her passing.

Upon her passing and subsequent opening we became aware of the correlation between two children that went missing in Jamestown (Bobby Wilcox (missing, 1938) and Debra Polowski (missing, 1948)) and the content within this poem, along with details mentioned within said poem relating to Ms. Watson’s role in our community.

We have forwarded this poem to the Walsh County Sheriff's Department, along with details from our original correspondence with Ms. Watson and are awaiting an investigation.

I awoke suddenly, confused and groggy. My wife had shaken me awake. "Babe, what's wrong?" I ask.

"Honey, there's someone at the door. I keep hearing knocks."

Upon hearing the knocking myself, I storm to our front door, frustrated. I glanced concerningly into my daughter's room, ensuring her safety before proceeding to the door.

I peered through the peephole and froze. There, a little boy stood. Feeling my presence, he spoke softly:

"Please help me sir. I'm lost and I can't find my parents. I'm cold."

I sighed, thinking from an empathetic lens from having a kid of my own. I opened the door slowly, its creak echoing into the night.

As soon as the door had been opened, however, the kid yelled "You can't catch me!" and darted off into the darkness.

Almost by impulse, I lunged after him, sprinting hard to catch up. Unfortunately for the small boy, I caught him within a hundred feet and spear tackled him to the ground.

Out of breath and seething with anger, I wrapped my hands around his neck and yelled at him, asking why he was disturbing me and my family at this time of night.

The boy paused, before responding with a giggle:

"My Uncles said they'd get me ice cream if I got you far away from the house."

"Sorry about your family, mister. But thank you for the ice cream."

Phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hello, my name is Jeremy. Am I speaking to Lara Sinclair?”

“Yes, this is Lara.”

“Excellent. I just need to do a quick security check to confirm it’s really you.”

“But you rang me.”

“I certainly did, Ms Sinclair. We’re only trying to protect you.”

“Go on then.”

“Can I take your date of birth please?”

“Thirteenth of July, nineteen ninety-two.”

“Thank you, and a happy birthday.”

“Thank you. I’m actually just about to head out for my birthd–”

“Mother’s maiden name?”

“You don’t care, do you? Why would you? You don’t know me.”

“I want to know you, Ms Sinclair, but we need to get past these questions first. Mother’s maiden name?”
“Edgerton.”

“Thank you. Finally, do you willingly give your soul to the dark lord?”

“Hail Satan… what? I didn’t say that.”

“You did, Ms Sinclair. Which means you’ve successfully cleared our security checks.”

“Hang on… what’s happening? I didn’t say that. I mean… it came out of my mouth, but not by choice.”

“It doesn’t matter, Ms Sinclair. The verification process has been completed. As I said, my name is Jeremy. I’m calling from the Ninth Circle Debt Recovery Team.”

“The what?”

“I have you currently working in marketing for a fashion brand. Is that correct?”

“I’m Head of Viral Marketing at Jasper Monroe.”

“That’s a high-powered job for someone who didn’t finish secondary school.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I suppose it’s not what you know, but who.”

“Excuse me. I worked hard to get where I am. I’m naturally talented at it.”

“Yes. Natural.”

“Can you please tell me what this is regarding?”

“Certainly, Ms Sinclair. We acquired your asset in twenty fifteen, yet we’ve still not seen any return on our investment.”

“I think there’s been a mistake. I was twenty-one. I didn’t have any assets.”

“Let me just check.”

Keyboard clicking.

“Ah. Yes, you’re right. There has been a mistake. Your asset was actually sold by a Mr and Mrs Sinclair. Any relation?”

Silence.

Keyboard tapping.

More silence.

“Ms Sinclair, are you still there?”

“…Yeah.”

“And did you really never feel anything change afterwards? Honestly?”

“This is absurd.”

“Contracts of this nature usually are. However, as stated in our terms and conditions, the absurdity of any contract is not the responsibility of Ninth Circle.”

“Can you please just tell me what it is you want?”

“I don’t want anything, Ms Sinclair. You simply need to provide what is owed.”

“Fine.”

“We currently offer three repayment packages.”

“…Repayment?”

“The first is the Public Humiliation package. We get very little out of it financially, but management absolutely loves it. Collection is required once annually.”

“No.”

“Okay. There’s the Indecent package. An indecent crime of any nature. You must be caught. Repayment terms vary depending on severity.”

“Definitely not.”

“And finally, the Assassination package. Though, considering the career boost we arranged for you, we do feel this is the most–”

“No way.”

“You do need to choose one.”

Silence.

“…How badly do I have to humiliate myself?”

“Excellent choice, Lara.”

“No, I didn’t–”

“I’ll transfer you to the Humiliation Department now. Please hold.”

Hold music.

My mother’s eyes were hollow as Signor Cavalcanti placed the coin in her palm. I could see a silent understanding in the faces of my brothers and sisters. This was goodbye. 

“You’ll live forever, son,” the last words she ever said to me.

We left my village for San Gimignano.  

I thought of my family as I ate roast chicken and felt the skins of grapes snap between my teeth before the sweet juice spilled from my lips.

A series of vials sat on a tray near the table. 

T. dohrnii was scrawled across a strip of tattered paper fixed to its side. The milky glass pulsed with the same brilliant red glow that now stained my lips. 

I felt normal during the first days, but then I began to change.

First, oozing bumps crawled up my arms. Then came the pain. My skin screamed with fire if I touched it. Whenever my fingertips approached my skin, tiny dancing needles would push out from the ends of my fingers.

Once, I slipped as I walked alongside Cavalcanti. He caught me by the arm which stretched and tore away from my shoulder.

Over the years his body grew weaker and began to break. Almost like mine, only I stopped aging. 

He did his best to take care of me. His fingers trembled as he tended to my wounds.  In his last breaths he cried and apologized for what he did to me.

I saw my mother once more as she visited the market near my house. 

One shriveled hand rummaged through cabbages, the other held her gown tight against her. 

I kept myself hidden, just a shadow observing behind early morning mist.

I thought of how she’d run her fingers through my hair as we lay in our hay field staring up at the starry night sky. Her eyes would shine bright as she smiled, a sight that every child longs for.

My heart broke at the sight of her malformed body, twisted and spent by time. Her breath wheezed. A pale mist in the winter air as she shuffled away and back to her empty house.

As I watched her with my remaining eye, I knew I could never go home again.

Over the years I learned to remain in the shadows, but I longed for connection.

Around me, the world rapidly became a better place. Diseases were cured. People lived longer. Families no longer went hungry.

But everything has a lifecycle to fulfill. 

It was shortly after everyone started looking to the palms of their hands for the answers. Lifeless black slabs they clung desperately to, ones that drove them further into their own solitudes until their own humanity was gone. In just three generations.

I visited San Gimignano one last time, when I still had my legs.

The field was still there, but I realized that I had forgotten my mother’s face.

My life lost meaning so long ago and I long for a death that may never come.

The flesh that now constitutes me heals as fast as it is destroyed.

***

You see, I kept changing after Cavalcanti was gone. 

My bones have dissolved.

I am continuously tearing and healing because my skin is too weak to hold my flesh inside.

At least it cannot on land.

Turritopsis dohrnii.

The immortal jellyfish.

Everyone is gone now.

As I walked towards the ocean, I saw the petrified body of an old woman sitting in a car. 

Tears refused to come as I cried for her. Another child who might have just wanted a good life.  Excited to see what the world had to offer.

Someone had written words on a nearby car. 

 "First came the Alphas, then the Betas, but the Gammas brought the end.”

Rusted steel frames stood as monuments to mankind for centuries. Now, they are remembered only by me.

I’ll live forever in the sea, at least until it boils under a sun gone mad or freezes as the stars above wink out.

But as I drift in these dark waters, alone and without purpose, I think of my mother long cold and lost to time. 

My last eye went dark long ago, but I still have my memories.

Of my mother. Of the stars. Of everything we lost.

I like to imagine that she’s down here with me as the stars above us flicker and dance.

My head was banging, my wrist hurt, and my vision was blurry. What was that around me? Plastic? A small zipper. A tent! I grabbed it and pulled it down. The sun was blinding. The dewy grass felt cold on my feet. Where was I? What was going on?

“Hey,” sounded from my left. My head twitched towards the sound.

“Mornin’, didn’t mean to scare ya,” the voice laughed. It was a man in his late 60s, balding with a white beard. His face seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t remember who he was or his name.

“You alright?”

“Ye…yeah.”

“I’m ready to leave. Let me know when you’re packed up. There’s some coffee left,” he said, and pointed towards a pot next to the firepit.

“Thank you.”

I poured myself a large cup, drank it down at once, and sat on the ground. Pine trees towered over the campground, while long grass and wildflowers covered the forest floor. The man had a green tent beside mine. I still couldn’t put a name to his face.

“You need more time?”

“Probably.”

“Alright, but we should move before 10 a.m. It’s a long way to Mooresville.”

Mooresville! It zapped through my mind. I was on a hike in Pineswood, going to Mooresville. I let out a deep sigh, put the cup down, and went to my tent to pack up. All my clothes were already dirty and stale. How did that happen?

As I rolled up my tent, I could feel the man’s eyes on me. I quickly put it on top of my backpack and headed west towards Mooresville. The man was right behind me.

In the first part of the journey, we didn’t say a word; he stayed behind me, panting.

“You think we could slow down?”

“Just trying to get to Mooresville. It’s a long way.”

“What’s up with you? You’ve been acting strange all morning.”

“Just tired.”

“You were so talkative last night.”

“Last night?”

“Were you drunk or something?”

My stomach tightened. “No. I’m just. I don’t know. I've been feeling weird all morning. What happened last night?”

He looked me up and down. “We met at the campground. You came an hour after me, laughing, talking about Mooresville and your friends there.”

Shards of memory flashed before my eyes: the stars, the warmth from the fire, the man’s loud laughter.

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, rubbing my face.

“I’m Devon, if you forgot that, too.”

Devon!

“No, I remembered that.”

I pulled a water bottle out of my bag and shook it, but there was nothing inside it.

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry about it, I always bring a spare,” Devon said and pulled out a bottle from his bag.

I took a sip and handed it back to him.

“You can keep it. I have enough to last me to Mooresville.”

“Thank you.”

We kept on the road. The smell of pines and wet earth hung in the air. Clouds began to gather to the south; with them came a small throbbing in my head. 

A mile later, there was a fork in the road.

“Let’s go left,” Devon said.

“The map says the road is to the right.”

“This is a shortcut.”

“I don’t see it here.”

“It ain’t on the map. Only the locals know of it.”

“How do you know of it then?”

“I’ve hiked here before.”

“I think we’d be better off sticking to the road.”

He pointed to the sky. “You see those clouds? I ain’t bringing a raincoat and I ain’t planning on being wet. he shortcut’s faster, and there’s a cabin along the way. I’m sure you could use a break,” he chuckled.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the sharp throbbing pain shot through my head again. I looked up. The clouds were moving faster than before.

“You sure about it?”

“As ever.”

We got on the shortcut. I drank more of Devon’s water, hoping the migraine would go away, but the throbbing only got worse. A dark cloud passed in front of the sun, darkening the forest as my vision began to blur on the sides.

“We should hurry to the cabin. The storm’s close.”

Devon picked up the pace, walking faster than before. I tried to keep up, but my legs felt unsteady beneath me. Then, in the distance, I saw the wooden house, standing in a small clearing between the trees. It looked like any other cabin, a brown wooden house with a small porch and a garden, but this one seemed so familiar. Was I here before?

The rain began as a drizzle, then within seconds turned into a downpour. My head was spinning now. Devon ran to the cabin and opened the door. 

“Hurry, hurry, get in.”

I ran in and threw my backpack on the floor. Drops of water fell from my clothes, echoing through the room. The inside smelled damp and moldy. Devon shut the door behind him and turned on the lights. The lightbulb flickered a few times before bathing the room in a dim, musty, yellow light. 

In my fading vision, I saw a missing persons flyer on the wall. I came closer to it, trying to focus. My stomach twisted when I saw who it was. It was a photo of me, dated a month earlier. I was wearing the same camping gear, smiling. Underneath the date, it said my last known location was the Pineswood forest. It all came back to me. This cabin, my hands bound, my vision blurring, Devon. I turned back to him, trying to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

“I wanted to relive the best day of my life again,” he said and chuckled. “The day you became mine.”

I tried to move, but my feet couldn’t hold me, and my body collapsed soon after.

“Hope you enjoyed your water.”

Henry Sutton was at it again.

The most insufferable member of the so-called Sherlock Holmes Society, a group of five college detectives.

Car windows open. Thick blonde curls, letterman jacket draped over his shoulders in rich blue and gold. The late setting sun ignited strands of hair. Sunglasses perched on the crown of his head. 

Not exactly inconspicuous.

I peeked from behind the dogeared pages of my book. Henry was half asleep, his heavy lidded gaze glued to his phone.

Head tilted, index finger idly tapping the screen. So much for investigating.

Henry Sutton was supposed to be investigating the latest kid to go missing. 

“You're staring,” a voice cut through my concentration. Bess sat cross-legged in front of me, lips curled in disapproval, her gaze fixed on her laptop.

It was her idea to come to the park. Her idea to sit exactly where Henry Sutton was known to stake out. She knew what I was thinking because I’d been saying it for months. Bess had seen my notes, my 3am scribbles, and my murder board.

“Andy.”

Of course she was mad, as a proud member of the Henry Sutton fan club.

I figured she’d be more of a Charlie girl. Charlie Morris. Leather jacket, blunt attitude, brooding eyes. 

Nope. 

Bess was a Henry girl. If that wasn’t clear, my best friend was currently wearing Henry’s face on a cheap nylon sweater she’d bought from Etsy. That thing had probably never been washed. 

“Stop staring!” Bess shoved me.

I blinked. Straightened. Tried to smile.

“I'm not,” I spoke up, ducking behind my book when Henry glanced out the window. He was scanning his surroundings. 

The bare minimum. 

“I was just…”

Bess groaned. Loud and exaggerated. Because I was convinced Henry and his investigative group of wannabe detectives were the kidnappers. 

Exhibit A: Ten missing children over six months. Every single one disappeared for exactly twenty four hours and was “found” by Henry and his friends. 

Exhibit B: Each missing kid was “put in therapy” out of town, so there was no way I could get to them. 

Exhibit C: Henry Sutton was CREEPY. Three years ago, he just appeared with his friends. Unlike the rest of my brain-dead town, I wasn't buying it.

Bess knocked my book out of my hands, and I panicked, ducking my head.

Her high-pitched shriek and manic hand movements were definitely going to get us caught. In the corner of my eye, Henry Sutton’s wandering gaze briefly found mine, his lips slowly curving into a smirk.

Too late.

The bastard knew that just acknowledging our presence would send Bess into hysteria. He raised his hand in a wave, ready to perform. “Yooo!”

I caught the twitch in his magnetic smile. He knew exactly what he was doing.

The thick Boston accent.

The Hollywood grin with too many teeth.

All the better to eat you with, my dear.

Henry leaned out of the car window. “Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

He winked at me. “You're in my classes, right? Do you wanna maybe… talk?”

A cold shiver slid down my spine. “Yes, you,” he said causally, still wearing that smile, but his eyes were darker. Like every part of him could read me. “You've been watching us, so I figured we should talk about…things.” Henry slammed his hands against the steering wheel, and even Bess jumped, her eyes wide. “Come on! I don't bite.”  His tone suggested otherwise.

When I didn't move, his smile curdled. “Either you come talk to me, Andy, or I get your ass thrown in jail for stalking.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Your choice!” 

I stood up, shooting a petrified Bess a tight smile.

“If I'm not back in ten minutes, call the cops,” I whispered. “Tell them it's Henry.” 

My best friend gave a sharp nod. 

Never meet your heroes, Bess. 

“Come onnnnn, Andy,” Henry whistled, and something inside me came apart, unraveling. He flashed me a grin. “I'm waiting, babe.” 

“It's okay,” Bess whispered. She held up her phone. “I'll film everything.” 

I nodded, grabbing my backpack.

On shaky legs, I strode to his car and slid into the front seat. On an empty country road, it might as well be pitch black.

Henry’s car was what I expected. Soda cans and bags of chips littered the seats, a pop song crackling through the radio. 

“All right.” Henry leaned back confidently. “I think we both know what I'm going to say.”

He tipped his head back, grinning. “You clearly want me, huh? Stalking me and my friends is cute, I can admit that.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I like you too. But not here. I don't want Bess to see us together.”

He laughed. “Your funeral, babe.”

Henry started the car, and I gripped the oh shit handle for dear life. He drove further into the middle of nowhere, and I braced myself when he slammed on the brakes.

He leaned forward, leather squeaking, and I kissed him, letting him cup my cheek, before pulling my knife from my jeans pocket and stabbing him in the throat.

Hot, fresh blood gushed, staining my hands. Henry jerked in my embrace, choking, spluttering scarlet. “I freakin’ knew it.” He let out a shuddery laugh, his body  flopping against the seat. “It’s you.”

I pulled the knife free, my lips finding his ear as blood ran thick across the leather seats. In the corner of my eye, another member hid beneath the seats. Charlie.

I could smell him.

Driving my blade into his skull, I didn't stop until I penetrated the soft, squishy mass of his brain. His cry came first, a startled shriek, before I yanked the knife out and licked the teeth. Just as I thought, Charlie was filming me. Quite the performance, I had to admit. Henry was a good actor. 

I crushed the phone between my fingers. 

“Next time, Henry?” I hummed. “Don’t fuck with a fae’s food.”

One call on hold…

“Hello, thank you for calling Well-Health. My name is Athena and I will be your telenurse. May I have your name?”

Oh boy, a little someone hit redial on the house phone...

“Hello, Sam. How old are you?”

Aw, how cute. Only five.

“And you used the phone all by yourself! Sam, can I talk to your mommy or daddy?”

Gone… must be with a babysitter. I hope she isn't alone...

“Is someone else there with you?”

Woman watching her? Yep, babysitter.

“Can I speak to her?”

Outside? This kid should be in bed this late, maybe outside smoking...

“Okay, can you go get her?”

Outside the window watching her? You have to be able to see her on the phone lady… almost midnight too. Get inside and watch this kid!

“Can you tell her to come in, please?”

She can’t or she won’t? Hard to find quality babysitters.

“Why can't she come in, sweetie?”

Oh boy, locked out… that explains why she is at the window.

“Okay, Sam. I need you to let the woman watching you in for me. Can you do that?”

I'd be scared too. Probably going to be in trouble for not letting her back in...

“Oh, sweetie, calm down. You don't need to be-”

Like a snake? Probably trying to yell for the kid through the window…

“Calm down Sam. She is probably opening her mouth that wide for you to hear her through the window. She wants you to let her back in.”

Shaking? Seizure? Maybe that's why we are on redial...

“Sam, can you tell me if the woman that is watching you is flopping around kind of like a fish? Is she on the ground? Is she acting funny?”

Floating off the ground like Peter Pan? High heels?

“I don't think she is floating, darling. It is dark out and she probably has tall shoes on. Describe how she is shaking for me, okay?”

Hmm.. just her head shaking and she is upright, a little off the ground? Maybe platforms. Tremors? At least she hasn't collapsed.

“Okay. I need you to do something Sam. I need you to take the phone to the woman. I need to make sure she is okay.”

Poor thing, letting her imagination get to her now...

“I know, I know, but I need to make sure she is okay. This is really important. You won't be in trouble, but she may be having a problem.”

I really hope this woman isn't seizing with a five year old there. Come on kid, go get the woman.

“Yes. I promise she won't hurt you.”

Oh no! I hope not...

“Why do you say she looks like she is dead, sweetie?”

Phew, scared me for a second there kid.

“No, that just means she is probably really old, people's faces look like that. I am really white too darling, and I am not dead. We call it pale. Old people can look like that sometimes."

This must be the first time this kid has been left with a babysitter.

“No, Sam. She didn't take your mommy and daddy. She just showed up when they left. That is how babysitters work.”

I really need to make sure this woman is okay…

“I doubt she is smiling honey. She may be wincing though. That means she might be hurt or in pain and her face looks like a smile because of it.”

There you go kid, stop scaring yourself and go help the poor woman.

“Okay sweetie, do you know how to unlock the door?”

Yeah, of course she is the one who locked it...

“Why did you lock the door, darling?”

Aww, she can't be in trouble for that... just following directions...

“When daddy told you to lock the door I am sure he meant while the babysitter was inside, honey.”

This is starting to make sense now.

“You probably had a bad dream, Sam. Your babysitter didn't hurt your mommy and daddy. They are fine. I promise.”

There you go kid, calm down and let the nice lady back in...

“Alright Sam, unlock the door then open it and hand the woman the phone, okay?”

This woman is going to have a story to tell when mom and dad get back.

“Can you still see her outside the window?”

Probably at the door now, good sign if she can move...

“I promise. Go ahead and open the door and hand her the phone.”

She must have been at the door, startled the poor kid so bad that even I jumped!

“Hello?”

This lady is surprisingly soft-spoken for being locked out, barely heard her thank me...

“You are very-”

Did she hang up?

“Hello, ma’am? Ma’am?”

Sounds like she was okay. Kids and their imagination, ‘Scary lady outside my window watching me….' Hah! Welp, another call on hold...

Ringing

“Good afternoon, you’re through to the Karma Merits Customer Support Team. My name is Elizabeth. How can I assist you today?”

“Oh, hello Elizabeth. My name is Roger. I appear to be having issues cashing in my Karma merits.”

“Not a problem, sir. These things can get tricky at the end.”

“It keeps saying I don’t have enough, but I’ve been saving all my life. I definitely have enough.”

“Not a problem, sir. If you can give me your account number, I can look into that for you.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. You are an angel.”

“Not exactly.”

“My number is triple zero, two, four, three, nine, six, six, seven.”

“One moment please.”

Typing.

“Here we are, Mr Oakland. I can see your balance is eight hundred and seventy-two.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So what seems to be the issue today?”

“It won’t let me choose butterfly.”

“Yes, Mr Oakland. The Butterfly Package is currently nine hundred and fifty merits. You do not have enough.”

“No, that can’t be right. They were eight hundred and fifty.”

“Not since the recent price adjustments.”

“The what, sorry?”

“The price adjustments, Mr Oakland. They came into effect at midnight.”

“But I have to be a butterfly. Mary will be a butterfly.”

“I see you are a very loyal customer, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“In that case, you should have received notification of the changes.” 

“I didn’t receive any letters.”

“It would have been sent by email, sir.”

“I don’t have email.”

“Yes you do.”

“…Do I?”

“Yes. We have your address listed as enter details here at email dot test”

“I don’t remember that.”

“It is clearly your email address, sir.”

“But Mary is a butterfly.”

“Yes, Mr Oakland. You’ve already mentioned Mary several times.”

“We were supposed to be butterflies.”

Silence.

“I promised her.”

“I understand, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“…What do I have enough for?”

Typing.

“Passing you through to the Roach Department now, sir. Please hold.” 

Hold music.

Welcome to the Museum of Thebler Vaughn's The Book of Hair, the 21st century's most infamous novel!

I'll be your audio guide for today.

Before we start, I would like to remind you that although admission is free, donations are what keep us functioning. Popcorn may also be purchased at the front desk, and bathrooms are located in the gift shop. Your generosity is greatly appreciated.

Let's begin!

As you step forward, please see on your left a scale replica of the interior of Mosley's Butcher Shop, complete with wax models of both Mr. Vaughn and, behind the counter, Ed Mosley.

(Please refrain from touching the figures.)

This, of course, is where the story of the Book of Hair began, when, one summer morning, sleepless and suffering from a horrible case of writer's block, Mr. Vaughn visited Ed Mosley's Butcher Shop to buy a pound of mutton.

The original shop was demolished in 2041.

But, standing here, one can almost sense the atmosphere on that extraordinary day: customers chatting, Ed Mosley cutting meat, and the smell of blood…

Now, please follow the arrow on the floor.

You are now looking at the microscope, donated by Mr. Vaughn's great-grandson, which Mr. Vaughn used to inspect the single purple hair he found in his mutton; and on which, under magnification, he discovered, inscribed upon that very hair, the first known paragraphs of the Book.

The hair itself is on the white satin cushion in the glass case to your right.

Please proceed.

Hanging on the wall in front of you is a photo of Ed Mosley’s only daughter, Candy. It is her last known photo, a selfie dated eleven days before the First Congregation of the Book, showing off her smile and newly-dyed purple hair.

---

“Hey, stop touching me!”

”What are you doing? Get your fucking hands off my daughter!”

“There was a hair in my mutton,” says Thebler Vaughn. “I bought mutton here, and there was a hair in it… a purple hair…”

“First, if you have a problem with my business, you talk to me. Understand?”

“It wasn't your hair.”

“I said: you talk to me. Now, if there was a hair in your meat, I apologize, and I will be more than happy to refund your money.”

“I want more,” says Vaughn.

“We're currently out of mutton, but we do have fresh pork chops.”

“More hair.”

“Oh, a wise guy, eh? Get the fuck outta here, man, before I…”

“Dad, don't. It's not worth it!

“Dad!”

---

Please watch your step as you enter the next room, which we call the Room of the Book. It has been excavated partially out of rock to mimic the real cave in which Mr. Vaughn created his masterwork.

Also, please note that, as marked clearly on the signs posted by the entrance, filming and photography are not permitted here.

If you find the room too dark, please wait until your eyes adjust.

What you're looking at is the original, so to speak, manuscript of the Book of Hair: 147,539 strands of it, less the one you've already had the pleasure of seeing, carefully catalogued and arranged in the order of the narrative as constructed by Mr. Vaughn in the New Mexico cave system where he took shelter between the years 2037 and 2038.

And, if you look down, you'll see, below the glass floor, the very tools Mr. Vaughn brought with him to Ed Mosley’s house, including the electric hair clippers, on the night of November 17, 2036.

---

“What the—who are… —help! HELP!” yells a terrified Candy Mosley.

“There's no need for that,” says Vaughn.

“Oh my God. Put those down.”

“No. Not yet.”

Vaughn turns on and off the electric hair clippers. Bzz. Bzz.

“Dad! Dad, come help—”

Bzzzz…

“We both know your father isn't here. We both know you're alone. Let's not play games. I'm here for the hair, that's all. Simply let me take the hair.”

“No!” screams Candy and lunges at him, knocking the clippers out of his hand.

She makes for the kitchen.

He follows.

“It's not for me. It's for literature. For the benefit of mankind,” says Vaughn, as Candy crashes against the kitchen counter, pulls open a drawer and pulls out a knife.

Holding it, “Get out of my house! Or I will use this,” she says, hoping to sound commanding, confident. But her voice breaks; her hand shakes.

Vaughn picks up a wooden cutting board.

“Last w-w-warning,” yells Candy.

Vaughn steps forward. Candy swings the knife at him—which he beats out of her hand using the cutting board.

Thud.

The knife clatters audibly to the floor.

Candy realizes she has nowhere to go. She turns, hoping to grab another knife, a fork, anything, from the open drawer…

Vaughn smacks her in the back of the head with the cutting board.

Thud.

Candy's knees buckle.

Her legs wobble.

She touches the back of her head.

There's blood on her fingers.

There's blood starting to trickle out of her nose.

“Please,” she begs.

“The hair,” says Vaughn.

“You'll—you'll lose it,” mumbles Candy. “If you cut it off. It'll be m-m-messy. The hair: it'll go everywhere. But, I-I-I can give it to you. We can do this a better way, OK? And I won't even tell. I won't tell anyone you were here. I'll say I did it. I'll say I s-s-shaved off my hair…”

For the first time, the words make sense to Vaughn. He knows the girl is right. Shaving off the hair won't do. It really won't do.

He remembers the knife.

---

Now, ladies and gentlemen, we arrive at the true highlight of the tour. For, before your very eyes, sits the genuine, decapitated head of Candy Mosley herself, wonderfully preserved to look almost as she did on the night she was scalped.

That concludes our tour of the Museum of Thebler Vaughn's The Book of Hair. As mentioned earlier, donations are greatly appreciated. Please help keep history alive.

There is a rare but bizarre phenomenon that happens every year, mostly witnessed by professional plumbers and maintenance workers, known as “human soup”.

It happens when a person falls asleep, dies, or falls asleep and then dies, while taking a bath.  Sometimes the victim is simply intoxicated and drowns.  This happens in hot tubs, too, but less so; bathtub victims are generally always alone.

The extreme cases occur when a person uses a home jacuzzi device in their bathtub.  If you catch it early, it looks like a zombie simmering in broth, but if a few days pass, it becomes “human soup”. 

By this stage, it is toxic, and the steam from the hot water overwhelms the house.  Bacteria that exist in the human biome thrive in simmering water, releasing toxic gas as the person simmers and rots, and this is not a small pot on a stove; it’s a large porcelain bathtub. 

If there is a water leak, that indicates something happened, and if it's called in early enough, there’s time to get emergency services over.  Overflowing tubs and sinks have also saved the lives of OD victims.

As a former plumber, it is a true nightmare to witness this.  When a neighbor discovers a leak or plumbing emergency, and the presence of the indescribably horrible odor of death, that’s when I’d get nervous. 

When it happens, it marks the beginning of the end for most plumbers’ careers who’ve seen it.  It occurs often enough that it is now part of the curriculum at most trade schools across the US.

A portable jacuzzi device in the bathtub can slowly simmer a human until the flesh falls from the bone.  The face usually comes off first and floats on top, then it slides out onto the floor if the water continues to flow.

The final time for me was that poor guy, he couldn’t have been older than 17, bolted straight up out of the tub when I was calling it in, and said, “please help me” before tumbling out of the tub in pieces.

Waking up in a bed that isn’t yours is always frightening.

Either a drunken night or a kidnapping, right? What else could it be?

But as I looked down at my broken body, I realized this was something else entirely. Flashes of memory attacked my mind, and slowly I started to remember.

Bright lights. Screeching metal. Weightlessness.

An accident. I was in an accident.

With that in mind, I took stock of my surroundings. Through the foggy haze of whatever drugs I’d been given, I noticed that though I was in a hospital bed, I was not in a hospital.

It looked like a cottage. Somewhere flat and rural.

Annie Wilkes flashed through my mind. Misery. Stephen King. The thought came instantly, absurdly, and for a moment I almost laughed.

Except I wasn’t a famous author, and I hadn’t been driving through Colorado. Outside the small window beside me wasn’t a mountain view. Just flat farmland stretching endlessly beneath a pale sky.

I had no fans. Much less fanatics.

So what was this? A Good Samaritan?

My eyes were too heavy to think clearly. Pain crept through my twisted legs and up my spine. I couldn’t roll over or properly lift my arms.

Maybe sleep would bring clearer thoughts.

——————

I woke up to a new pain.

Using what little strength I had, I ripped the quilted blanket off myself.

My left leg was gone.

We’re running through Misery quite quickly, I thought grimly. But the humor died fast beneath the shock of it.

The space around me remained unnervingly quiet.

No footsteps. No voices. No distant hum of machinery.

Just silence.

Then I noticed something worse.

There was no door.

A window to my left. A coffee table to my right. A view of flat fields and a single row of wooden fencing outside.

But no bedroom door. No visible way in or out.

I looked around frantically and realized there was no saline drip, no IV needle in my arm. Nothing connecting me to any machine.

Yet I felt heavily drugged, like someone had scooped the thoughts right out of my skull.

I tried to sit up, to drag myself out of the unfamiliar bed, but the pain was too sharp. Too immediate.

My entire left side was gone nearly to the hip.

I struggled until my vision collapsed into blackness.

——————

I don’t know how long I was unconscious.

I don’t know how long I slept before waking up without my leg.

But when I opened my eyes again and stared out the window, another realization hollowed out my stomach.

The sun hadn’t moved.

It hung in the exact same position I remembered. Low in the sky, balanced perfectly at the edge of sunset.

The clouds were frozen.

The grass stood perfectly still.

Nothing moved.

At first glance it looked real, impossibly real, but the longer I stared, the more wrong it became. The light outside was too consistent. Too perfect. Like a photograph pretending to breathe.

There was no outside.

Where am I?

I tried to remember the accident. Tried to force the memories into focus.

My mother’s house. My family. A holiday gathering.

I’d left early.

I remembered driving north through the Appalachian Mountains, headlights cutting through darkness.

A burst of white above me.

Not from the road.

From the sky.

Before I could think further, I heard the first sound since waking.

A deep mechanical groan.

Hydraulics.

The noise vibrated through the walls and bedframe alike.

My head sank backward into the pillow, my eyelids suddenly impossibly heavy again.

Just before everything went black, I thought I saw the ceiling shift slightly.

Like a lid beginning to open.

——————

A low siren droned somewhere far away.

Not screeching metal this time.

Something deeper. Mechanical. Enormous.

I realized suddenly that I was conscious again.

Not rested. Never rested.

There were no dreams here. No sense of sleep.

Just periods of missing time.

I moved instinctively toward the blanket and felt a violent pain explode through my shoulder.

My right arm was gone.

Panic surged through me, hot and immediate.

I forced myself to remember.

The road.

The mountains.

The light in the sky.

Not headlights.

Not another car.

Something above me.

The clanking noise returned, louder now. Metallic joints shifting under immense weight.

I fought to stay awake against the crushing heaviness pressing down on my mind.

The ceiling began to rise.

Not crack open.

Lift.

Bright white light poured through the widening gap overhead.

And then I saw them.

Huge curled fingers lowering carefully into the room.

Not a room.

A container.

I could no longer keep my eyes open.

Whose bed did I wake up in?

Mateo sat up in his bunk. There it was again. He knew he wasn’t seeing things this time, the pale orb of light had passed right by his port window. Someone had to be walking on the deck. Hopping from his bunk, he threw on some sweats and shoes. He was about to wake Paul up but thought better of it. The clock on his phone read  2 A.M. and the last time he had awoken Paul because of the light the man had been very clear that if it happened again there would be hell to pay. 

Quietly, Mateo slipped out of his room and made his way down the residence hall of the ship. He moved quickly, not wanting to lose the light in the time it took him to get outside. When he opened the door to deck C a cold blast of wind hit him square in the face. Stepping out into the night, a thick haze of fog coated the deck of the ship and Mateo could barely see the path ahead of him. He plodded along the outer rim of the C deck, turning the corner to the walkway that led past his bunk window he saw it again. Down towards the opposite end of the walkway, a pale orb glowed, parting the grey of the misty night. Mateo quickened his pace. As he drew closer he could see a figure begin to form.

“Hello?” Mateo called out.

The orb stopped just before it turned the corner and Mateo saw the milky, white torso of a woman look back at him and smile. An old lantern was held aloft in her hand guiding her way. Mateo’s heart skipped a beat as he drew closer, her visage coming to life in the glow of the light. She was beautiful…and she was naked. Tiny pink nipples peaked out at him from the long fiery red hair that hung over her perky breast. Mateo could feel himself rise to attention. The woman stared at him with silver blue eyes of ice and gave him a soft smile before ducking around the corner.

“Hey, wait up!” The man yelled. 

He rounded the corner to see that the woman was already descending the stairs to the main deck. Another blast of sea spray laced wind pelted the man as he followed. She had to be freezing out here. Up ahead he saw she had regained quite a bit of distance on him. Her lantern shone at the edge of the massive wall of shipping containers, then winked out as she slipped between the rows. 

Mateo stumbled over his feet, running to the edge of the cargo deck. Rough waves rocked the ship, making his footfalls uneasy. 

“Wait, don’t do that!” He pleaded to no avail, “It's dangerous in there!” 

Mateo looked through the thin walkway that separated the stacks of the containers. No sign of the woman. With only his phone lighting the way he slid himself between the giant towers of metal. The man soon found his heart racing again but for different reasons. He had never been out amongst the containers at night and the looming walls of steel terrified him in the darkness.  The thick fog that obscured his path made Mateo feel like he was sliding deep into the void of an endless cavern as he scooted his way between the crates. With his paltry phone light he could only see a couple of feet in front of him and the fog was so dense he couldn’t even see his own feet. 

Claustrophobia began to set in. With the rocking and groans of the ship, Mateo imagined losing his footing and sliding down between the cracks, forever wedging himself in the steel of the cargo hold.

He was just about to turn back, his fear getting the better of him when up ahead the glow of the lantern re-appeared. Mateo hurried hand over hand sliding his way along the walls of  cargo until he reached the end of the row. The space around opened up when he stepped back onto the small stretch of deck that laid between the first two container stacks. The woman was right in front of him now. That little smile still curling the edge of her lips. Mateo smelled the sweet scent of spiced vanilla mixed with sea salt in the air around her. She was so close. He could see the tiny dots of gooseflesh rippling over her otherwise smooth skin. 

She held the lantern aloft at shoulder height, alighting eyes that stared deeply into the depths of his own. Gingerly, she moved in closer. Mateo jumped when he felt the cool flesh of her leg rub against his. She giggled at the man, the noise silenced by the roar of the sea. With her free hand she guided his own to her chest. The tip of his finger gently brushed her nipple when a rough patch of wave rocked the freighter. Mateo lost his balance, flailing to the side and cursing. His arm crushed against a nearby container and he winced as the sharp edge of the steel bit into his flesh. Regaining his balance, he looked to the mysterious woman and his eyes grew wide. 

Instead of blue eyes, milky hollow orbs of a beast borne in darkness stared back at him. Between the dead pupils a glowing bulb of flesh hung from a thick sinewy cord. The soft smile had been replaced with a gaping maw of stalactite teeth hanging from a mouth that opened so wide it looked ready to engulf Mateo whole. The air around him stank of rot and fish.

He tried to run, but found himself bound by the thick serpentine coil of the creature that had been hidden beneath the fog. 

Unable to do anything else, Mateo screamed. The woman clutched her prize and took the agape mouth as an invitation. She leaned in slowly for that first wet kiss.

I exhaled the smoke I’d been holding in my lungs before declaring, “I’m hungry.”

“Help yourself,” Jay gestured at the fridge with the joint that was pinched between his thumb and index finger before taking a hit from it.

I got to my feet and slowly made my way into the kitchen.

Along the way, I got distracted by the goldfish tank that was set up on the counter.

“You can’t eat those,” Jay called out. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking.

“I’m not that desperate,” I replied, then smiled and said, “Yet.”

When I finally made it to the fridge and opened the door, I was disappointed by what I saw. There was a package of bologna that had started to dry out because it hadn’t been closed properly, a gallon of milk with an expiration date from the previous week, and various bottles of half-full condiments.

I shut the fridge and turned toward Jay.

“Where’s the nearest store?” I asked.

“There’s a mini mart a few blocks up the street,” he gave an upward nod of his chin, indicating the general direction of the place.

“Is it safe to walk there at this hour?” I asked after looking at my phone to see what time it was.

“It’s cool, man,” Jay replied, “You ain’t got nothing to worry about. Not in this neighborhood.”

Jay was an old friend from high school who I was staying with for a few days while I checked out a couple of colleges in the area.

Since I didn’t know anything about the area, I decided to trust him, which probably had more to do with the pot we’d been smoking than common sense.

“I’ll be back in a few,” I said, heading for the door, “Want anything?”

“I’ll take a couple of hot dogs if they have any,” he said, “If they don’t, just get me one of those big bags of Doritos.”

The walk down to the mini mart was uneventful. I was able to stock up on everything I wanted, along with what Jay wanted. To be nice, I got him both the hot dogs and the bag of Doritos since he was letting me stay with him.

I was about halfway back to Jay’s apartment when a guy wearing a green hoodie stepped out from behind a bush, blocking my path.

“Excuse me,” I said as I tried to walk around him, but he just stepped to the side to keep me from moving forward.

When I glanced behind me to see how far away I was from the safety of the mini mart, I was not happy to see another guy in a hoodie, a grey one, walking towards us.

“Empty your pockets,” Green Hoodie demanded.

“What?” I stammered. The reality of the situation hadn’t hit me yet.

“I said empty your pockets!” When he was done talking, he pulled a small black pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at me, “Now!”

“Okay,” I said, slowly putting the bags I was carrying onto the ground.

So much for this being a safe neighborhood, Jay, I thought.

As I started to reach into my pocket for my wallet, the guy in the grey hoodie suddenly shouted.

“Yo, Dee,” he sounded worried, “look behind you.”

Both Dee and I looked in the direction Grey Hoodie was pointing. All I saw was a scrawny black cat standing on top of a cinderblock wall, looking down at us. Apparently, Dee and Grey Hoodie saw something else.

Dee pointed his gun at the cat and fired while slowly walking backward away from it.

The cat didn’t even flinch when the bullet tore a small chunk out of the cinderblock near its feet.

“I told you that demon cat was real,” Grey Hoodie said before turning around and fleeing.

Dee fired a couple more shots, none of which hit the cat, before he also fled.

“What the fuck was that all about?” I wondered as I hurriedly picked my stuff back up.

When I lifted my head and looked back at where the cat was, I nearly pissed myself when I saw a large, hairy black creature that had vaguely feline features looming over me. It was standing on its hind legs and had to be about eight feet tall with glowing red eyes.

The image of the creature disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, making me wonder if I was hallucinating.

“What the hell were we smoking?” I muttered, thinking the pot could have been laced with something.

“Did you see that thing?” I asked the cat.

It meowed its response at me.

I wonder if that’s what those guys saw? I thought as I made my way back to Jay’s apartment.

When I got back inside, I told Jay about the encounter and the hallucination I had of the creature.

“That wasn’t a hallucination,” he replied, “That cat was Mr. Mistoffelees.”

“The cat from that Broadway show?” I once had a girlfriend who was obsessed with the show and would constantly play the soundtrack.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Jay said, “All I know is he keeps the neighborhood safe.”

“Whatever,” I waved off his comment, “I may be high, but I’m not high enough to believe that.” And I wasn’t until I looked out the window and saw that demonic feline face staring back at me.

Preeclampsia was a pregnant woman’s worst nightmare.

The confirmation that, despite everything, your body still might not be strong enough, healthy enough to deliver your baby. In other words, my twins were sucking the life out of me.

My boyfriend already disagreed about who mattered more. We were moving into a new town. And so far, he'd ignored me the entire journey. Earlier, he'd grabbed my face, his eyes wild, his lips curled with panic. “LISTEN to me,” he practically snarled. “I love our babies, and I want to keep them.”

He let out a shuddery breath, and something inside me split apart.

No.

I tried to step away, tried to pull myself out of a conversation I was suddenly terrified of, he pulled me closer instead.

“But I love you more,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “And if I had to choose? Look at me.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. His eyes were red, tears already streaking down his cheeks. “I’d choose you in a fucking heartbeat, Melon.”

His words stabbed into my spine.

“How could you… say that?” The words were pouring out of me, and I felt my knees weaken, my head spinning.

Part of me knew what he meant, understood him, and part of me, this evil, inhuman, selfish part of me, was relieved, while the rest of me silently seethed for my babies’ lives. I shoved him, my gut twisting, bile swimming in my mouth.

“You've had a whole life with me,” was all I could splutter out.

I was lying.

He knew that.

I knew that.

But I was and would always be a Mommy first.

“They haven't!”

He laughed. “You're twenty five. I don't know you! I barely know you! And you're just going to throw your fucking life away?”

He blinked. Realized what he'd said.

Backtracked.

“Melon, that's not what I…”

The conversation was over.

Kaz would rather I live than our twins, the twins I was desperately trying to keep alive.

Kaz’s low murmur snapped me out of it while we were unloading the van. “This sounds like an asshole thing to say, but… uhh…where are the men?”

His arms were wrapped around a box, his gaze fixed across the road where at least a dozen women were already swarming over the road to greet us. Kaz shot me a sceptical look. He was… right.

There were no men. Standing awkwardly beside me, Kaz was a startling contrast to the crowd of middle-aged Karens.

“You’re pregnant!” one woman exclaimed, prodding my belly before her gaze flicked, annoyingly, to my boyfriend.

Her ice cold palm pressed against my stomach, making me shiver. “Tired eyes. Pale skin.” Her hands wrapped around mine. “Swollen ankles and fingers. Oh!”

Her eyes lingered on my boyfriend again, who looked more uncomfortable. “Sweetie, are you having… complications?”

“What?”

Another woman ambushed Kaz with fresh cookies. He took one with a polite smile, taking a bite, while our neighbors battered him with questions about my birth.

When they left, I felt nauseous while Kaz was chomping down on his third cookie.

“Why you?” I demanded, when the door slammed shut.

“Huh?” Kaz mumbled through another cookie.

He was strangely talkative, after spending six hours ignoring me. Leaning against the wall, his head was tipped back, a stupid grin split his mouth. “What's up?” He held the cookie up, a smile curling on his lips.

My boyfriend hadn't smiled since before my diagnosis. “Man, have you tasted these? They're insaaaane.” He tossed another in his mouth, giggling.

I ignored his unusual behavior. “They were asking you the pregnancy questions,” I had to sit down, my head was killing me.

“Why ask you about the birth?”

Kaz looked like he was about to respond, his lips twitching. “Fuck.”

He shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Do you think maybe I drove too long? I feel kinda… maybe overdid it, or some…thing…”

His words started slurring together. “I feel kinda…”

He stumbled back.

“Dizzy.”

“Kaz!”

His name had barely left my mouth before he collapsed.

The back of his head cracked against the glass coffee table.

“Preeclampsia, right?”

The woman's voice startled me. I twisted around, but she was already slamming something into the back of my head.

Her words fell into ocean waves as I felt her drag me from my home, carpet becoming concrete beneath me.

“You know, women were never the original bearers of children,” she hummed, almost like a nursery rhyme.

My eyes flickered as I lay on my back while she pulled me inside her own house, and down cement stairs.

The room I was taken inside was warm, thick, suffocating air brushing my face.

Around me, hospital beds filled with shadows. Pregnant women with bulging, veined bellies way past their due date.

Something slimy filled my mouth. No. Pregnant men.

A college aged man stared at me through half lidded eyes, face gaunt, the color drained from him.

“Men… believe it or not, are far better carriers. The male reproductive system— organically designed by us, of course— can carry and maintain and deliver perfect, healthy babies with zero complications!”

I was lifted onto a bed and strapped down, heavy restraints pinned over my pregnant belly.

When I screamed, I was gagged.

“It's okay, honey,” she whispered. “Your twins are going to be fine. We’ll give them a little longer inside the male, so they're perfectly healthy and grown!”

She leaned close, breath fluttering my cheek. “We just need your consent for the transfer! Which will be painless, of course! Well, for you.”

Kaz’s screams cut through me, as I was gently laid down.

A sharp point found my stomach, and I found myself… nodding.

Smiling.

I was a Mommy first.

Always.

“Yes.” I said, as blood ran thick across my belly with the first prick of the scalpel.

My twins kicked, like they were excited.

“Do it.”

Paddling down the foggy river in my kayak, I smirked at how perfect my little escape had been.

Using my only day off of the year, I drove straight to my designating kayaking spot and hopped right into my floatation device and my ultimate day of relaxation begun.

It had been two hours of blissful tranquility when the mysterious figure made his first appearance.

Since the fog impeded my ability to see anything more than 20 feet ahead of me, the figure seemed to materialize suddenly.

One second, absolutely nothingness surrounded me and then, the figure.

Terrifyingly, the figure seemed to be over 7 feet tall, freakishly thin, and faceless. Maybe that was the fog or maybe it truly didn't have a face. I couldn't tell.

More frightening than anything however, was what the creature seemed to be doing.

Nothing.

No swaying in the wind, no subtle shifting here and there, just absolute stillness.

Not knowing its intentions was worse than anything. All I knew was that a growing feeling of dread spread throughout my chest.

As if this creature heard my thoughts, however, its head tilted painfully slowly to the left before shuffling backward into the fog.

Just like that, the creature had vanished and I was all alone once again. However, now it was eerily quiet. No wind, animals, or nature sounds. Even the water seemed to be impossibly calm.

I wasn't having fun anymore. My day away had been ruined, and now I feared for my life.

Before I could react, however, my kayak capsized.

The frigid water stung my face as I thrashed to fix myself upright.

Before I knew it, my kayak got dislodged from me and zipped fast down the river.

There I followed, suddenly completely vulnerable in the freezing cold River.

I swam to the side and got out, shivering already and pissed beyond belief.

Almost expectedly, in my peripheral, I recognized what my eye caught immediately:

The figure had returned.

Maybe it was the fact that I had just lost my kayak, or maybe it was the fact that I had just lost my one vacation day of the year, but in utter anger and an ounce of ignorance, I screamed at the figure before charged toward it at full speed.

I didn't care what happened to me as long as I caught this son of a gun.

Just as I thought I was going to tackled it, however, the figure had backed up with blinding speed. It appeared to be the same exact distance as it had been just before I charged after it.

Confused and even angrier, I lunged after it yet again, sprinting full speed and following it blindly into the fog.

I chased after it for what felt like forever until the distance between us finally lessened.

Out of breath and less angry now, I stopped just a few feet away from the figure, confused more than anything.

I strained my eyes to see if I could make out anything through the thick fog.

My eyes widened as my brain tried to process what I was seeing.

The hairs on my neck stood up and a single tear rolled down my cheek as I realized I wouldn't be able to make it back to work the next day.

All around me, countless figures emerged from the shadows, slowly creeping their way toward me.

It seemed I would become a shadow too.

I awoke from my bad dream and knew instantly something was wrong.

I turned on the lights and sprinted to my son's room.

Strangely, there he was, sleeping peacefully in his cobalt blue sheets, under his fuzzy space blanket. In my dream, my son had been captured. Kidnapped straight out of my hands and gone like the wind.

It seemed I was wrong once again. My nightmares had become more and more visceral recently and I contemplated seeking help. It was the same dream every time:

My son would cry "daddy" and by the time I rushed into his room, he was gone. Just like that.

I groggily shuffled back to my room, disappointed that my mental state had gotten the best of me, when I heard a faint noise, almost imperceptible to the human ear.

I froze, realizing what it was instantly.

"Daddy," my son whispered.

Before my brain could process what was happening, my legs were moving in the direction of my son's room. I lunged inside and, to my relief, there he was. Sleeping peacefully once again.

My eyes snapped awake suddenly. That didn't make sense. If my son was in bed, then who made that sound?

Before I could react, I heard the faint plead of my son's voice yet again.

But standing in his room, I clocked immediately where the sound came from.

My eyes slowly drifted downward where they landed on the space below my son's bed.

I gasped softly when I realized what I was looking at.

My son, pale as a ghost, was crouched under his bed, trembling in fear. I bent down cautiously before listening to my son speak the last words I'd ever hear:

"Help me Daddy, someone's in my bed."

I buy old broken audio gear at estate sales, fix it up in my workshop, and sell it to hipsters who think analog format makes them interesting. It is a decent side hustle that keeps my hands busy after my main shift at the rail yard. Last weekend I picked up an old Akai reel-to-reel deck from the seventies. The cabinet was covered in grease and smelled like tobacco, but the heavy iron flywheels inside were pristine. The seller was a jittery guy who just wanted it out of his garage. He did not even ask for money, just shoved the heavy box into my arms and closed his front door.

I brought it home and set it on my workbench. Inside the tape compartment, a single unlabelled plastic reel was already threaded through the heads. The tape itself looked dark, almost metallic under my halogen work light. I cleaned the capstan with isopropyl alcohol, replaced a rotted rubber drive belt, and powered the unit on. The vintage amber VU meters lit up instantly, casting a warm glow across my tools.

I pressed the heavy mechanical play button. The machine gave a loud thud, and the reels began to turn. For the first thirty seconds, there was nothing but the heavy, low frequency hiss of vintage magnetic tape. Then, the sound of rain started coming through my monitor speakers. It was not a cheap sound effect. It was a dense, heavy downpour, the kind that smashes against tin roofs and floods gutters. You could hear the distant rumble of thunder rolling across an open field. It was actually quite relaxing, so I let it play while I started cleaning up some old wires on the floor.

After ten minutes, I noticed something off. The sound coming from the speakers was changing. The patter of water drops was getting louder, but it did not sound like it was coming from the monitor cones anymore. The acoustics shifted. The crisp, directional audio from the desk speakers flattened out, filling the entire basement. I looked up from my pile of wires and realized my work pants felt damp. I touched my knee. The fabric was wet.

I wiped my hand on my shirt and walked over to the workbench. A cold breeze cut through the room, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of an incoming summer storm. That was impossible. My basement has no windows, just solid concrete walls and a heavy steel door that leads to the kitchen stairs. I reached out and turned the volume knob on the amplifier all the way down to zero.

The sound of the torrential rain did not quiet down. It got louder.

A heavy droplet of water hit the back of my neck, making me jump. I looked up at the ceiling. The drywall was dry, but another drop hit my forehead, then another. The air in the room became thick, foggy, and freezing cold. The rain was falling inside my workshop, directly from the air beneath the ceiling joists. The paper schematics on my wall were already turning into gray mush, sliding down the bricks.

Panicking, I reached for the power strip on the wall and flipped the main breaker switch. The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness except for the faint amber glow of the Akai meters. The machine was still running. I grabbed the heavy power cord of the tape deck and ripped it out of the wall outlet.

The plastic reels kept spinning. The heavy copper flywheel inside the chassis hummed, driven by some impossible inertia, pulling the dark magnetic ribbon through the playback head. The sound of the downpour was deafening now, drowning out the mechanical noise of the motor. Water was sloshing around my work boots, rising past my ankles in a matter of seconds.

I grabbed my flashlight, scrambled through the rising water, and hit the basement door. I threw my weight against it, but the wood had swollen so fast from the humidity that it was jammed solid in the frame. As I desperately kicked at the lock, I looked back over my shoulder. In the dim amber light of the workbench, the water level was hitting the top of the table. The tape was still feeding, and through the roaring sound of the flood, I could hear something else buried deep in the static of the recording.

It was the sound of a man splashing through deep mud, panting heavily, running directly toward the microphone .

"CHAT WITH AI IMAGE ANALYSIS" OUTPUT RECORD BEGINS

IMAGE ONE

This image shows a living room.

Two young women sit on a sofa, talking to each other. The woman on the right has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. The woman on the left has black hair, and is wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and black socks. Both are holding bottles of beer and laughing.

The lighting and content strongly implies this is a friendly social interaction, likely a meet up of friends or family. The image is warm and pleasant.

IMAGE TWO

This image shows a living room. Two young women sit on a sofa, talking to each other. The woman on the right has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. The woman on the left has black hair, and is wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and black socks. Both are holding bottles of beer and laughing. A child is in the corner of the room, behind the sofa. The child is wearing a black coat, and a black coat, and a black coat, and a…

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

The lighting and content strongly implies this is a friendly social interaction, likely a meet up of friends or family. The image is warm and pleasant. The presence of the child is unexplained.

IMAGE THREE

This image shows a living room. Two young women sit on a sofa, talking to each other. The woman on the right has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. The woman on the left has black hair, and is wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and black socks. Both are holding bottles of beer and laughing. The woman on the right has a child above her. The child is wearing a black coat, and a black coat, and a black coat, and a…

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

The child appears to be injuring her in some way, although I am unable to determine specific wounds or methods, sorry. Neither woman shows a reaction to this, suggesting possible Photoshop. It is likely this is intended as promotional still for a movie or other work of fiction.

IMAGE FOUR

This image is a depiction of a living room. A young woman sits on the sofa. She has red hair, is wearing a navy blue dress and is barefoot. She is holding a bottle of beer, and looking at it with an expression of confusion and sadness. In the corner of the room is a is a is a is a...

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

The lighting of this image suggests a pleasant social interaction, but the content suggests a context of mourning or grief. Potentially, this is a wake or a memorial dinner.

IMAGE FIVE

There is nothing in this image. Credits refunded.

IMAGE SIX

This image is an extreme close up of a child, staring directly into the camera. The child is the child is the child is

Token overrun detected. Image description continued below.

I am unable to identify the child’s emotional state, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s age, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s gender, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s race, sorry. I am unable to identify the child’s species, sorry.

The child is

Sorry, this output might violate our policy against dangerous content. Trying again.

The child is

Sorry, this output might violate our policy against dangerous content. Image description continues

The lighting and content of this image strongly implies that that that Fatal error. Credits refunded. Please resubmit your image and try again.