r/shortscarystories

Every night, Emily asked her father the same question.

“Daddy, is there really a monster under my bed?”

“No, sweetheart.”

“But I hear it.”

Her father would tuck the blanket beneath her chin.

“What does it sound like?”

“Like someone crying.”

He would smile.

“It's only the pipes.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

He always promised.

Her mother had died when Emily was very young. Since then, her father had been everything she had left.

Every night he told her the same thing.

“I'll always be here.”

And every night, after Emily fell asleep, he waited.

Then he went downstairs.

The basement was directly beneath her bedroom.

He had never let her see it.

Not once.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

His wife's body still lay where he had kept it all these years.

He knelt beside her.

“I know.”

His voice trembled.

“I know what I did.”

He touched her hand.

“I was angry.”

His eyes filled.

“I shouldn't have touched you.”

Silence.

“I killed you.”

He lowered his head.

“I'm sorry.”

He picked up the leather strap.

The first strike echoed through the basement.

Above him, Emily stirred in her sleep.

Another.

He bit down on his sleeve.

Another.

“I promised I'd protect her.”

He looked toward the ceiling.

“I promised.”

His voice broke.

“And I couldn't even protect you.”

He struck himself again.

Upstairs, Emily opened her eyes.

There it was.

The monster.

Crying beneath her bed.

She pulled the blanket over her head.

“Daddy?”

He stopped.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

Then he heard her little voice through the ceiling.

“Daddy, I'm scared.”

He looked at the corpse of his wife.

Then at the ceiling.

He wiped his face.

He climbed the stairs.

When he opened Emily's door, she was sitting upright in bed.

“Daddy.”

He sat beside her.

“I'm here.”

She wrapped her arms around him.

“There's something underneath me.”

He held her tightly.

“I know.”

“Will it hurt me?”

His eyes closed.

“No.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“I promise.”

Emily relaxed against him.

She couldn't see his face.

She couldn't see the blood on his back.

She couldn't see the basement beneath her room.

She only knew that whenever the monster cried at night, Daddy always came to make it stop.

“How are you, Emma?”

I looked up from where I was sitting on my bed to see Sarah looking at me with concern.  

“I’m fine, Sarah.”

“Are you sure? I know it’s a big day for you…”

Today would be the first time I went out since I escaped. After the bruises and broken bones, I was focused on getting away more than anything else. I thought that meant I could leave it all behind forever. But life doesn’t always work out like we want it to. 

“I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“You all have helped me so much. I’m ready for this.”

She looked me over carefully. “Ok, if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. Really.”

“You know you’re safe here, right? We’d never let anything happen to you.”

“I know.”

She stared at me for several moments before she left. I waited until I was sure she was gone and dropped the mask. She was right. I wasn’t fine. But I had to do this or I’d never be ok. I couldn’t stay in this house forever. 

Things had escalated with Derek so fast that it had made my head spin. When we’d met, he’d been so sweet, courteous and romantic. He’d held open doors, paid for our dates, even charmed my parents. 

But then the mask had started to slip. Kindness had turned to cruelty, gentleness to violence. The first time he’d hit me, I’d excused it. When he’d threatened to kill me, I’d known I had to run. Alone, with no money and nowhere to go, I’d found this place. 

I hadn’t left a day since. 

But today was the day. Today, for the first time since I’d arrived, I had to leave the safety of this shelter and go back into the outside world. I had an interview for a job. If I got it, I could start to rebuild my life, reclaim what I’d lost. 

I just had to get there. 

I stood and got dressed. My wardrobe was lacking; I hadn’t had time to grab many clothes when I’d fled, but the shelter had gotten me a couple of interview-appropriate outfits. I then left my room and, buoyed by the well wishes of the staff and other residents, headed outside for the first time in months. 

The interview went well. I was nervous, and there was a large gap on my resume that I had to explain (I said I was taking care of a sick relative), but I was determined, and the manager seemed to like me. I left, thinking that maybe I could actually make this work, maybe I could rebuild my life. 

I was headed back toward the shelter when I got a feeling. Like I wasn’t alone. Which was weird because I was on the street, so of course I wasn’t alone. But this was different. I recognized this feeling.

He was here. I was certain of it. 

I looked around but saw nothing. It occurred to me that maybe it was my imagination, my paranoia at being away from the safety of the shelter for the first time in months. But I knew that, if he found me, he’d be angry. I remembered the other times he’d been angry. I had to move. 

I kept the same pace, not wanting to draw attention. At the next gap in traffic I crossed the street and ducked between two cars. I waited a moment, then I ran down a side street. I was only minutes from the shelter. 

I turned down an alley, not seeing Derek but knowing he was behind me. But it was a dead end. There was nowhere to go. 

I turned around. Maybe I was wrong, maybe he wasn’t following—

“Hello, Emma.”

That voice. I’d hoped I’d never hear it again. 

“What do you want, Derek?”

He laughed. “What do I want? You deserted me, Emma.”

“I had to leave.”

“Did I say you could leave?”

“There! That attitude is exactly why I had to get out. You always saw me as property, something you owned and could control. I’m a person, Derek! Why couldn’t you treat me like one?”

He looked at me with disdain. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to listen to you whine constantly? ‘I want to be loved,’ ‘I want to be respected,’ ‘why don’t you appreciate me?’ You’re a child, Emma. And like any child, you need guidance and a firm hand. But it’s my fault; I was too easy on you. From now on I plan to give you the discipline you deserve. You’ll never run away again.”

He began to walk toward me.

“Stay back!” I yelled. 

“Or what? What are you doing to do, Emma?”

A voice rang out in the alley. “You have more to worry about than her.”

Suddenly shots rang out from every direction. But they weren’t for me. I stood motionless while bullet after bullet penetrated Derek, jerking back and forth until he fell to the ground. Miraculously he was still alive - or it would have been miraculous if he hadn’t been left alive on purpose. 

A woman appeared from nowhere and looked down at him. Then she looked at me. “Would you care to do the honors?”

I nodded and took the gun she handed me. I looked down at Derek, lying on the ground, barely conscious. 

“You always said I needed you, that I’d be nothing without you. But it turns out that all I ever needed was me. And now, I’m finally rid of you.”

I pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger. 

I handed the gun back. 

“Thanks, Sarah.”

“No problem. I told you you were safe here. How do you feel?”

“Like I’m finally free.”

“What say we go and celebrate your newfound freedom?”

“Sounds good,” I replied. 

“We just have to make sure we don’t get too drunk,” she said as we walked away. “It’s Cindy’s ex-boyfriend’s turn tomorrow.”

My wife never liked the new girl at work.

I didn't understand why.

“She looks at you strangely,” she'd say.

“She looks at everyone.”

“No. She looks at you.”

I laughed.

I shouldn't have.

The first message came three weeks after she joined the company.

Still awake?

I didn't recognize the number.

Who is this?

Three dots appeared.

You know.

I looked across the bedroom at my sleeping wife.

Then another message arrived.

Goodnight.

I blocked the number.

The next morning, the new girl smiled at me across the office.

“You blocked me.”

My stomach dropped.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

She laughed softly.

“You will.”

After that, things changed.

I began dreaming about her.

Not ordinary dreams.

I'd wake exhausted, sweating, with the taste of something sweet in my mouth and the inexplicable feeling that someone had been whispering my name.

She knew.

She always knew.

“You look tired,” she'd say.

I stopped meeting her eyes.

It didn't matter.

When she came near me, my heart raced.

When she touched my arm, my thoughts scattered.

I hated it.

I loved it.

That was the worst part.

My mind screamed at me to leave.

My body didn't listen.

I started staying late at work.

Then I started lying about why.

My wife noticed.

Of course she did.

One night she asked me:

“Are you sleeping with someone?”

I said no.

And somewhere inside me, something laughed.

The new girl texted me that night.

You should have told her the truth.

I threw the phone onto the bed.

Another message appeared.

I like you better when you're ashamed.

I stopped sleeping properly after that.

Every night I dreamed of her.

Every morning I woke weaker.

I began finding scratches on my skin.

Small ones.

Nothing serious.

But they weren't there when I went to bed.

Then I found a strange mark beneath my collarbone.

A crescent.

Almost like a bite.

I went to the doctor.

He found nothing wrong.

“You're exhausted,” he said.

“I know.”

“You need sleep.”

I almost laughed.

Sleep was where she waited for me.

I finally confronted her in the office parking lot.

“What do you want?”

She smiled.

“Isn't it obvious?”

“No.”

She stepped closer.

I couldn't move.

Her eyes looked different.

Not human.

For a moment, I saw something behind her face.

Horns.

Black wings.

A mouth far too wide for the face that contained it.

Then it was gone.

I stumbled backward.

“What are you?”

She smiled.

“You've heard the word before.”

My heart hammered.

“Succubus.”

She tilted her head.

“Such an ugly word.”

Then she leaned close enough for me to feel her breath.

“You call it temptation.”

She smiled.

“We call it feeding.”

I ran.

I made it home.

I told my wife everything.

Every message.

Every lie.

Every night I had spent with the other woman.

My wife cried.

I begged her forgiveness.

For the first time in weeks, I felt something like relief.

Then she looked at me.

Her expression changed.

“What?”

She pointed behind me.

I turned.

The new girl was standing in our bedroom doorway.

Smiling.

My wife screamed.

The woman looked at her.

Then back at me.

“You told her.”

I nodded.

She smiled wider.

“Yes.”

She seemed almost delighted.

“That's much better.”

My wife grabbed my hand.

The succubus watched us.

Then she whispered:

“Now you can both taste the guilt.”

And I understood.

She had never wanted to steal me from my wife.

She wanted something far more intimate.

She wanted to make us hurt each other.

Because every lie, every betrayal, every night I spent waking beside my wife and remembering what I'd done wasn't merely destroying our marriage;

It was feeding her.

Summer, so far, has been uneventful. 

Every July, my siblings and I drive up to my aunt’s beach house. When we were kids, every day was an adventure: Treasure hunting in beach coves, picnics, and hanging out at the amusement park.

We had our own little ritual. 

An unspoken rule that every summer was ours. 

As teenagers, however, we barely spoke a word to each other. 

Yes, the car ride was never boring. Singing, car-sickness, and arguing were highlights.

But as soon as we arrived, we just kinda broke apart to do our own thing.

I used to be salty, attempting to force my siblings into our old childhood ritual. But it wasn't the same. Treasure hunting became drunk treasure hunting, and the amusement park was closed down so we just kinda stood around all day making awkward small-talk. 

The worst sort of growing up is when your siblings find their individuality. 

That was two summers ago. Then I gave up. I became exactly who I despised. The emotionally unattached sibling with an attitude. This summer was no different.

The second I slid out of the car, I found my spot beside the pool, tugging out my overpriced read while my brothers raced upstairs to play Minecraft. 

I used to crave summers. Now, I couldn't wait for them to end. 

A particularly fat fly nosedived onto my dogeared copy of Beach Vacation.

The cartoon cover had caught my attention. The blurb promised a sexy ride between a CEO and a bookshop owner. 

Six chapters in, the romance was vanilla and the male lead said things like, “cool beans” and “ciao” unironically. I watched the fly with mild interest as it crept across my page. 

“Whatcha readin’?”

I lifted my gaze to my sister, perched on a banana shaped pool floatie, her manicured toes blushing deep pink trailing in sparkling blue. Ever since starting high school, my sister had lost 99% of her personality. Marina had said maybe ten words to me the whole summer. I counted.

At dinner, three nights ago: “Jenny, babes, can you pass the salt?” 

Then a week ago, slapping a bug off my arm: "You're attracting flies.” 

“Beach Vacation,” I answered. 

“Generic title. Is it good?” 

“Nope.” I shut my mouth and flipped over a page. Conversation over. 

Then my sister screamed, and almost sent me toppling off my deckchair.

Marina flailed, screeching, and slipped off of her floatie before scrambling out of the pool, a soaking chunk of her usually glossy hair glued over wide, frantic eyes.

Marina never lost her cool. “Has this pool even been cleaned?” She shrieked, dropping onto her knees and peering over the edge. I joined her. Curious. 

“There!” 

The sight sent me lurching back, my stomach hurtling into my throat.

A thick mass. I peered closer.  Quivering just under the surface of the pool, thousands of flies clumped together.  “Ew! You had one crawling on your cheek!” 

Marina jumped up and raked her hands through her hair. “This place is infested with bugs!” 

“What's with the screaming?” 

Henry appeared. Disheveled, as usual. My older brother was still wearing his PJs at 4pm. Bodie, the youngest, stood next to him, arms crossed, brows furrowed in irritation. Marina, being a drama queen as usual, blew up at them like it was their fault our pool cleaner did a shitty job. “The pool!” 

“There's a gross fly nest in the pool,” I translated, shrugging. 

I noticed a dead one in Bodie’s hair. 

Another landed on my chin, and I flicked it away. 

“It's the same in my room.” Henry grumbled, smacking his own cheek. “Where are they coming from?” 

Bodie smirked. “If there's flies, there's rotting,” He was always the storyteller when we were kids. “And if there's rotting?” He nodded at the pool. “There's bodies.” 

Marina scowled, her lip jutting out. “Shut up.” 

Henry, of course, fuelled the flames. “Doesn't Mom rent this place out?” He grinned. Maybe there's a body under the pool…" 

“Shut up!” Marina shoved him and then stormed inside. It was rare when we actually hung out. 

So, before we could fall back into our usual routine and fade back into the house’s unnecessarily huge rooms, I loudly proposed a game of Monopoly. The losers had to swim in the fly pool. Henry agreed, but ONLY if it was drunk Monopoly (and soda for the fourteen year old, of course). 

Six hours later, it was 2am.

I had six hotels, my three glasses of wine were yet to hit me, and I was gambling my brother going completely broke. 

“I'll give you 500 dollars.” I spoke up. “If you sell me Boardwalk.” 

Henry stuck his card down his pants. “I refuse.” 

“You can't refuse.” I snapped back. “You have literal pocket change.” 

“And?” Henry cocked a brow. “I have my ways.”

“Stealing from the bank isn't allowed,” Bodie spoke up, irritated. 

“You're done. Henry.” Marina cut in. “I'll give you 2k for—” 

The door flew open. Loud. Smashing against the hinge.

Two figures emerged, balaclavas over their heads.

Henry jumped up. “What the FUCK?” He yelled. Marina grabbed Bodie. 

The figures started forward. One of them pulled off their balaclava. 

A man. 40s. Unshaven. 

“Fucking hell,” he slapped at a fly crawling across his face. “Flies everywhere.” 

“But a goldmine. This place is a mansion.” The other man spoke up. He stared right at me. “Jesus. What do you think it was?” 

“Hey.” Henry stepped forward, shaking. “Get out of our house!” 

“Carbon monoxide, probably.” The main guy stepped past my brother and pointed at the ceiling. 

“What?” Henry snapped. “What are you talking about?”

He completely blanked my brother. “See? Alarm looks like it's broken. Looks like there was a leak. Maybe five years ago, maybe later?” He grabbed one of my aunt’s vases and stuffed it in his backpack. “Grab everything, and we’ll go.” The man stepped in front of my brother and shivered. 

“This place is definitely fucking haunted.” 

I kept staring at my phone.
Praying.
Hoping it rings.
Even if it was a telemarketer, anybody.

He must have noticed, he crouched down next to it.
“Waiting for a call, are we?” he says picking it up and putting it in his pocket.
“Nobody calls you after eight though, so we’re fine”
My stomach drops, how does he know that?
Has he been watching me?

He walks to the kitchen and grabs one of my apples from the fridge.
He looks around and takes a big bite of the apple.
“You always liked cold fruit. I never understood it.” He chucks it at the sink.

He grunts with every step he takes as my floorboards creak beneath him. He stops short of where I feed my cat, staring at the empty bowl and the one filled with water next to it. He casually picks it up, takes out the wet cat food from the cabinet next to the sink and puts the bowl back.

“Who are you?” I ask with a shaking voice, not entirely sure I want to know the answer.
“Well that’s just rude. You don’t recognise me?”
I can barely see his face with this lighting, it doesn’t help that he has a cap on.
I shake my head.

The way he chuckles brings shivers down my spine.
He forced his way into my apartment, tied me up and he’s convinced he knows me.

“Now tell me what I want to know” he says flashing an unusually large hunting knife with some writings along the blade.

“Someone is going to find me“ I say with my voice cracking.
“Of course they are” he hums. “When I’m done with you” he smiles.
He crouches to my eye level, fixing the ropes around me, tightening them. Admiring his work I guess. His eyes meet mine.

“Tell me the truth, and I won’t send you back to whatever pit of hell you spawned from”
He stands, towering over me. Puts the knife on the table beside me and drags a chair to sit in front of me.
In a calm, chilling voice, he asks “what did you do to my wife and daughter?” His eyes never leave mine. I can barely see them but I can feel his gaze piercing me.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, I don’t know. I don’t know you or what you’re talking about!” I say, clearly not getting through to him.
“You’ve got a wrong person” I add.

“Au contraire, I know all about you, Claire Everwood”
The hair on my neck stood up, I haven’t heard that name in years. Not since…
“Ahh, memories coming back to us now, huh?” He stands, turning his back on me.
I stare at the knife he placed between us, trying to focus.
“You’re not an easy person to find, I’ll give you that.” He turns and snatches it from the table.
He walks over to his bag on the kitchen counter.
I can feel it from here, it’s calling to me yet again. He casually places it on the counter, I never thought I’d see it again.
The man turns to me, pointing to it with a knife. “I’m sure you recognise this.”

Of course I do. I’ve been searching for it for years. My palms start tingling.

He takes his cap off, he didn’t have to. I already know who he is. Some old sap from the old country. How is he still alive?

“Now, what did you do to my wife and daughter?” he asks, this time with a little crack in his voice.
Poor guy.
He shouldn’t have brought it here.
“Listen dad…” he slaps me across my face before I can finish.

“DON’T YOU EVER CALL ME THAT!” he yells.
“You are no daughter of mine” he says, swallowing hard. “You are merely wearing her skin”
“Still got that temper I see”
He raises his hand and stops mid air.
“Don’t forget you’re the reason I’m here, Michael.” I smile, finally getting to him.
“You shut your filthy mouth.”
“But this is what you wanted, no? To tell you what I did to them?”
He hesitates.
I stare at the old book on the kitchen counter and back to him.
“The years have been kind to you. You’ve barely aged.”
“I…I had to,” he stutters. “I had to find you”
He puts his hand on it.
The Old Grimoire.
My Grimoire.
“And now…you are going to help me” he clears his throat.
Whatever confidence he had was starting to drain away. He turns his back on me once more, hangs his head. Clearly dejected. He wipes his face with his once white handkerchief.
“My wife,” He sniffles. “She...”
“Chose to spend eternity in the void than one more second with you” I say, my eyes fixed on my Grimoire. He brought it to me at last.
He starts crying.
“What do you want from me, Michael?”
He straightens up, walks behind me and starts untying me. I don’t move. He comes back into view, towering over me.
“I need to see them…please”

I stand, and he takes a step back. I walk towards the counter. I can feel its power the closer I get. My dear old friend, it’s been forty years too long.

“Claire please” he calls behind me.
“You said it yourself, I’m not your daughter” I prick my finger to open it, and it welcomes me.

I shouldn’t have left him alive back then. Funny enough, he brought himself and my Grimoire to me. Nothing charges up magic more than a whole bloodline.

I turn to him. He’s kneeling on the floor.
“Please” he begs.
I open to The Spell of the Damned.
And I turn to him.

“Okay, I’ll help you see them again”

I don't remember how I got here; in fact, I don't remember anything. I look around. There are only trees and a field of grass stretching to the horizon. There doesn't seem to be anyone else here. The sky is completely clear, and the sun is already on the horizon; it will be night soon. The strange thing is that the sky shows no signs of darkening or setting.

I try to climb one of the trees to see the terrain from above, but I notice something strange. The bark is flat. Although it seems to have deformities and roughness, to the touch it feels like… plastic. I check the leaves too; they are placed uniformly and are all identical. It doesn't look real.

When I approach others, the same thing happens. They are too slippery to climb. With nothing else to do, I lay down on the grass. Like the trees, it is completely flat. The grass looks like it's painted on a smooth floor.

At least now I'm not sleepy, but it's going to be hard to sleep on such a hard floor. I hope I don't spend enough time here to actually have to, but I can't think of any way to escape.

In an instant, the sun disappears, and the sky turns black. Everything plunges into absolute darkness. I can barely see the trees, but between their silhouettes I notice something else: a human figure.

As quickly as I see it, it disappears back into darkness. I'm not sure how to feel. At least I'm no longer alone here, but if that person waited until darkness to appear, I don't think it's safe to approach them.

I spend the night trying not to let my guard down, which isn't hard for me. At no point do I feel hungry or sleepy. Instead, there's nothing to do, and time drags on endlessly. So much time alone makes many questions pop into my head.

Where am I? This must be a dream, maybe a hallucination. It's the only thing I can think of. Clearly I'm not in the real world. Everything seems way too fake.

Just then I notice the silhouette is there again. Maybe they know what's going on. However, they seem to have realised that I've spotted them, because they vanish into the darkness.

Suddenly, the light returns. The sky is clear, and trees appear in the field again. I don't see the person who was watching me; however, a noise interrupts me. It's right behind me.

—What are you doing here? —says the voice.

I turn around slowly so as not to alarm her. She is holding a knife menacingly. It doesn't look like she wants to attack me, but she's ready to use it if she thinks I'm going to hurt her.

—I don't know where I am, nor even who I am. I need your help, please — I ask her.

She starts to hesitate. I notice fear in her eyes. I don't think I've convinced her.

“Do you know who I am? “ she says, gripping the knife tighter.

The question catches me off guard. I have no idea who she is, but if she knows me, it doesn't look like she trusts me. She looks at me with a mix of terror and hatred.

”I don't know. I promise you I don't. I won't hurt you, just let me go” I reply.

These last words enrage her. She starts running towards me. I try to flee, but she follows me swiftly. There is nowhere around here to hide; there are only trees and more trees and…

There's something on the horizon. Maybe that's the exit. I run as fast as I can, but she keeps pace with me. It looks like a house. Maybe that's where she lives. If I get there before her, maybe I can arm myself too.

I finally reach the house. The door is open. I rush inside while looking for somewhere to hide, but it's too late. She's already here. She looks me in the eyes before attacking me with the knife. Luckily, I find one in a drawer. I dodge her strike and manage to stab her in the back.

She falls to the floor. No blood comes out, but she doesn't move either. I stare at the body. I think I killed her. I walk over to her… She's not breathing. I have to find help right now; maybe the exit is close. I have to save her.

I run upstairs quickly. The room is empty, except for a hole in the floor. Maybe it’s the exit. I have nothing to lose by checking. I fall into the hole as everything turns black.

I take off the virtual reality goggles. It takes me a few seconds to process everything as my memories return. Bianca is lying on the floor, still wearing the goggles and unmoving. I pick her up and sit her on the chair. I grab three belts from my closet and tie her arms and back to the chair. I’m not going to let her escape again.

I look at the monitor: the giant hole is still in the living room. I don't know how such a huge bug could have happened. Once the exit is patched up, I look for Bianca.

She is still lying on the entrance, but it won't be so easy for her to rest. I press a few keys and she wakes up again. It takes her a few seconds to understand the situation, but eventually she looks at the camera. Upon seeing my face, she starts crying and backs away.

“How about we play a game? “ I ask her, but she ignores me.

If she doesn't want to talk, I won’t force her. I close the room where she is and slow down the game's clock. Maybe a couple of months alone will make her reflect. Afterwards, she'll be begging to play with me.

It’s always the ones you least suspect.

Hunched on a metal chair, Hilda Gifte looked haggard, a fluorescent-lit distortion of the friendly retired nurse I’d seen in online profiles. I dropped a heavy hand on the two photos laying in front of her: on the left, a beaming little girl with a farmer’s tan; on the right, a sunken-eyed waif, skin blanched white as snow. They were both of her neighbor, seven-year-old Rosy Larson. 

I had been briefed on Rosy’s condition that morning, but the Larsons were local celebrities - everyone already knew their story. The young couple’s thriving daughter suddenly came down with a mysterious illness, and the desperate parents bankrupted themselves in search of a cure, to little avail. Eventually, they pleaded on the local news for assistance. The town rallied and began a slew of endless Facebook posts and fundraisers. 

For all that financial fortune, answers eluded even the best specialists. The child would have a miraculous turnaround one week, only to once again refuse food the next, her skin regaining that awful pallor.

The case seemed hopeless, until a call to our tipline yesterday. 

Rosy had been left with a babysitter that afternoon when Ms. Gifte came over for a social visit. Well acquainted with the helpful neighbor, the babysitter let her in and directed her to Rosy’s sickbed. As she peeked in to see if the pair needed anything, she caught Ms. Gifte handing the child something while pressing a finger to her lips. The babysitter demanded to know what it was, and Rosy revealed a handful of fruit shaped gummies. Ms. Hilda sometimes gave them to her as a special treat, the girl confessed. The older woman then stammered, snatched the gummies, and quickly fled. Dutifully, the babysitter called the Schwartzwald Sheriff’s Department to report a case of suspected child poisoning.

It was a shocking accusation, and we might not have entertained it, had we not discovered Ms. Gifte’s decades of experience at a number of advanced toxicology research labs. Could it really be the never-married, childless Hilda Gifte, jealous of the young family next door, got a twisted thrill out playing God with her medical acumen?   

Ms. Gifte seemed set on silence until a lawyer arrived. Still, I pressed my palm down on the pictures of Rosy, and asked if, with all her specialized experience, she had any inklings of what could’ve caused such a ghastly change. 

“Of course I did, but no one believed me,” a faint murmur answered. Surprised, I asked Ms. Gifte to repeat herself.          

 “You didn’t know them before, you have no idea how convenient it all was, the money,” she said, voice cracking as it rose. “The symptoms, that pale, pale skin. I suspected, but I couldn’t prove it, and I had to do something!”

I point blank asked if she had injected something into the gummies she had been giving Rosy.

“I did, sir, but it was no poison - it was the antidote!” 

If you believe me, I'm guessing it's because of religion, or some strange experience you can't quite explain, rather than because you've seen one with your own eyes. But I have.

I was talking to my mom one afternoon when I mentioned a girl I knew in high school. When Mom asked which girl I was talking about, my mind drew a blank.

“She was blonde and had a fringe,” I finally said.

“Oh, Julia,” said Mom. “Her poor family. They've missed her so much since the accident.”

“Accident?” I frowned. She nodded sympathetically.

“She got hit by a lorry while she was riding her bike. You were in sophomore year, remember?”

I was confused. Julia had definitely sat next to me in senior year. I remembered the exact sound of her laugh, the stupid jokes she'd make in class and the way she'd always steal my pens. But apparently, she'd been dead for two years by then. I assumed I'd somehow mixed up the years.

Then I was talking to my brother one evening.

“I miss Grandma,” I sighed.

“Grandma Rosie?”

“No, Grandma…”

He waited. I tried to say the other name, but it wouldn't come to me. I could see her face and hear her voice. I could picture the house she lived in, and the smell of her kitchen. But her name had completely disappeared.

“Grandma Sally?” he finally asked.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, slapping my forehead. He sighed.

“Me too. We all do. Dad's been having a really hard time since she died last year.”

I frowned. Then I looked down at the blue woolly scarf around my neck… the one Grandma Sally had knitted for me last week. I could definitely remember sitting with her while she worked on it, complaining that it was too itchy. I didn't know what to say.

A few weeks later, I went to the library and saw a new librarian behind the desk. I walked up to him.

“Hey, where's…”

I stopped, trying to remember the old librarian's name. I could picture him sitting behind the desk. He had literally just checked out my books last week, and was telling me that the printer was broken. I thought harder. Nothing. The new librarian raised an eyebrow.

“Robert?”

“Yeah. Of course,” I said. How could I have forgotten?

The new librarian's expression became solemn.

“Sorry to tell you this, but Robert died in January. I took over shortly afterwards. Terrible loss for the community, the kids here loved him.”

I stared at him, then looked towards Robert's usual desk. It was empty. He had checked out my books for me three days ago.

And that's when I finally understood that ghosts are real.

They're not necessarily pale figures floating through abandoned houses. They talk to you and laugh with you. Sometimes they look exactly like they did when they were alive. You can't even tell they're ghosts until someone mentions it afterwards.

You probably still don't believe me, but that's alright, not many people do. It was nice meeting you anyway.

And what's your name again?

Sorry.

I know you told me already.

Entry 32- Current status of Phonovirus pandemic:

Many of the details surrounding the pandemic are lost to me, but I promise I will never forget the screams.

It started a few weeks ago when the news broke that a new airborne illness was beginning to reach epidemic status. It started on the West Coast and was spreading eastward across the continental United States. Called phonovirus, it had so far left the medical community at a loss. It looked like it could become a potential pandemic. The strangest thing about the whole virus was that it was mostly asymptomatic. Externally anyways, if that makes any sense.

It’s hard to describe so bear with me. I’m honestly still processing it and as of now we are still treating some of the last remaining patients.

The symptom I am referring to is a new one for me, and as a long standing medical professional these things rarely take me by surprise. Symptoms don’t typically manifest as entirely new. Usually they are a variation of a preexisting symptom. Something I can handle. Context.

This was a truly shocking one.

A patient affected by phonovirus only experienced one symptom. Any open wound on the body would no longer fully heal, as if there was some sort of barrier preventing the skin from closing up, and any open wound on a patient affected would produce horrifying guttural screams. Multiple wounds, multiple screams.

If you need to reread that, I understand. It didn’t make sense to me at first either, and I saw it firsthand. It still doesn’t but at least I understand as much as understanding is possible. The screams come from inside of the body. Inside of the body.

The intensity of the screams wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that it wasn’t just an indecipherable cacophony of noise. It didn’t sound like the way your blood sounds when you hear it outside of your body during an ultrasound. It didn’t sound like gibberish. The voices were coherent.

It was as if a demon was speaking to the victim. From inside of themselves. Telling them the worst things they could possibly imagine. And they shifted. The voices I mean, not the patients. They would change, become different people. Always people close to the victim that had passed, and always the darkest messages from the depths of hell.

Your mother telling you that she should have cooked you and eaten you instead of raising you.

Your maternal grandmother telling you she can’t wait to eat your eyeballs when she sees you in hell.

Your first child telling you that you are a worthless piece of shit and you deserve to be impaled and covered in honey until the insects consume all of your sweet sticky flesh.

So many terrible images and messages that the final stage of phonovirus has consistently been suicide.

The affected patients are so disturbed by the messages that they just can’t take it anymore.

The voices drive the patients to suicide in 100% of affected patients.

We frantically searched for some sort of cure, but any attempts at closing up the wounds using traditional medical methods failed and the voices continued to slowly kill their victims. Nor could we do anything about the voices. We tried covering them with bandages and they only screamed louder. We tried talking to them, tried to reason with them and find out how to stop them.

They told us of the horrors of hell that we would soon face if we tried to interfere.

At this point, there are no options left. The disease is rapidly spreading across the globe and the suicides continue to rise. Nobody knows if they are a carrier and there is only one way to find out. Very few are willing to risk this and those who have tried have done nothing to further the research. They just proved the disease is hopeless.

We are advising people to be very careful conducting themselves as they attempt to function daily without inadvertently puncturing their skin. This has proven to be very difficult. All we can hope is to make it through this unscathed and hopefully find a way to beat this baffling disease.

Oh my, would you look at that? Seems I just got a paper cut.

And no mother, I am not the whore of Babylon sent to destroy the earth.

Grandma, I loved you, I miss you, why would you tell me that my dead son hates me?

End of transcript.

Her name was April, and I wasn’t completely honest with her when I scheduled her supernatural consultation.

I swung open the side entrance to my house. Right under the big neon sign.

“Are you Madame Marge?”

“You must be April.”

“I thought I was seeing Madame Marge.”

“That’s the name of my business. It’s named after my wife. Please. Come in.”

“Is your wife–”

“She’s not here right now. Have a seat.”

Once she entered, I laid a two-by-four across the door to keep it shut. It looked like I was barring the door, but it’s just broken. That’s all.

April sat hesitantly. Everyone started that way. After all, they’re trying to contact the dead. We’re dealing with elements beyond our comprehension.

“The first thing I need you to do is take your shoes and socks off.”

“Uh. Why?”

“You need to be connected to the earth. Feet against the ground.”

She did as I asked.

I lit several candles. Crystals were placed at very specific locations on the table. Little incantations were written in blood. To the untrained eye, it would look superfluous. I knew better.

“I’m trying to contact my grandmother,” April said.

“One second.” I went to a nearby cauldron. The decoction was ready, I could tell from the smell. I poured a small amount into a little glass, and placed it in front of April.

“Drink this.”

“Do I have to?”

“It will open your mind to the spirits.”

I could see her eyes shifting toward the door. She’s rightfully nervous. I needed to ease her, somehow.

“April, it’s just a decoction of herbs. Some of the same things you might put on a Christmas roast.” That was only true in the sense that heroin comes from a plant. “I need you to open your mind for me. Please. Drink.”

April hesitated. She took a small sip, and coughed. She made a face of disgust.

“The whole thing.”

She looked worried, but finished it.

I sat across from her. I rubbed my hands together. This time it had to be perfect.

“I need to speak to my grandmother–”

“Quiet!” I held my hands over the table. I whispered, chanted the words as I had heard them a hundred times before.

“Speak to me, I beg you!”

April began convulsing violently. Her eyes shot up, and looked all white. A gravelly voice came from deep in her throat, “Honey?”

“Marge. Two days ago a man kicked through our door and murdered you. What did he look like?”

“Honey? I can’t see.”

“We don’t have a lot of time! What did he look like? The police think I did it.”

April began screaming. She pushed the table away from her, threw the two-by-four off the door, and ran barefoot into the dark street.

Another failure.

Two days ago, a man killed a woman who could speak with the dead. My wife. And now, unless I can figure out how to do it, he’ll get away with it.

They are gone again.

The flowers. They are gone again. 

I place them there every day, at the grave. And every day, they vanish. I do not know why.

There are many things in this world that are unexplainable. Disappearing flowers are not the most strange. Things vanish all the time. Belongings, people even.

They all vanish eventually.

The person sleeping beneath the soil is privileged. They do not know.

___

The flowers disappeared again.

I am having trouble placing them there every day. No force prevents me, but the thought simply slips from my mind. I do not know why.

The flowers are red. I always buy red ones. And they always vanish.

Things vanish all the time. One almost gets used to it. A constant in a life already full of constants.

___

They are gone again.

…what is gone again?

The grave draws me. I remember the person that lays there in rest. I remember the name scratched onto the stone.

That name can no longer be read now.

That name vanished a long time ago. Just like him. Just like the flowers.

Ah, yes flowers. That is what has gone.

I shall have to collect more sometime.

___

They are gone again.

Something… I cannot remember. 

What was the name that was on the grave? Why do I stand here, what am I doing here?

The grass is growing long around it. The moss seems to be eating away at the headstone.

I see the shapes of words traced over the headstone. Unreadable, unintelligible.

I think I knew them once.

Flowers?

___

I used to keep telling myself something. 

I know it. There is something nagging me now as I stand in my kitchen.

Gone again. 

…flowers.

What about flowers?

___

I walked down to the grave today. 

I stood there, staring at it.

Red flowers, placed at its base. 

I remember them.

But I did not place them there.

___

I had a nightmare.

___

I woke up today.

I woke up today and I didn’t know where I was.

I woke up today and I could see the stars. The grass, growing all around me. 

I woke up today and there was dirt on my hands and dirt on my shirt and I was sitting in the dirt and there was a box next to me and the box was empty.

I woke up today. 

___

In that nightmare I could see nothing but a red world.

A dead world perhaps.

___

…maybe I shouldn’t have woken up today.

___

Strange.

There was nothing in that box.

That coffin. Lying next to me.

___

In that nightmare my hands were red.

The stars were red.

The ground was red.

___

It is dark now.

People vanish all the time.

___

In that nightmare.

My tears were red too.

The fat man sweated heavily in the clammy cell. As he drummed his fingers on the steel table and fidgeted in his chair, the door opened and a lean man in grey coveralls walked in. Almost casually, the man in coveralls turned, reached into the corner of the cell, and disconnected the camera. 

The fat man sat in silence. The man in the coveralls turned, and to the fat man’s surprise, sat in the chair opposite and smiled expansively. 

“Are you the janitor?” the fat man asked, puzzled. 

“Not quite.” He smirked. “I prefer to think of myself as more of a… Fixer”. The F was practically audible. 

The Fixer continued with an infuriating casualness. “So, John- can I call you John?” He didn’t wait for an answer. 

“John, look. We have what we need to put you away for life, means, motive, eye witnesses, details of your movements, of your-” 

John cut him off, spluttering denials and disagreements.

“I don’t- I didn’t-”

The Fixer cut him off in return, with venom. “I’m not here to argue, John, I’m here to make a deal.” 

There was silence between them - the fat man took the opportunity to study the Fixer more closely. Light grey stubble, close-cropped grey hair, few other distinguishing features, and the faded coveralls meant your eyes passed right over him. As John stared, he began to suspect this was the point. He could be in the background of any scene, invisible, forgettable. 

The Fixer began again. “You have the right kind of psychological profile to be an ideal candidate for us - that’s what I want to discuss.” 

The fat man shifted uncomfortably as the Fixer continued. 

“The deal is this: thirty. Well, thirty, give or take a few. But that’s your number. If you’re smart you’ll get to thirty, no problems. If they get close again… fingerprint evidence disappears into the system, evidence gets misplaced, leads aren’t followed up, detectives are reassigned.”

Across the table the atmosphere had shifted, from interrogation to negotiation. The Fixer started again. 

“We know from your profile that this is a tempting offer. Obviously there’s a time limit - around 1980 we come for you regardless, but until then…”

The fat man had stopped fidgeting now - his mean eyes were locked on his opposite. The nervous, stammering fat man had gone, and had been replaced by one with a more calculating demeanour.

“What’s the catch??” Less a question, more a demand. The Fixer smiled thinly. 

“We fry you John. When you notch up thirty, we bring you in and you get the Chair.”

The sneer that had crept onto the fat man’s face froze at this. His deepset eyes betrayed surprise at the bluntness of the response. 

The Fixer grinned now, anticipating the follow-up. He shrugged generously. “People need boogeymen John. They need someone to hate and a circus that whips up that hate. We can’t put poverty or hunger in the electric chair. But we can put you in there. We can’t stop them thinking about gun crime or that their kid’s school is underfunded. But we can make those things pale into comparison when they think about what you’ve done.”

The sneer had faded completely now. It had been replaced by a look of quiet contemplation. But more than that, there was real, genuine fear there for the first time. The Fixer didn’t scare him, but the power that sat behind him did. More than the electric chair, more than the prison. 

“Think about it. We’ll be waiting. Thanks for your time Mr Gacy.”

He stood, reconnected the camera, and left the room as silently as he’d entered. 

In the cold metal chair, John Wayne Gacy sat stock still. 

A day of just the boy and his father, running, playing catch, even a tickle fight today. Now he's sitting with his father. They're watching a movie. A blonde demon sings about letting go of her restraint, condemning her kingdom to starvation. They've watched it enough I can startle them immediately when the orchestra stops. Here it comes and... I knock the lamp over right next to little Kevin.

"What the hell, kid? What did you do?"

"It wasn't me, dad. It was him. The hanging man."

"Enough of your nonsense. Don't move. I gotta clean this up before you hurt yourself."

"He's right there dad!"

Now he sees me, pointing directly at me, eyes wild at his father's suggestion that I'm imagined. The father spins, his eyes searching for a fight. Seeing nothing, his eyes widen for a moment. The scent is delicious.

"Careful. If he thinks you're crazy, he'll send you away. Then we can play more."

"But I'm not crazy. He loves me. He'd never send me away."

The father looks lost, "Who are you talking to? And don't tell me some tall tale about a man from the ceiling."

"You have no choice. You must tell your father that you knocked the lamp over now."

"I do have a choice. Dad, I'm not lying there really is a man. How can you not see him?"

The father storms off. His agitated stomps marking the way to the kitchen.

"You boys are so troublesome at this age. I once knew a boy who..."

I study him while I talk, demanding his attention. How do I break him tonight.

He looks towards the kitchen and I wag my finger at him.

"Buhtuhtuh. Your father told you not to move. It's just you and me."

"If you would just show him that you're real he wouldn't be mad at me."

"But why would I want to do that? We have so much fun together, you and I."

"Because you're my friend and I'm asking you to."

A smile breaks my face, flakes falling from the cracks. The boy startles, eyes bewildered. My rotting teeth glint back at me from his eyes.

"It's precisely because I'm your friend that I can't show myself to him."

His father walks back into the room, muttering about ghosts and boys being boys. My tail creaks against the ceiling as I lumber over to him, reaching out a talon scratching the man's neck. The skin turns blue where I drag the tip.

"Hey! I told you not to move! What window did you leave–" He swings around and looks directly through me.

The boy starts to cry.

"Huh? Kevin it'll be–"

"Stop that. I was just proving that even when I touch him, he refuses to see me. So why don't we go upstairs and have some fun? Just you and me, I and you, the two of us. Alone. Better not to respond until we get there."

"Dad, can I go play in my room?"

"Kevin, I'm sorry I got upset. Just let me finish cleaning the glass and we can finish our movie."

"No. I WANT MY ROOM."

"THEN GO."

The rollercoaster of emotions that was today will taste fantastic.

"Move along now. Let's go upstairs, my friend. I'll make it all better. You'll feel numb, then we'll play some more and you'll forget all about how mean your dad is. Good. Now close the door."

"It keeps you safe," the previous owner beamed as he handed over the keys.

He had just walked me through all the security features. There were cameras covering every angle of the property, motion sensors, automatic locks, alarms, even windows that could lock themselves if they detected an impact.

“Bit much, isn't it?” I joked.

“You'll appreciate it.”

A few weeks after I moved in, I was in bed when the house suddenly came alive.

An alarm started screaming. Every light in the house switched on at once, the windows bolted closed and the locks clicked shut. I ran downstairs and looked through the window. Someone dressed in all black was running away down the street.

The police found marks around the door and said the man had been trying to get inside. I was impressed. The house had just kept an intruder out, and it was pretty cool to see those advanced security features in action for the first time.

Then, things started getting strange.

A month later, my girlfriend came over and we got into an argument. It started over something stupid, I can't even remember what. We started yelling at each other from separate rooms, and when she came down the hallway towards the room I was in, the door slammed shut between us.

The lock clicked. She was on one side and I was on the other.

“What the hell?” I tried the handle.

Nothing. I pushed harder, but it wouldn't unlock. Finally, she left, and the door only unlocked after. I thought the security system had malfunctioned.

But that wasn't the only incident.

The new neighbor was always parking in my spot. One afternoon, I saw him in his garden and decided to confront him about it. Before I could reach the fence, the sprinklers suddenly switched on. I stood there soaked as I watched him go back inside.

It was beginning to feel like the house had a mind of its own.

And a few weeks ago, I saw someone walking past the house. I've seen them before, often enough that I recognize them now. They're usually alone, and they walk past around the same time. The street was empty. There would be no witnesses. So I walked downstairs and opened the front door. It slammed shut, so I tried again. Locked. I went to the kitchen window. Locked. The back door. Locked. I stood in the hallway fuming.

Perhaps it also knew about the knife I was holding behind my back when my girlfriend visited, or the pistol in my jacket when I was watching my neighbor from the garden.

I still see you walking past the house sometimes. I've tried everything, but it never lets me out.

Shame.

Seems like it really does keep you safe.

'At the end of this game, there'll be a prize.'

The handwriting was clearly my wife's.

The post it note, green in colour, had been left on the small table in the hallway where we keep our keys and mail. I'd just come home from work, but fuck it, I was totally up for a game of adult hide and seek, or, whatever this was.

I flipped over the note to read the first clue;

'Let's make it easy, this is your first clue, the next note to find, is with your favourite blue.'

Hmm...She must mean my favourite blue hoodie I wear on my walks.

It was always hung in the same place. I searched the pockets and swiftly found the next clue, green;

'Lets make this one hard, as that one was easy, the next clue to find, is located in something cheesey.'

Okay...That's not hard at all.

I opened the fridge and...nothing. Well, nothing but food.

I stood with the fridge door open and a confused look upon my face.

Huh...

Then I noticed my walking shoes by the back door.

Ooh...Ha! Cheesey feet. Cheeky.

I smiled and closed the fridge. The note in my shoe was yellow;

'I know where these have been, last night you were out 'til three, The next clue to find, is upstairs with me.'

My smile disappeared.

My mind began to race, my legs began to pace. My head was sweating and my heart was thumping.

The note said she was upstairs...

At the very top step, I found another post it note, yellow;

'What you're about to see, may be quite a shock, come into our bedroom, there's no need to knock...'

My heart was pounding uncontrollably.

I slowly pushed the door open with a long and drawn out squeak, and on our bed, there she laid; bloodsoaked sheets and a nice sharp blade.

At the end of the bed, written on both sides, a post it note, red;

'I thought you might enjoy this, seeming as you like childish games, I followed you last night, and watched with a shameful gaze.

You said that you go walking, that it helps to clear your head, when really you're just a cheating man, and I know where you've been instead.

After a lot of thinking, I came up with this plan, a way to scare you shitless, and make you half a man.'

She then sat up straight from the fake blood scene, and held the knife between my legs.

"I've got you now you bastard, there's nothing you can do. But you did make it to the end, so here's your prize..."

slice

"...Fuck you."

I woke up shivering, barely able to open my fingers. The fire had almost gone out. Lucy lay wrapped in her blankets, shivering too.

My knees cracked as I got up. I walked to the woodpile and threw a few sticks into the fire. The small orange light slowly grew.

“Lucy, Lucy,” I whispered in my raspy voice.

She opened her eyes and squinted.

“I’m so cold, Jake.”

“I know, I know. Just come closer to the fire.”

She moved closer, stretching her hands toward it. I sat next to her and hugged her, waiting for the shivering to stop.

After a while, Lucy looked up at the sky. You could only see gray clouds through the bare trees.

“I don’t even remember what the sun looks like.”

“Don’t think about it. You’ll bum yourself out.”

She pulled her knees closer to her chest.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“We should eat.”

Lucy looked at the dead rats. It was all we had. We had run out of cans a week and a half ago.

“I…I can’t.”

“Lucy, you need to eat.”

“I can’t do it again, Jake. I didn’t even eat meat before all this.” She put her head in her legs.

I looked toward the city we were by. The snow blew through the empty streets.

“We could go into the city.”

“But the gangs could be there. If they catch us, we’ll have to…”

“I know, but there could be food too.”

She looked at the rats and swallowed.

“Okay.”

She slowly got up. I handed her the knife. She put it in her pocket and stomped out the fire.

The snow was fresh, reaching to our ankles. In the city, there were no human tracks, no trash. The wrecks lay in the streets, some on their side, some on their roofs. The buildings had broken windows. The snow had already reached over a foot in the empty rooms. We stayed close to each other. Lucy’s eyes darted between the buildings, but the city was empty, quiet. 

We passed by a small electronics store. There was a large plasma TV in the back. It reminded me of the one we used to own. I remembered an oily man in a suit saying that the climate wasn’t changing. A few years later, I sat in front of that same TV with Lucy when the terrible winter came. It was worse than anything we’d seen before, and from that day on the winter never left.

“Jake?” she called quietly.

I shook my head. There was only my reflection in the TV, looking like a man I did not recognize.

She was pointing at a building at the end of the street.

“Jake, that looks like our old apartment building.”

“Oh yeah, it does.”

“I remember my little plants and the paintings. The apartment was so cute.”

She smiled. A warm feeling tingled in my chest.

“Yeah. You made it pretty.”

“It was pretty before too. It just needed something extra. I really miss it. I hope this ends at some point.”

“I don’t know, Lucy.”

“I don’t know either. I hope. Let’s look at the building.”

We walked toward it. Lucy smiled again and grabbed my hand. It was still really cold.

“Oh, it really is so similar,” Lucy said and walked to the window. 

She glanced through it and immediately covered her mouth, letting out a silent gasp.

Inside lay two bodies. There were charred spots where their limbs should have been. Their abdomens were open, but all the organs were missing.

“Jesus.” I took her hand and moved us away.

“The gang kept them alive,” she whispered, looking at the charred spots.

We walked a little further. Lucy kept turning her head around more anxiously. I could see we’d have to leave soon, but then, at the end of the street, a small bodega appeared.

“I don’t know, Jake.”

“We’ll be quick. Just this one and then we’ll turn,” I said and walked toward it. 

She looked around one more time and followed after me.

Only one window was broken, and the door was still on its hinges. The inside was as cold as the outside. Through the cold came that rotting, stale smell that all the other buildings had. Lucy kept behind me, holding onto my shoulder.

“I really think we should leave.”

“Lucy, look!”

There were a few unopened cans on the shelf: tomatoes, peaches, and green beans, Lucy’s favorite.

“What a lucky day,” I said and looked back at her.

She forced a smile.

“Yeah. Can we go now?”

“Sure, but let’s eat some green beans; you love them.”

“It can wait, Jake.”

“Fine.”

The snow crunched outside. Something strange tightened in my chest. I slowly turned.

A bolt of shock ran up my spine. A gang of men stood outside the store, smiling with guns and hatchets in their hands.

My feet froze to the snow. We'd talked about what we’d do if this happened, but I never thought it would come to this.

“Jake,” Lucy whispered. Her eyes were filled with terror. She could see the fear in mine. She already had the knife in her hand.

“Drop the knife,” one of the men said.

Lucy looked at me.

She knew.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy whispered.

Sharp pain shot through my neck. I jolted back. Lucy’s knife was stuck in my throat, her hand still around it. Warm liquid poured onto my shoulders. She pulled it out and stabbed herself in the neck too. She collapsed to the floor right after me. I reached my hand toward her, but she was too far away. She smiled and slowly closed her eyes.

The last thing I remember is the taste of iron in my mouth before waking up on the ground. My brother is lying in a puddle of crusted blood next to me. 

I sit up, my skin sticks to the floor, it hurts to peel away. I shake Billy, but Billy won't move. “Wake up Billy. Billy, wake up.” I tell him, “I’m going to get mommy.”

I stand up but the room starts to spin. My vision goes blurry and I almost fall over. I close my eyes, hold my head in my hand and my body flinches.

A swelling on my skull stings when I touch it and shoots through my body like an electrical shock.

I push myself off the dresser and steady my footing. The strength in my legs slowly comes back. I’m able to stand without falling but my balance is off and my ear is ringing. 

The lights are out in the hallway and they won’t turn on. I walk to my mom’s room leaning against the wall to support myself.

The air tastes like the smell of rusted metal and the barnyard at grandpa’s. My knee buckles and I almost fall. I slide my spine down the wall, sit on the floor and rest against it. 

I see white stars dancing over a black background that‘s pulsing. My breathing gets heavy and the nausea returns. I take a couple of breaths, and my sight starts coming into focus.

I crawl to my mom’s room. The wood is sharp against my bones, I can hear my knees crunch on the floorboards as they creak under my weight.

A lump of vomit sits in the middle of my throat and it sounds like there’s water splashing in my ear.

I struggle to get up, using my mom’s doorknob as leverage as I try to push the door open. It sticks and doesn’t budge. I twist the knob, lift and nudge my way in with my shoulder.

The room’s lit by moonlight seeping through her open window. A breeze blows sending a gust of air that smells like a dirty hamper. It overwhelms me, warning me back. 

I can see an outline of a shadow on her bed lying motionless. I creep a little closer but I still can’t make out what it is, until the figure on the bed forms into the shape of a person as my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. It doesn’t look like my mom.

I approach the bed tip-toeing, there’s an arm hanging from it. The room breathes as I choke on my breath and gasp. My lower spine tingles with icicles. The skin on the back of my neck tightens as my ears rise to the ceiling.

I realize it’s my mom. There’s too much blood crusted and matted hair around her face to recognize her. It’s too dark.

Her hand. I can see her arm dangling from the side of the bed. Her finger has the plastic-cotton ring I made her on it.

I tug at her arm. “Mom,” I shout. I start trying to shake her awake. “Mom, wake up, something’s wrong with Billy.”

She doesn’t move. “Mom?” I shake her harder. I close my eyes and tell myself to wake up. I say it over and over. I open my eyes and I’m still in her room. “Susie!” I yell for my older sister. “Susie!”

She doesn’t answer. The house remains silent but loud in a haunting presence. I whisper to my mom, “I’ll be back mommy.”

I stumble backwards, shaking, too afraid to look away from my mom. Afraid, if I turn away it’ll all become real.

I need to get Susie, Billy and mom need help. I hold my breath, close my eyes, count to eight, hide my fear behind my mom and brother and check Susie’s room to see if she’s there.

The hallway wall near her door has blood on the floor. It’s slightly open with a bloody handprint painted on it. Her room is dark. I can’t see anything in there. “Susie?“ no answer. “Are you there?”

I slowly push the door open and it cries the squeak of a dying dog. I slap her light switch quickly and the light turns on, revealing a state of decomposition. I gag and nearly throw up. I shoot my head in the other direction and try to build the courage to look at them.

Susie’s lying on her bed with my little sister Jenny beside her.

The smell is suffocating the thick air in metals. Susie and Jenny don’t look real. I can see ground beef stuck to their face and in their hair. They’re not moving.  

I hear a foot press down on the bottom of the stairs. It was like the house shifted to the right from the weight. A raspy voice travels up the steps ahead of his body. “What did I do?”

I jump behind Jenny and tuck tightly into her and close my eyes and hold my breath and remain completely still.

“What did I do!” Susie’s door slams open and the force of it jammed the knob in the wall. I can hear someone walking around the room.

“What did I do!” He says and walks out. 

I hear him walk towards my bedroom. Then, I hear him race to my mom’s room. I hear scattering and things falling. He leaves her room and I can hear him breathing heavy as he makes his way back to Susie’s room. 

His steps are getting louder, and closer. His deep breathing sounds like it‘s right behind me. I fight to soothe the tremors shaking my limbs by squeezing my hands into fists and digging my nails into my palms. A shadow towers at the doorway. I hear a gun cock just as the sound of police sirens break through the insulation between the walls.

The smell of herbal ointment and the dampness of the old room filled the house with a heaviness that seemed greater than the weight of its crooked wooden ceiling.

At thirty-three, I found myself imprisoned between those dark walls, moving every hour between turning my sick mother’s frail body to prevent bedsores from forming on her thin skin, and opening the small cabinet to check on the envelope containing her pension money, which I depended on entirely.

During her final days, her sunken eyes followed me with a strange sense of urgency.

She could no longer speak, but she trembled as she desperately tried to point toward the floor.

She would strike her wheelchair and release a strained rasp from her throat, as if she were fighting to tell me something important that I could not understand.

I assumed she was dazed from the illness and exhaustion, so I would simply wipe her forehead and push her trembling hand away, never realizing the secret behind those desperate looks.

One night, the coughing in her chest became so severe that it suddenly stopped.

The rasping ceased.

Her pulse disappeared completely.

I froze, phone in hand, ready to call an ambulance.

But fear and exhaustion overwhelmed my mind.

"What if I just leave her there for a few weeks until I find a decent job and secure my future?”

I closed the phone.

I covered her face with the blankets, locked her bedroom door, and walked away.

The first few days passed slowly, like a nightmare.

Every morning, I left the house to look for work.

Every night, I returned, ignoring the smell that was beginning to seep through the locked door.

But on the fifth night, the horror began.

I heard heavy blankets being dragged across the floor inside the dark room.

Then came the sound of slow, bare feet.

Thud...

Thud...

Thud...

Suddenly, the wooden door shattered with a horrifying crack.

My mother burst through the rotten boards with inhuman strength and entered the hallway.

Her face was stiff, her eyes lifeless.

But she did not even look at me.

She walked past me without a word and headed straight toward the basement stairs, as if she had somewhere she desperately needed to go.

I followed her, my entire body trembling.

She descended into the basement and approached her old sewing table.

She grabbed an old iron hammer.

With both dead hands, she threw the table aside with terrifying strength and began smashing the floor.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the tiles finally cracked apart.

She bent down and pulled a square leather box from the hole.

Inside were neatly arranged objects that reflected the light like pieces of moonlight.

She turned toward me and slowly approached.

At that moment, I surrendered to the fear.

I realized she had come for me.

She had sacrificed her life for me, while I had spent months complaining about caring for her.

And my final act of selfishness had been leaving her body to rot in the darkness.

I closed my eyes and waited for punishment, certain that I deserved to die.

But she did not strike me.

She simply stood beside me.

Then she slowly collapsed onto her knees.

Her dead hands fell to the floor.

Chains, rings, and pieces of gold jewelry scattered across the ground.

She had hidden them away throughout her entire life, saving them for a day I never knew would come.

She lifted her head toward me.

Her decaying skin hung loosely from her face, and one of her eyes was nearly falling from its socket.

Then, from her ruined throat, came one final rasp.

But somehow, beneath the horror, I could still hear the warmth and love of the mother I remembered.

“Everything I have... is yours, my son.”

Every wall of fear inside me collapsed.

I fell to my knees before her.

She had not come for revenge.

Her final act of love had forced her dead body to finish what she could no longer accomplish while alive.

She had only wanted to secure my future.

I wrapped my arms around her and held her tightly.

I no longer cared about the smell of decay.

I no longer cared about the jewels scattered around us.

Because in that moment, I finally understood.

The most valuable thing I had ever wasted...

Was the very thing now resting in my arms for the last time.

It was the scream that stayed with me. and haunting, like someone had recorded their worst nightmare and played it back at three times normal speed. 

We entered the house as usual, in the dead of night. My crew and I raid old houses like this, looking for anything that we can sell. Abandoned houses usually mean low or no security, and sometimes people leave behind junk they don’t know is valuable. 

Mitch, Jordan, and I entered through the back window and spread out - Mitch took the ground floor, Jordan took the second floor, and I took the top. The top was riskier - harder to get out of if we had company - but I was good at it. 

I was going through the place, same as normal, when I entered a room with a large screen and a projector, kind of like a theater. When I walked through the door, there was a “click” and the projector started moving, showing an old movie on the screen. At least, I thought it was a movie. 

It focused on a person. I couldn’t make out who because it was dark and the view started from the feet up. But I noticed spikes. Red and thick, one going through the top of each foot. 

From there, the camera panned up to the legs, which had been flayed, the skin removed slowly in a way that likely ensured the victim would feel the most pain. 

At this point, I looked around, searching for someone who was running the projector, but no one was there. 

And then I heard it. The scream. 

“AIIEEEEE!!”

I jumped up, looking around frantically as my breathing spiked. Somehow, though the person screaming was on video, the sound seemed as if it were coming from all around me, every direction at once. I didn’t just hear it - I felt it. In my bones. Like some long-suppressed memory that had violently pushed its way to the surface. 

I decided to get the hell out of there. I ran to the door through which I’d entered the room. But, although it had been open before, now it was sealed shut as if it were glued to the frame. I pulled with all my strength, but to no avail. While I continued to try the door, I heard a noise behind me. I turned around and another video started to play on the screen. 

By itself. 

On the screen was a different person. At least, I thought it was a different person; I couldn’t see the face, but the clothes and the lighting were dissimilar from those in the first video. And there were no spikes through the feet. 

Because there were no feet. 

Instead, the ankles ended in bloody stumps that dragged against the floor. And, as the camera panned slowly up, I saw slash marks. Dozens of slash marks, crossing the body at all angles, so much blood covering the naked skin that the body looked like it had been dipped in red paint. With that kind of blood loss, the only thing I was certain of was that he was dead. No one could have lived through this. Poor bastard. 

“AIIEEEEE!!” Though I’d heard it before, the primal scream shook me again. I’d heard screams before - of anger, of frustration, of grief. But there could only be one cause for this scream. 

Terror. Complete, utter terror. 

Focusing, I looked at the video again, studying it. The perspective was the same as before, except this time, the camera continued to pan up the body until it reached the face. No. No, that wasn’t possible. 

The face. I recognized it. 

It was mine. 

The same nose. The same mouth. The same green eyes. The same scar under my lower lip. The same curly brown hair. 

How was this possible?

And then another video started. 

The violence was different. The clothes, the wound pattern, the instrument used and spatters of blood, all unlike those from previous video. But the face was the same. And that scream…

I couldn’t stay here; I had to get out. I tried the door again, but it wouldn’t open. I jerked at it repeatedly, with increasing force, but no luck. 

Suddenly I heard a noise behind me. I looked - there was nothing there. 

Desperately, I threw my body into it, but it wouldn’t budge.

The noise got louder.

I looked around and saw a window in the corner. In a fit of desperate inspiration, I picked up a chair and threw it against a window. Then again. And again. Eventually the window cracked and shattered, sending glass flying outside the room. Without hesitation, I crawled through the window, scraping myself on the broken glass. 

I ran downstairs, calling out to Mitch and Jordan as I went. 

“Guys! We’ve gotta go! NOW!”

And when I got downstairs, I found them. 

Or what was left of them.

Their dismembered bodies lay on the floor, limbs spread around in trails of blood. 

My mind went blank - the scream from the video echoes in my ears. All I could think was “get out, get out, get out.” I turned and ran toward the door. 

It wouldn’t open. 

I looked around - the windows were fifteen feet up, there was no way I could reach them. I turned, ready to fight whatever came down.

Then a noise came from my right, like a ripping. I looked over - a tear was opening in the air. Before I could run, an arm emerged. Then a torso. Then a face. 

Oh my God. 

“Come on,” said a face that looked exactly like mine. “They’re coming. We don’t have much time.”

“Who’s coming?” I asked, too stunned to move. 

He paused, then looked at me with a deathly stare. “You are.”

Nobody is precisely sure when it happened, but one night last month a second moon appeared.

It looks similar to our old moon, but the craters and lava beds that make up its surface prove it is a completely different moon and not just some reflection we don't understand.

The reason no one knows exactly when it appeared is also one of the strangest...it doesn't show up on camera. Neither video or image, nor any other means of measurement. There is no change to the tides to indicate a new source of gravity. Animals seem to pay it no mind either.

But it's there according to everyone with functional eyes.

The astonishment of this alone was already nearly more than people could digest when reports started to trickle in that to some people the new moon did not appear lifeless. To them, in fact, it appeared to be a lush and vibrant ecosystem of blue oceans and green continents.

As the weeks moved on, those who saw the image of a new eden became obsessed with being in its light. Thousands of people roamed the countrysides far from city lights at night to bathe in its lumination. Without regard to their own safety, people followed the moon as it moved west in their nightly sky. Shedding their clothing as they wandered, they died by the thousands to exposure. By the end of the second week people were literally walking into the ocean (and their doom) just to get another few minutes of its light before it set.

Then it was reported with horror that the numbers who saw the new moon as paradise and falling under its thrall was growing...

Some with means even made futile attempts to reach it. A group hijacked a rocket meant to resupply the International Space Station with plans to fly to it, only to meet with disastrous explosive failure before reaching orbit. A member of the Saudi royal family even attempted to quickly have their own rocket assembled but met with a similar fate.

Society broke down long before any feasible mission could be launched.

Those of us that still see it as a lifeless siren have become scarce and cut off. My generator is the only reason I have the power to write this entry...the grid has been dead for weeks. I don't even hear the moans of the faithful as they bask anymore.

I am alone.

But as I write this I just noticed that the night sky outside appears to have some color to it. Perhaps I'll go for a walk and have a look. After all the moons have always been so beautiful at night, have they not?