r/shortscarystories

I stir slowly as I distantly hear his boots at the door, stamping the snow off. "Johnny's home!" he cries, and I waken fully. I take stock of where I am: sitting at my vanity, combs and curlers and rings and necklaces strewn a bit haphazardly. I blink slowly and listen to his footfalls in the downstairs hall. "I'm hungry! Did you make me something good?"

Johnny is home! I'm not prepared. I'm not ready and what will he think? I stand, slowly, because I cannot feel my feet. How long have I been sitting here in a stupor? I bring my hand to my face. My skin is dreadfully pale, nearly translucent. I turn toward the door and head for the stairs.

"Hello-o! Where are you? I'm hungry!" The boots are THUMPING now, loud. I feel a chill in my soul, the old fear of his impatience and anger. I want to run, but falling down the stairs (again) won't serve me well. I glide down the staircase, hand hovering above the banister. I imagine him in the kitchen, his gray uniform, home from the War. And hungry! What can I make him quickly? I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn right, toward the kitchen. I enter the kitchen, his name on my lips, "Johnny.. "

But there in the kitchen is a small boy wearing unthinkably bright colors. His curly hair pokes out from under a bright red knit cap with strange white ovals lined in black and black lines that look like webs. He looks at me and his mouth and eyes become small round o's. Then the O's widen rapidly and he screams.

In that very moment, I feel something tugging at me. Like I've come to the end of an elastic tether, I am suddenly flying back up the stairs, back to the vanity. I am back at my seat, staring with a vacant expression at my non-existent reflection.

Wrong Johnny.

(Again.)

The last thing I remember is my mother screaming. A flash of headlights. The screech of twisted metal. The smell of copper.

For a long time, I felt as if I was in some kind of dream until the ringing woke me up.

A small black room. An overhead light shining down on a tiny wood table and a chair. In the middle of the table is a telephone. One of those old ones I’ve seen in pictures. No buttons, only a plastic numbered dial on the front of it.

The ring is loud and constant and I don’t want to pick it up. I think I know what happened to me and my mom. I think I’m dead.
I really don’t want to pick up that phone.

-

I’ve been sitting here for so long. There’s no hidden doors. No hidden cameras as far as I can tell.

There’s only the constant ring. My stomach turns just thinking about answering it. I’ve actually tried several times to get the nerve up, but I started pouring sweat and my heart was pounding so bad, I was afraid of having a heart attack.
Can dead people have heart attacks?

-

I can’t sleep. The phone doesn’t stop. I tried to unplug it, but there’s no wires running to it. It shouldn’t be ringing, but it is.
If I don’t pick up that phone, I might be stuck in here forever. But  if I do pick it up, I may go somewhere worse.

-

The phone finally stops. I can hear myself breathing in the silence. Oh my God… it actually feels peaceful. The light overhead starts to flicker. It makes a series of angry buzzes until it eventually just goes out. The darkness and the total silence is too much. I open my mouth. I’m quiet.

“Please… somebody help me… please.”

There is an answer. 
The phone starts ringing again.

-

My heart is pounding as I fumble around for the receiver. I have to do this. 
You can do this, Shelby.
I pick it up and hold it to my ear.

“Hello… hello… is anyone there… hello…”

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone, Shelby?!We’ve been trying to contact you forever!” It’s an annoyed male voice. He has me on speaker. It sounds like he’s in an office. Phones are ringing and other people are talking in the background.

“Who is this?”

“Wow. Seriously?”

“What?”

“That sounded a little rude.”

“I’m… I’m sorry. I just was…”

“Did you want to keep talking, Shelby, or would you like me to help you?” His words are clipped. His tone is terse. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Please stop talking.”

…

…

…

“Okay… I just have a few questions for you if you’ll be polite enough to let me speak. We decide where you go from here. ”

“Where I go?” He sighs. I need to shut up. Why did I ask that?!

…

…

“Yes, Shelby. We’re like… uh, triage.”

“What… um… what is that?”

“You don’t know what triage is?” He’s smiling. I can hear it. He’s got that, “Are you really that stupid?!” tone in his voice. He covers the phone with his hand on his end and whispers “...everybody ...she doesn’t even know what triage means…” I hear stifled laughter. Snorts and sniffles. A quiet female voice asks, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I’m soaked in sweat. The phone almost slips out of my hand so I push it hard against my face, and I can hear my own sweaty ear squish against the receiver. The laughter keeps going. I want to say something, but I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“You know what, Shelby… I’m uh… nevermind... I’m going to have to give you a call back… this isn’t looking good.” 

“No, wait! Please!” He breaks out in a howl before the phone goes dead in my hand. 

-

It’s so cold in here. So dark.

This is my fault. I fucked up.
It’s been days. No. Weeks.
I wish the phone would ring.
Is it ever going to ring again?

So, my daughter has been begging for a dog for several months, and a few weeks ago I finally relented. I went to this shelter that was a bit out of the way run by this extremely pale bald gentleman.

I told him I wasn't looking for a project, just something cute and easy to train. He didn't speak, didn't even blink once, he just outstretched his bony hand to the door and out popped a handler.

That dude had this weird velvet cloak with scribbles all over the lining, and he was also hairless and shockingly pale. In his hands was a small coal black pup that had barely opened its eyes. I snatched the pupper from him, it felt unusually warm, almost feverish. But it opened its eyes, foggy glass bulbs that seemed full of life.

It squeaked out a yawn and licked my palm; it's little nub of tail hitting my arm.

"Is this one satisfactory?" The first bald man hissed at me. I nodded and brought out my wallet, but he held up a hand in protest. "One does not pay with money. In due time we will take what is owed."

Well, I had never heard of getting a dog on a payment plan but if it gave me time to scrounge up some dough I wasn't going to complain. I had a little bed for the pup in my sedan and sat him comfortably in the passenger side.

It took about an hour to get home, and it's the darndest thing. I looked over at the little fella, and I swear he seemed a bit bigger.

In fact, he was using that little doggy bed as a pillow, his long, brawny legs sliding off the side. An ear twitched and he raised is head with a guttural groan. His coat seemed darker, like looking into the blighted eye of a black hole. His eyes were a sea foam pale, marbles really.

I blinked at the thing, dumbfounded. He was just really small to hold. Like an optical illusion. He tilted his head and barked, the sharp tone startling me a bit.

Obviously, I was having second thoughts about all this, but I refused to let my little girl down.

The dog burst out of the car and ran right towards Becca's ear-piercing cheer. Even from the car it stabbed me right in the brain. The dog regarded Becca with an almost human level of curiosity, sniffing her up and down. Finally, he sat, perched on the ground towering over her like a stone gargoyle.

Becca could barely wrap her arms around his burly physique. The dog rested his drooling maw on her shoulders. She looked at me, tears of joy springing from her hazel eyes.

"Oh, daddy he's wonderful!" She could barely contain her happiness. I faked a smile to hide my unease at the dog's sudden growth spurt.

"Only the best for you, Jellybean. You pick out a name?" I asked. She opened her mouth for a fraction of a second to respond then froze. She leaned her ear closer to the dog, like he was whispering to her. A ridiculous notion I know but still. Finally, she looked at me, a wide gleeful grin on her chubby face.

"He says he has a name. It's Braxton Murkwater, scourge hound of the nine hells. He says we can call him Brax for short." I nodded and patted Brax on the head. She was always so imaginative.

Life with Brax got weird fast, it was the little thing you know?

He never went to the bathroom; He'd drag Becca up and down the street for an hour or so doing nothing but patrol until he grew bored and dragged her back inside. He would barely touch his wet food, not even when I threw in a hot dog for good measure.

He would cling to Becca's side; I'd hear soft growls whenever I went near her.

"He's just protective daddy, he says it's all part of the pact." Becca would attempt to reassure, which sounded maddening.

The final straw was when I let him out to play in the yard, and he instantly spotted a bunny. He sprinted towards it, galloping almost, and snatched the screeching creature, leaving nothing but a bloody patch of grass.

Brax titled his head upwards, the poor bunny still struggling in his maw. His glass eyes rolled back as he began to consume the doomed critter. He forced it down his gullet, I could see the scrunched outline of the thing scratching his bulging throat as he choked it down whole.

I looked on horrified, and I couldn't believe it when Brax turned to me, his sagging, frothing jowls flapping in the breeze.

I could swear he smiled at me, and then he squeaked at me with the dying cries of the rabbit he had slaughtered.

After that he pushed past me and trudged back inside, Becca welcomed him in with open arms. They went off together, Becca said something about Brax needing her help fulfilling the pact. I should have stopped her, instead I called the shelter.

"Yesss Mr. Buntley?" A slithering voice cooed from the receiver.

"How did- Listen you need to take this dog back, he's too much." I begged.

"I'm sorry Mr. Buntley, I'm afraid all sales are final. No refunds, as it were." The voice mocked.

"I didn't even pay anything for him!" I screeched.

"Didn't you?" The voice chuckled. The phone fell from my hand as the realization hit me like a truck. I charged upstairs, calling Becca's name. She was nowhere to be seen in her room.

"Becca! Becca where are you?!?" I sounded like a mad man, tearing her room apart.

Then I heard her voice from behind.

"I'm right here dad." My blood froze, and I slowly turned. Brax stood there, blood still dripping from his snout.

"I'm right here." the hellhound mocked. "And I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Once upon a time, we were outside playing fetch. It was a sunny day, but the wind was cold. Sadie was a good girl. She sleeped in my bed, and we were best friends. Mama used to say that Sadie was an angel God sent down for us after daddy passed.

The backyard is big but I can't throw very far. Sadie didn't mind. We hanged out back there for hours sometimes after school. I was out there throwing the stick and I threw it as hard as I could, and the wind came blowing through like I never seen before. The wind must have been picking up storm clouds that day. It brung something black like smoke. The smoke was thick and it looked like it had lightning in it. It grabbed up my stick after I threw it and took it super far into the air.

The stick flew away, and Sadie bolted off to catch it. She ran toward the old creaky gate that mama doesn't let me go by. The one that leads out into the front yard. She says it's bound to fall over any day now, it isn't safe. Sadie ran toward the gate and then something really weird happened. It looked like there was a man made of the same smoke that was taking my stick away on the other side of the gate. His face was a shadow. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt like he was looking at me. He seemed excited. I heard a sound that sounded like somebody chuckling, and the gate swung open on its own.

Sadie ran for the stick, but it just kept going. I was yelling for her to stop. It was like she couldn't hear me. It flew higher than Mr. Brady's old oak tree. Eventually the stick made it out over the street, and Sadie was right behind it. She ran out into the road. She didn't look both ways and a fast car came by and gobbled her up. The car was a shade of green that made me feel like I did when mommy and daddy would fight about him drinking.

Mama says that isn't what happened. But she didn't see it like I did. The front part of the car dropped to the ground as it passed. It had one of those scoop thingies that daddy had on his car before the accident, and it scooped Sadie up under her legs. She tumbled after the hit. The car was moving really really fast, so I only saw its mouth for a second as she disappeared into its teeth. There was so many. The car didn't even slow down. One second she was there, and the next she was gone.

Mama says it was just an accident. She says people's pets get hit by cars all the time. But if Sadie really just got hit by a car, then why can't they find her body?

​The "Echo" virus swallowed the world in less than three weeks. Unlike Hollywood clichés, the infected didn't have rotting skin, decayed brains, or milk-white eyes; they looked completely normal on the outside, except for one nightmarish trait: being locked into their last pleasant memory.

​Before its total collapse, the World Health Organization announced that this pathogen hijacks the motor skills and control of the cerebral cortex, but leaves consciousness and perception completely intact.

This means:

​Your body turns into a ruthless, toxic killing machine.

​Your mind remains imprisoned in a corner of your skull, watching all your body's atrocities in absolute horror.

Your vocal cords involuntarily and continuously repeat a single cheerful, nostalgic sentence.

​My little sister, Sara, got infected last night. She is now cowering in a dark corner of the room, staring at me with terrified eyes, whispering in a soft voice:

​"Mom, look how high I'm going on the swing without anyone pushing me!"

​But her hands... her hands reach for my throat with superhuman strength. Her nails tear through the skin of my neck. I press the barrel of the gun against her forehead. I see the begging in her tearful eyes; inside the fleshy prison of her body, she is screaming at me to pull the trigger. Yet her mouth still smiles, saying: "Look how high it goes..."

-Shot-

​The room falls into silence.

​I collapse to the floor. A sharp, stinging burn ripples through my body. It takes me a moment to notice my slight bleeding.

​Suddenly, my jaw muscles contract. An involuntary smile spreads across my lips. My mouth opens, and in a voice I no longer control, I whisper:

​"Happy birthday, Sara, come blow out the candles..."

Thump. Thump. 

“Aargh!” Again. I screamed into my pillow in frustration. Every fucking night. 

I met my new roommate six months ago; my previous roommate left without warning and I had to find someone quickly or be responsible for the entire rent myself. I didn’t know this guy, but he seemed decent enough the night we met, his previous landlord spoke well of him, and he had the money and could move in the next week, so we shook and it was done. 

Everything seemed fine, at first. He kept to himself, kept his space clean, and paid his share of the rent and bills on time. My previous roommate hadn’t done any of those, so it was great to not have those issues anymore.

Then things started to get weird. He was never around during the day. Like, never. He explained that he works a job where he’s out of cell range, but I’ve literally never seen him when it’s light outside. 

He also never ate in public. In fact, I once tried to peek at his food; it ended with a stern lecture about boundaries and a locked refrigerator for his room. He was private, I get it, but it seemed excessive. Maybe he came from a history of food insecurity? I hear that people like that can be really protective of their food. 

And what was with his wardrobe? I literally never saw him in anything except black. Like, I got the whole goth scene, but come on. It wouldn’t have so bad if he hadn’t been so freaking pale. I invited him to the beach with me, even gave him a gift certificate to a tanning place, but he got weird about it, like he was freaked out or something. 

And you know what? All that would have been fine - being weird is no crime, it’s L.A., after all - if it hadn’t been for the fucking noise. Every night, at 3am, I’d hear noises from his room. Loud, thumping noises, like he was throwing a rave or banging around in his room. I’d even heard what sounded like screaming a few times. I’m all for screaming along to music - we’ve all been there, believe me, I could tell you some stories - but 3am? Some of us have to get up for work in the morning. 

I even saw someone come running out of his room one night when I was coming back from the bathroom. She was holding her neck and darted out with a panicked, crazed look on her face. I looked into his room; he was laid out on the floor, looking barely conscious. That must have been some trip - whatever they were having, I kind of wanted some. But I wasn’t a kid anymore - I had to be responsible. 

Being responsible blows. 

In short, he wasn’t the best roommate, even if he was an otherwise decent guy. But the fact was, it was becoming a problem. I had to do something. 

I visited the landlord and explained the issues. By the time I finished, he had a strange expression on his face. Unfortunately, he said, there was nothing he could do, but he did know someone who might be able to help. Apparently they specialized in getting rid of problem roommates like this. He gave me their card with a knowing look - I took it and smiled gratefully.

When I got back to my apartment, I looked at the card. “VH Removal Services - Getting rid of problem guests for 129 years.” I’d never heard of them, but they had good reviews so I decided to call. A young lady picked up on the first ring. “VH Removal Services - We understand the stakes and will shine a light on your problem guests. How can I help you?”

When I explained my problem to her, she said she’d heard others like it.

“Can you help?”

“Absolutely, sir. It sounds like our Stage Two Removal Service would be the best fit.”

“How much will that cost? I’m not exactly rich.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We work with our clients to arrange a payment plan they can afford. We don’t do this for the money - we see it as providing a needed service. We’ve been doing it since 1897 and have never received a complaint.”

“That sounds fantastic. Let’s do it.”

“Wonderful, sir! Now, a few things to know…”

The next day I called my parents and asked if I could come visit for a few days. They immediately said yes - Mom had been trying to get me to visit for a while now. “I guess you’re too busy in the big city to come visit your old parents,” she always said. Two birds, one stone. 

I entered my apartment three days later. It was spotless, even cleaner than before I left. Every piece of furniture was cleaned, every appliance sparkled like new. And my roommate was gone. All his stuff was cleared out; I guess he left in a hurry. There were even special lights installed throughout the house - they were brighter than the old ones, and VH Removal said they were more energy efficient and better for the environment; win-win. The only thing I did find was a spot of peculiar dust behind a dresser; I had no idea what it was from, but it vacuumed right up. VH really killed it: five stars on Google for sure. 

Of course, I still need another roommate. But this time, I’m being more careful. Multiple meetings to set expectations, conversations to determine compatibility. I even have a solid lead - we had a great dinner meeting, laughed and shared stories. It’s weird how he eats his steak - so bloody it’s almost raw - but to each his own, right? Things are looking up. 

The lesson I learned from all of this? Always vet prospective roommates carefully. It’s annoying, but it’s worth it. Bad roommates suck. 

So far, our neighborhood’s Fourth of July celebration was a disaster.

There were flies buzzing around the funnel cake again.

Joshua, my brother, thought he was slick.

I could see his fingerprints in the patriot cake, frosting covering his sheepish smile.

Still, it was a good turnout. 

Half of the neighborhood. 

“Josh!” I hissed, startling my brother, who immediately twisted around and pretended he wasn't raw-dawging half the dessert section. I grabbed a patriot cupcake already melting through my fingers.

I stuffed the sticky mess into his mouth.

“If you're so damn hungry, eat these. Nobody else is eating them.”

Joshua shot me a sickly grin, spitting out the cupcake into a bright red napkin. 

“Yeah.” He pulled a face, swiping his lips. Because they're filled with raisins,” he rolled his eyes, “whoever made these monstrosities hates America.”

His gaze briefly found my outfit. “What are you wearing?”  

I stared down at my star-spangled dress. So patriotic, so fucking loud, I almost felt nauseous wearing it. It was a little big on me, pooling at my feet, sticking to my clammy skin. Instead of responding, I choked down guilt creeping up my throat. “Joshua—”

“Mom's dress.” Joshua’s smile bled away. “Jesus, Camrie.” He twisted back to the dessert table, still smiling, still performing.

His hands shook, curling into fists. “Maybe you forgot, since you apparently have the memory of a goldfish,” he snatched up a fruit slice and stuffed it into his mouth. 

I noticed a fly creeping across cream cheese. 

“Mom tried to kill us, Camrie,” he said through a mouthful. 

“In fact!” He laughed. “It's the fifth anniversary of her trying to plunge a knife in my skull!” 

“Keep it down.” I smiled through my teeth. 

Joshua’s eyes were unusually dark. He was still chewing, swallowing painfully slowly, bright red frosting coating his lips.

“You’re wearing Mom’s dress.”

His mouth quirked. I could see him splintering. “You've invited her.” 

“Who's invited Mom?” Jasper, our older brother joined us, out of breath, snatching up a cupcake. 

A lone fly sat atop a fresh strawberry.

Jasper didn't notice, of course, demolishing it in one bite.

“Yo.” He grinned through a particularly mushy bite. “You two look like you're having fun,” he teased, cramming another cupcake. “Damn. These are good!”

Joshua folded his arms, always the judgmental brother. He was still eating. I didn't even notice him continuing his assault on the funnel cakes. My brothers were acting like they hadn't eaten in a fucking decade. “Camrie.” He announced, “tell our dear brother that you've RUINED July fourth.” 

“That's an exaggeration,” I said, “can you two STOP stuffing yourselves for five seconds?” 

Both of them frowned at me with frosting-covered mouths.

Joshua spluttered. “You're too forgiving. Mom tried to kill us multiple times.”

Jasper nodded, his gaze lazily creeping towards another cupcake. 

“I agree,” he muttered. “You two probably don't remember.” 

I did remember. 

Darkness. 

Screaming. 

And being so hungry that I felt hollow, cavernous, like my belly was swallowing me up. “Mommy,” I remembered my own wail rattling my skull, my agonizing thoughts. Why was she doing this?

What did I do wrong? 

Were we bad children? 

Did she hate us? 

All those nights sitting against the door, my knees pulled to my chest. 

Every thought became denial, and then acceptance, then denial again.

Acceptance tasted like rot. 

Jasper swallowed down another bite of cupcake, mulling it around in his mouth.

“She locked us in the garage for months.” My brother’s eyes grew dark, like he could remember every moment. Every pitch-dark night, throwing ourselves against the door.  We begged her to let us out.

Cried. 

Screamed. 

Sobbed. 

Jasper’s voice softened. “You two only survived because I managed to find us scraps to eat.” 

“Nothing fresh,” Joshua mumbled, turning a cupcake around his hand.

He took an uncertain bite. “My point is, Camrie is wearing the exact dress our mother wore when she tried to jam a knife through my skull five years ago.” 

I tasted some fruity pizza.

The taste of melted sugar slammed into me, filling me with relief. Pride.

Stupid, naive performative patriotism.

Joshua was right. 

I didn't care about July 4th. 

I was just performing for the neighbors, wearing the facade of a perfectly normal American family. “I'm going to talk to her.” I announced through a mouthful. I pulled Jasper into a hug, wincing at the stink of him. 

“Ew.” I retracted. “Have you been stewing in a dumpster?”

A horde of festivalgoers swarmed behind us. 

Jasper grinned. “With some friends.” 

I left my brother's to tear apart the desserts, catapulting my legs into a sprint.

Mommy was waiting for me at her door. Her gun directly between my eyes.

Mom's clothes were filthy, stained, hollow eyes widening when she saw me.

Mom didn't even hesitate. “Leave me alone,” she told me, tears filling her eyes.

“Please, Camrie,” she reloaded with shaking hands I so desperately wanted to hold. “Leave Mommy alone.” 

“Mom.” I held up my hands, slowly walking toward her.

“Where are your brothers, Camrie?”

“Why do you… hate me?” I demanded.

“Baby.” Mom’s voice rose into a cry. “Baby, I WILL shoot you.” 

“For FUCK sake, Angela.” A voice came from behind her.

Ian.

He’d been living with Mom for a while now.

“Jesus fucking Christ, give me the gun.” 

“Just her, not my boys,” Mom whimpered, her head between her knees. “I can't look at my baby anymore.”

“All right.” Ian pointed the gun at my face, lips curling. “Why not just take the whole street of zombies out?” 

"They always come back," Mom whispered. "Every July 4th."

Ian strode over to me, sticking his gun into my forehead, and something inside me snapped. He didn't smell good, like Mom. 

Ian smelled different. 

“Look at the pretty flowers, kid,” he grumbled, jerking my head with the barrel. 

“But… mom…” my jaw moved slowly, cupcake mush dripping down my chin. “Mommy—” 

Ian stabbed harder. “Look at the flowers.” 

“Ned. You need to go get checked out.”

“Carl, I can’t. I can work.”

“Ned, you’re burnin’ up, man. I can’t have you on the factory floor like this. You’ve already used your two sick days. I’m sorry man. My ass is on the line. I have to refer you to a Mike. I’m sorry.”

“I’m 43, Carl. I work here. I don’t want to go out this way.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice.”

-

I miss doctors. I miss a lot of things. I’ve been sick for the last three days, and now that Carl has put my name into the system, I have an hour to check in with a Mike before a warrant is put out.

Everybody hurries about their business on the street. Gotta look productive. People give me a wide berth as I walk by, coughing and looking like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.
The closest Mike sits on the corner of Fifth and Elm. I’ve never had to use one. When I’ve been sick in the past, I’ve been able to hide it, but as the years and the mileage have worn on me, it's gotten to the point where hiding illness is no longer an option.

I say a silent prayer to an invisible man in the sky that everything works out, which is far more preferable to trusting in the corporate digital gods we’ve all surrendered to. 

The unit is a silver rectangular box that reminds me of a refrigerator. I miss those too. I miss when food was more than just protein mash delivered in exact portions to your apartment through pneumatic tubes.

The words, “Medical Intelligence Kiosk” are written on both sides in white reflective letters. The screen is grimy. I don’t want to touch it. I find the cleanest looking spot and bump it with my fist. A digitized smiling face lights up the screen and a soothing voice comes through the speakers.

“Hello, I’m Mike , brought to you by Merica Medical, a division of the People's Government of Merica. Go Merica! Can I have your name please?”

“Ned Myers.”

“Good morning there, Ned! Please insert your hand into the receiving slot.” I stare at the open slot. A green strip of light outlines it. There’s no way outta this. I also know what happens if this goes bad, but I don’t have a choice. I stick my left hand in the slot past my wrist and I feel a cuff inside gently close in around my wrist. 

“Thank you Ned. According to your biometric data, you are indeed Ned Myers. Thank you so much for your honesty, Ned!”

The lips on the digital face don’t quite match up to the audio. It’s putting me on edge.

“Whoa there Ned! Looks like you’ve got an elevated heart rate. There’s no reason to fret. Please try to remain calm while I continue to process your data.”

Some of the people passing by are looking at me. They’re seeing my color. The sweat that’s broken out on my forehead. They don’t look too long. No one wants to see someone having a bad day at a Mike. I feel the tiny prick on my left index finger and a graphic of a turning bloody hourglass comes on the screen.
After watching the hourglass turn for a few minutes, I feel the cuff cinch down on my wrist to the point of cutting off circulation. I can’t pull free.

“Well Ned, I have some bad news.” 

I knew it. Shit! I start unbuckling my belt. 

“You have tested positive for Bsats- 23. I have determined that your chances of survival even after vaccination is a mere 65%. Unfortunately based on your age, station,  and your credit savings you are ineligible for the new vaccine, brought to you by Merica Medical! Go Merica!”

Once I have the belt free, I loop it around my left forearm. Sweat is pouring into my eyes. Damn it! Stay focused, Ned!

“A Collections Unit will be here in eight minutes to assist you. Merica Medical would like to thank you for being a super productive citizen for the last 43 years! Good job, Ned!” A graphic of party poppers fills the screen and a soundbyte of applause comes out of the speakers. 
I cinch the belt down as tight as I can. I can feel my heartbeat traveling down my arm.

“Please remain calm, Ned. Collection comes for all citizens. Why don’t we listen to the number one viral hit from the day you were born while you wait.”

“Bad Day”, by Daniel Powter begins, because of course it had to get worse. I see that seven hundred credits have been deducted from my account for the play. 

When the belt is secure, I pull the band saw blade out of my waist band; my parting gift that I liberated from the factory I’ve worked in for the last twenty years. I take a deep breath and I go to work.

“Ned, your heart rate is still quite high. Is the song not doing the trick?”

“Fuck you!” I spit the words through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry Ned, but 2,000 credits have now been deducted from your account for the use of blatant profanity. Your available credit limit is now negative 300 credits.”

It’s an old blade. Flimsy and dull. I’m only two thirds through the bone when it craps out. The people on the street are now watching with their mouths open and their cameras out. I throw the blade down and bring my fist down on my left forearm over and over.

“Ned, please remain calm.” 

The arm cracks louder and louder with each blow, until the little bit of bone that I couldn’t cut finally gives, and I’m free. 

Mike’s voice fades behind me as I stagger away, desperately trying to figure out what to do next.

“Thank you for using Mike by Merica Medical. Go Merica!”

I don’t like going to the doctor.
It always turns into more than it should.
The headache started three days ago.
Dull. Constant.
I’ve taken more Advil than I should. It doesn’t help.
Today, it’s worse.
It feels like my head will split.
So—
I caved.
3 p.m.
Dr. Sternbeck
I hate it. But I need it.

Brooke recommended Dr. Sternbeck.
She saw him last month for back pain.
When she left his clinic, she said she felt like a different person.
Fresh. Pain-free.
He gave her a pill. One week.
One follow-up.
Then he told her she was cured.
The pain hasn’t come back.
She says he’s a renowned pain specialist. The best in the city.
Any pain, she says,
he can cure.

Of course, I’m skeptical.
Any pain?
A week of pills and two visits?
Still, I’m desperate.
If Brooke trusts him, I’ll try it.
I stand outside Dr. Sternbeck’s practice.
Lux Street. Small sign. Tinted glass door.
Easy to miss.
I think about the cost. A month of groceries, probably.
But right now,
I’d pay anything to make this headache stop.

Inside, it’s dim.
Not the bright lights I expected.
The waiting room is empty.
No receptionist. Just a desk.
A small bell.
I ring it.
A door opens to the right.
A short man in a white coat steps out. Glasses. Thin smile.
“I’m Dr. Sternbeck.”
He shakes my hand. Leads me down the hall.
His office feels off.
Too empty. Too open.
He gestures toward the reclined chair in the center.
I sit.
And start explaining the headache.

I feel like I’m rambling.
The more I talk, the worse the headache gets.
Dr. Sternbeck moves behind me.
Every so often—
an “uh-hm,” a question.
Then he steps into view with a tray.
A syringe. A vial.
He says this isn’t a normal headache. Not a migraine.
Ashygor… something.
He draws a clear liquid into the syringe.
Says this will fix it.
Just a pinch. Like a vaccine.
His voice is calm. His eyes steady.
And right now, I just want relief.
I nod.

The next thing I know, I’m outside.
A plastic bag in my hand.
A bottle of pills.
A note. Instructions. A date and time for next week.
Then—
it hits me.
The headache. The pressure battering my skull. The constant hum.
Gone.
I grip the bag.
I smile for the first time in days.
My eyes sting.

Over the next week, I take the pills exactly as instructed.
One each night.
The headache doesn’t come back.
Now I’m standing outside the clinic again.
For the checkup.

Like last time, the waiting room is empty. No receptionist.
I know the drill now.
Dr. Sternbeck greets me. Leads me down the hall. His office. Same as before.
I tell him the pain is gone. Thank him.
He nods.
One more injection, he says. Then it’s gone for good.
I smile and offer my arm.

The next thing I know—
I’m not outside.
Not in his office. Not in the waiting room.
I’m lying down.
Naked.
Dark. Brick walls. Torches.
I try to move.
Chains.
A sound to my left—
I turn.
Dr. Sternbeck.
Black robe. Hood up. Face hidden.
“Finally,” he says.
“You’re the one we’ve been waiting for. The one he chose.”

I struggle.
I scream.
He ignores me. Circles.
I strain to follow him. I can barely move.
Suddenly—
Footsteps.
More people enter. Black robes. Hoods up. They surround me.
Dr. Sternbeck starts chanting. The others follow.
A language I don’t understand.
Their voices drown mine out.
Then—
something shifts behind me.
A low rumble.
I force my head back.
A shape in the dark. Too large.
Eyes first. Red.
Then the outline—
Horns.
The chanting grows louder.
Dr. Sternbeck steps closer.
“Hundreds of women. None fit. The doses, the pills. He rejected them all. But you— Your blood…”
He smiles.
“It changed. Adapted. Perfectly.”
The thing behind me exhales.
Hot. Close.
Eager.

"Want to know how I lost my sight?"

"Oh, that's too personal."

"Buy me another drink and I'll tell you."

The barman stops polishing the wine glass. "Don't you think you've had enough, Jacques?"

"I'll get you another, but you don't have to tell me."

"You don't want to know?"

"I must confess: I'm curious."

"Double when you're ready, Albert."

The barman sighs. "I thought we agreed, Jacques: not that story. Not anymore."

"He's a good kid, Albert. He listens."

"Does he have any choice?"

Albert the barman takes Jacques' hand and wraps his arthritic fingers around the glass. The blind old man takes a sip of the antiseptic-smelling liquid.

"Night just like this. No-one else in here. Rain coming down so hard you could hear it slapping into the alleyway. But warm, like tonight."

"Here we go again."

"Guy walks in, sits at the far end of the bar. Walk that says leave me alone, stink to match. Drinks the bar. Puts it away like water. Chain-smoker. Didn't trust ashtrays."

Albert snorts as he places the still-murky wine glass next to the green beer light.

"Pays cash with clean notes in smashed up fingers, worse than mine. Pulling them out of his mended overcoat, head down, smoking into his ratty old jumper. Pushing forty but looks more my age."

"Anyhow, we're just about used to his stink when a woman walks in. Way past closing time."

"She was tall with cheekbones sharp enough to cut your heartstrings. White summer dress, golden hair down to her waist. Dry as tinder."

"But you said it was raining."

"A monsoon. No umbrella, coat, nothing, but not a drop on her."

"She floats by and I pick up her scent: wild meadows, sea-salt and pine."

Albert stops cleaning, his eyes glazed with tears. "Vanilla and clementines too, I'd say. But yeah, pine. Like a forest."

"In the second or two it took her to walk past, I re-experience my first kiss, score my first goal, get my first pay packet and eat a Sunday roast with my departed mother. She walks straight up to the stranger, kisses him on the cheek and leads him out by the hand. Albert and I follow them into the rain but the road is deserted. We peer round the corner into the alleyway and see her holding him like a mother holds a newborn. Last thing I saw before the light."

"The light?"

"Brighter than anything you can imagine. Like a pillar of Heaven. Within it, a nebula."

"A nebula?"

"Each speck of stardust, the soul of everyone I've ever loved or will ever love. And then darkness," says Jacques, his wet eyes reflecting the beer light.

"Felt like I'd been waiting my whole life for that moment," Albert the barman says, running his fingers over the bottles beneath the optics. He finds the one he wants and pours himself a glass without spilling a drop.

"It was almost worth it."

Macky always carried around a switchblade.

It had a leather wrist strap for easy carry. He never flashed it in front of the cops—he was too smart for that—but his wallet was heavy enough to afford a bribe if one of them happened to see him.

His wallet remained this heavy despite him having no regular job, and despite his lavish apartment downtown.

Conveniently, whenever there was a disappearance around the city—and there were often—Macky’s finances would take a bump.

No bodies were ever found. That meant no fingerprints, no hard evidence tying Macky to the crimes. He had been questioned by the police once and they left drunk, wealthier, and raving about how good of a guy Macky was.

But everyone told everyone to stay clear of him.

He divided his time between his apartment, the bar, and his tugboat moored in the river. The water was polluted with runoff from a factory, clouded and full of any trash the wind felt like blowing down. Most of it was Macky’s. No one, not even the beat cops, had the balls to say anything when he would drop a cigarette but or a fast food wrapper on the ground.

One day, Macky disappeared.

The cops searched for days. Eventually they trawled that polluted river. Everyone who was on duty that day has since resigned.

They found Macky, indeed. They also found ten cement-footed bodies, skinned from head to toe. Dental records were able to solve seven local cold cases and a few nationwide ones too. The causes of death were determined to be drowning; they had been skinned and submerged alive.

College student Lucy Brown was the freshest corpse. She was also the only one whose arms were not bound behind her back.

Clenched tightly in her degloved hand was Macky’s knife, wrist strap digging into the muscle of her skinless arm. Macky must have taken it off to flay her more easily and she’d seized her chance when he moved to redo her bindings.

The blade had been driven deep into his eye socket at an angle, hooking him but avoiding the brain.

He had drowned staring at the mess of muscle and bone that was once Lucy’s face.

My wife and I had accumulated a monstrous amount of debt over the years. Even though we both worked full-time, we were now at risk of losing the house, along with everything we had built over the last ten years.
 
That’s what led me walking into the woods in search of a cottage. After talking to some old-timers at the bar about my troubles, they told me an old wives’ tale about a witch who—more than likely—was just a hermit looking for peace and quiet, but supposedly granted wishes to people… for a price.
 
So now I was drunkenly stumbling through the woods when I finally saw a faint yellow glow. Following it led me to a small, rundown cottage.
 
On nothing but liquid courage, I walked up and gave the door three firm knocks.
 
The door swung open by itself on the third knock.
 
I crossed the threshold and entered.
 
I was instantly hit by the humidity, almost unbearable, followed by the strong smell of herbs. It almost masked the underlying damp dog aroma.
 
“What do you want?”
 
The voice made me jump.
 
It was quiet, but firm.
 
Perched in a worn leather chair in the corner sat a truly horrid sight.
 
An elderly woman.
 
Large.
 
One cataract-filled eye.
 
The other missing entirely, leaving nothing but an empty socket.
 
She smiled, revealing one singular tooth like an infant’s. Drool ran down her chin.
 
“What do you want?” she repeated.
 
Stuttering after seeing her ghastly features, I finally managed,
 
“I… I heard you might be able to clear my debt.”
 
There was a long pause before she replied,
 
“I can… but I require payment.”
 
I opened my mouth to ask how much, but she quickly added,
 
“For this transaction… I require one sound tooth.”
 
The words caused her to spray spit across my cheek.
 
I weighed it up.
 
Moments of pain for the peace of mind that having my debt cleared would give me.
 
“Deal,” I said confidently.
 
She smiled coldly at my acceptance.
 
Expecting her to hand me some sort of tool so I could do the deed myself, I was horrified when she suddenly rushed me with unexpected speed.
 
Before I knew it, her yellow-stained fingers were in my mouth.
 
The ripping of the tooth from its root was nothing short of agonising.
 
She held it up to the light before telling me,
 
“Transaction complete.”
 
“You may leave.”
 
It was hard explaining to my wife why I had blood trickling down my chin, but a simple,
 
“I fell over drunk,”
 
was good enough to satisfy her.
 
The next morning my debt was gone.
 
A private buyer had settled every penny.
 
I rushed to tell my wife, but she only gave a faint smile before returning to her book.
 
It had worked.
 
I floated around on cloud nine for several hours before looking around the small four walls of our apartment.
 
That was the night I returned to the cottage.
 
“What do you want?”
 
“I want a large house,” I replied.
 
She thought for a moment before saying,
 
“That will cost the memory of the first time you met your wife.”
 
I thought about it for only a moment.
 
“Deal.”
 
I didn’t even think it had been a particularly good memory.
 
Again, she stood before me and placed her hand against my temples.
 
A blinding pain seared through my mind.
 
Blood oozed from my nose and eyes.
 
“Transaction complete.”
 
I hurried home.
 
The next morning I was woken by a knock at the door.
 
A solicitor informed me I’d inherited a large estate from an estranged uncle.
 
We moved in a few weeks later.
 
Overjoyed, I asked my wife what she thought.
 
“It’s nice,” she replied in a flat, monotone voice.
 
I was addicted.
 
I could give us whatever we wanted.
 
Before long, I found myself back at the cottage, face to face with the witch.
 
“I want an immeasurable amount of wealth.”
 
It took her only seconds to reply.
 
“That will cost you Ben.”
 
My smile faltered.
 
Ben was our ten-year-old German Shepherd.
 
I quickly composed myself.
 
Thought of the bigger picture.
 
“Deal.”
 
She didn’t respond.
 
She simply smiled.
 
When I got home…
 
Ben was gone.
 
After putting up flyers to appease my wife, we slowly carried on with life, although I still feel guilty, not knowing what exactly happened does make me sleep better at night.  I picture him happy, as far fetched as that is.
 
We now had everything we needed.
 
But that still didn’t fill the void in my wife’s heart.
 
She cried almost constantly.
 
She lost interest in everyone and everything.
 
I hated seeing her like this.
 
She deserved to be happy.
 
And I knew one way to make that happen.
 
I made my final journey to see the witch.
 
Walking in with confidence, I spoke before she could.
 
“I want you to make my wife happy.”
 
She leaned back.
 
I could almost see her mind working.
 
Calculating.
 
Several long minutes passed before she finally said, almost gleefully,
 
“That will cost you… your firstborn.”
 
I chuckled.
 
“Deal.”
 
“Transaction complete.”
 
She didn’t know the reason we were in so much debt in the first place was because we’d spent an ungodly amount on fertility treatments.
 
IVF treatments.
 
Doctor consultations.
 
Specialists.
 
Every single one of them told us the same thing.
 
My wife was infertile.
 
The ride home was filled with joy.
 
I’d finally gotten a free wish.
 
I’d finally bested the witch.
 
As I pulled into the driveway, I saw the front door burst open.
 
My wife came running towards me before tripping and falling.
 
I jumped out of the car and rushed to help her.
 
She was crying.
 
No…
 
She was hysterical.
 
But this wasn’t the same crying I’d grown used to over the last few months.
 
This wasn’t filled with sadness.
 
Or quiet acceptance.
 
This was pure joy.
 
“Honey…”
 
“Honey, I’m so happy.”
 
“It’s a miracle.”
 
“Our prayers have finally been answered…”
 
“I’m…”
 
“No…”
 
“We’re pregnant.”

One night, when I was alone, the only time I was ever by myself at home. My parents were called to the pizza shop they owned. There had been a problem and left me sleeping, I was twelve at the time. So, they decided to just go and take care of the shop. My father‘s English wasn’t good. My mom translated for him.

I had woken up to a noise, it sounded like something rolling. But, when I woke up, I stared at my doll that was next me. She wasn’t there before. But, I couldn’t be sure. So, I got up and went to the washroom. After about five minutes, while I was sitting on the toilet, I could hear this tapping sound in the hallway leading towards me. The tapping became louder. I could hear it right outside of the bathroom door. Then, a light knock. Like a finger nail tapping a steady rhythm on a desk. 

I stayed quiet. The tapping persisted. Then, I heard a voice. “Mommy.”

My eyes shot open. The hairs on my arms rose. My legs started shaking. But, my body was completely paralyzed. I was frozen, except for the tremors controlling my limbs. 

Right away, I looked at the bathroom door.

The door was unlocked. Then, I seen the knob slowly start to take motion. I shot up and flicked the lock on the doorknob and sat with my back against the door until the next morning.

I woke up to my mom and dad yelling for me. As soon as I heard their voices, I raced out of that bathroom and wrapped my arms around my mom and told her what happened.

See said it was just my imagination. Later on when I went to my room. My doll was on the floor. When I went to pick her up. I noticed under the bed, there was a screwdriver lying on the floor, right next to her.

“Daddy, Daddy, I’m back!”

I reached down to pick up my daughter Irina at the school bus stop right after she climbed down. She just started kindergarten, and I still missed having her at home every day. 

“How was your first day, sweetheart?”

“Awesome! I met a bunch of other kids, and we colored in coloring books, and we had recess, and we had nap time, and the teacher gave us cookies!”

“Cookies?” I asked with an exaggerated face. “She let you have cookies?”

“Yes! Chocolate chip! I had two!”

“Did you bring me one?” I asked, wearing my best hopeful face. 

“No, Daddy. There weren’t any left - we ate them all!”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s ok then. So I can eat all the cookies at home, then?”

“No, Daddy!” she replied, giggling. “Those are mine, too!”

“Ah,” I said, buckling her into her car seat. “I guess you do deserve lots of cookies - you are a kindergartener, now, after all.”

“Yes I am!” she squeaked excitedly as I drove us home. She was so smart - maybe she’d be a doctor like her mother. 

We arrived home and Irina ran off to put away her things. When she came back, I put on her favorite after school cartoon while she got settled on the sofa. 

“PAW Patrol!” she screamed, clapping her hands excitedly and singing. “PAW Patrol, PAW Patrol, We’ll be there on the double…”

As she sang and giggled, I couldn’t help but stare at her. She was perfect. I think back to the time before I had her and it’s like it was another life. A lesser one. 

After a couple of episodes, she turned to me. 

“I’m hungry, Daddy!”

“What would you like, honey?”

“Can we have macaroni and cheese?”

“We’ve had macaroni and cheese three times this week already, sweetheart.”

She gave me the adorable pout I can never say no to. “But I really want it. Please, Daddy?” 

The puppy dog eyes get me every time. “Alright, sweetheart. But you have to eat some veggie sticks too, ok?”

“Yay!” she said, going back to her cartoon while I made the food. When it was ready, she climbed into her chair. “Let’s eat, Daddy!”

As she began to eat her macaroni (and I ate the pasta I’d made for myself), I thought back to that day years ago. My wife and I had been so excited to have our first child. We’d done everything - set up a nursery, taken classes, put in for maternity and paternity leave (me from the bank and her from her elementary school), everything recommended in the parenting books. When Jill’s contractions had started, we’d rushed to the hospital, looking forward to greeting our child. 

Then things had started to go wrong. Prolonged labor. Excessive bleeding. The baby presenting abnormally. Crashing blood pressure. Fetal distress. The doctors had said they did everything they could. The baby’s vitals had started getting better. But Jill’s hadn’t. 

Then she was gone. 

I was devastated. It was like my world had ended, because it had. But I had to keep going. It’s what Jill would have wanted. 

And now, five years later, things had started to feel normal again. My daughter (who I’d named Irina because Jill loved the name) was thriving. I was starting to feel normal. I’d even thought about dating again, though I’d likely wait until Irina was older. I wouldn’t say all was right with the world, but things were better. And I planned to make sure they stayed that way. 

The next morning, I dropped Irina off at the bus stop. 

“Have a great day, sweetheart!”

“You have a great day too, Daddy! I love you!”

I waved at her until the bus was out of sight. Then I drove to a long term parking lot and, making sure I wasn’t on camera, parked, got out, and took another car that I’d previously stored there. I drove three hours out of the city to a small town I’d identified in advance. From there, I went to a random out-of-the-way mailbox that I’d chosen because there were no cameras nearby and dropped off a letter. Finally, my goal accomplished, I drove the three hours back to the lot, cleaned my decoy car of fingerprints and DNA, switched back to my jeep, and drove back to town. 

As I sat at home that night, Irina asleep in her bed upstairs, I imagined my target opening my letter. 

“Hello, again. I bet you’ve missed me. My daughter turned five earlier this month. She had a very happy birthday, with cake and lots of presents. She was so thrilled. You should have seen her. 

“Oh, was that insensitive? I don’t regret it. Speaking of regrets, do you regret going to work that night straight from the bar? Scrubbing into the operating room with your faculties still impaired? Cutting open my wife with unsteady hands? Perhaps if you’d been sober, she would have lived. We’ll never know; your colleagues on the hospital review board made sure you were cleared and no real investigation took place. But I do know this - since you took my family from me, it’s only fair that I took yours from you. I hope you hurt every time you remember finding your husband’s bloody, dismembered body in the park and your child missing. Then you’ll know how I felt. So enjoy these letters, knowing that they’re the only contact you’ll ever have with your daughter again. She doesn’t even remember you. Maybe one day, I won’t, either. 

“See you next year.”

I knew something was wrong before I understood what it was.

It wasn’t because Mum looked different. She didn’t. She still had the same freckles across her nose and the same little scar on her thumb. 

She still wore Dad’s old blue jumper when she was cold, even though it was too big for her now, she never seemed to eat anymore. 

When she looked at me, she looked like she didn't know me.

At breakfast, she made me my toast and put the plate down in front of me.

Mum always cut the crusts off. Sandwiches, too. She didn’t like them, so she never gave them to me either. I never really knew if I liked them or not. It just wasn’t something I ever got.

I stared at the plate. Today, my toast had crusts. 

She watched me.

Smiling.

Well... not quite.

Smiles are supposed to spread across a face. They’re supposed to make people look happy and warm.

Hers didn’t seem to know that.

It stopped at her lips.

It was like she’d practised smiling without ever having a reason to.

She continued to watch me, 

Not waiting for me to smile back. Or even wanting me to, 

Just waiting to see what I’d do, it seemed.

“You aren’t eating,” she said.

I picked at the toast. The crusts felt wrong in my fingers. They didn’t belong there at all.

After that, I started noticing other things.

Her right thumb tapped against her middle finger.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Always three times. It always seemed to be when she was thinking.

Once, I woke up in the night and saw her standing in my doorway.

Like, she was in a trance, I'd have thought she was asleep, but her eyes were wide open.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

That funny little tick.

Thinking.

At dinner, I asked, “Mum, do you remember when I fell in the pond?”

“I do.”

“What happened?”

“You got wet.”

That was all she said.

The real mum would have laughed. She would have said about the ducks chasing me because I’d spooked them, how I’d fallen backwards trying to get away, how she said it was the best swim she never planned.

This mum's face was blank.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

That night, Dad came home late.

I waited until Mum went upstairs.

“Dad…”

He paused with his coat half off.

“Has Mum been… different?”

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling.

Just for a second.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“She’s not… like before.”

He let out a short breath. It was shaky.

“Your mum’s your mum.”

“But—”

“Don’t upset her.”

He said it quickly, quietly whilst looking at me pointedly.

That scared me more than Mum did.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Eventually, I heard footsteps outside my room.

Slow.

Measured.

The door was already open.

She stood there in the dark, watching me.

That “Smile” plastered on her face.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

They taught us in school that the aliens could look like anybody.

Mrs. Toller reminded us every morning before the pledge.

TRUST YOUR GUT!

That was what the posters said.

So I did.

I was nine that year. The war had ended three years before I was born.

My small town of Chickasaw sat under missile towers that never stopped watching the sky.

Everybody knew the signs. Too much eye contact. Not enough eye contact. Walking at night. Closing the curtains in the daytime. Asking questions about the power grid. Not saying “sir” or “ma’am.”

Every week, somebody got taken in for testing. Most came back. Some didn’t.

Daddy said you can never be sure because the Things adapted quickly.

Daddy knew because he'd fought them in the Incursion, when Birmingham burned. He was missing his left ear and two fingers on his right hand. His leg dragged when he walked.

We had a neighbor named Mr. Bell. He lived alone in the house by the dead pecan tree. Mama said his wife had died in the evacuation from Mobile. Daddy said that was what he claimed.

He fixed radios and old fans. He always waved at passersby from his porch.

I watched Mr. Bell like a good citizen should.

On the morning of July 3rd, I saw him behind his shed with a little radio. It was an old silver one with a bent antenna. He turned the dial slowly and looked up at the sky. Then he wrote something in a notebook.

At dinner I told Mama and Daddy.

Daddy stared at me for a long time. Then he asked, “You sure, Clay?”

“Yes, sir.”

He got up without finishing his food. Mama called the hotline. Daddy opened the gun safe.

The black vans came before bedtime.

Men in gray uniforms broke down Mr. Bell’s door. They brought him out in his underwear. He was crying.

“They're weather numbers,” he said. “For the garden. I swear to God.”

He turned to face Daddy.

“Hollis?” Mr. Bell shouted. “Tell them. You know me.”

Daddy just stood there silent on the porch with his rifle.

One of the officers hit Mr. Bell in the stomach and he folded over. They put a hood on him and pushed him into a van.

The next morning was Independence Day.

Flags hung from every deck. The church parking lot had grills going by noon. There were pulled pork, hot dogs, sweet tea, and red-white-and-blue cupcakes. People hardly ever celebrated the Fourth much after the invasion. But this year was an exception. We'd caught one.

By afternoon people were gathered outside the county jail. Somebody said the authorities were taking too long. Somebody else said the Things had infiltrated the government.

Daddy drove us there to 'bare witness.'

The crowd was hot and loud. Men carried flags. Some carried guns. One man had painted REMEMBER BIRMINGHAM on a piece of plywood.

There were officers with AR-15s on the roof of the jailhouse, but they were local men, and their own families were in the crowd.

The sheriff came out and told everyone to go home.

A brick hit him in the face.

After that, it happened fast.

They broke the jail windows. They pulled the doors open with chains hooked to pickup trucks. People cheered when the hinges snapped.

Mr. Bell came out without shoes.

His face was swollen. His hands were tied. He tried to speak, but the crowd drowned him out.

“Show us your true form,” someone yelled.

Daddy pushed forward. Mama pulled me back. But I wanted to see.

The first punch knocked Mr. Bell down. Then everybody seemed to move at once. Boots hit him. Fists hit him. A woman from church struck him with a flagpole. Daddy kicked him hard with his good leg and almost fell. He laughed when another man caught him.

Someone brought out a length of rope tied into a noose.

Mr. Bell was not crying anymore. He made a sound like he could not breathe. His eyes were open and rolling.

They threw the rope over the old traffic light frame where the signal had not worked since the EMP. The crowd lifted him. His body jerked. People screamed with joy.

I waited for him to change.

Everybody said they changed when they died. The human skin split. The gray underneath came out slick and shining. That was how you knew. That was how you could be sure.

Mr. Bell just hung there.

His undershirt rode up. His stomach was pale and hairy. Blood ran down his chin. One of his feet twitched, then stopped.

Still human.

Maybe it took time.

I saw Daddy take out his knife.

"Look away!" Mama cried, pulling me close to her.

But Daddy said, “No, Sadie, don’t. The boy needs to see how the human race survives.”

So I watched.

They cut him down after a while. Some men dragged him behind a truck. Others followed, laughing and filming. Daddy went with them.

They cut off fingers and toes as souvenirs. They poured fuel over what was left. Somebody set him on fire with a sparkler. The flames caught fast. People stepped back from the heat and livestreamed it.

A girl from my class smiled beside the burning body while her mother took a picture.

The fireworks started at dark.

Red and blue bursts opened over the courthouse roof. The crowd sang "Sweet Home Alabama." People drank beer. Children chased each other with glow sticks. Plates of barbecue passed from hand to hand.

Daddy came back smelling like smoke.

He had blood on his shirt and a black smear across his cheek. People clapped him on the back.

“You did good, son,” he told me.

I nodded because I knew I was supposed to.

Across the square, Mr. Bell’s charred corpse smoldered.

No gray skin. No claws. No second mouth. No alien bones.

Just a man-shaped thing becoming ash.

Above us, the fireworks cracked.

We erupted in cheers.

We strolled up through the wild grass and rocks right, over flat-topped grey and white rocks, and stood, staring at the majesty of the Atlantic spread before us in sunset glory. The sky was light pink and coral, and the heaving waves, crashing quite gently against the rocks which stretched out some fifteen-twenty feet below us, a shimmering silver-tinted reflection of those colours.

A container ship moved massively in the distance. I spotted the outline of a bird, and pointed it out to Anne. I took one step closer on the rocks, but she clutched me, pulling me back and scolding. “I’m not going to jump down and get you if you fall!”

I put my arm around her. We had been dating for only a short while, during which time I realised our political opinions were not the same, but I was raised to be respectful and tolerant of all beliefs, and she was so good to me, that I just didn’t talk about politics with her. Bam, problem solved!

And look at her, not snapping away photos of every angle of the waves and plants and rocks like other girls, pouting and posing in the camera constantly- or even worse, like one of my awful exes, asking me to take hundreds of photos of her, sulking when they weren’t all what she was expecting, and everything would end up being about the photos.

Anne was simply gazing out over the water, enjoying the view. An immense sense of calm and gratitude washed over me like the waves, and I hugged her closer.  

We both saw it at the same time.

“A seal!” cried Anne. The dark head bobbed for a second on the waves, before disappearing under. We turned to each other with shining eyes- it always felt like such a win to spot one of these creatures, even though they were not uncommon on our stretch of the Atlantic.

 “Oh do you think we will see it again?” said Anne. “How long can it stay under water?”

“I don’t know- let me check”- I pulled out my phone. I was mildly surprised at Anne’s excitement at spotting a seal- she had always appeared quite blasé and “above nonsense”  kind of girl.

Well, you learn something new about your partner every day, I guess. “Oh I hope it will come back up, a bit closer- I wish I could see it again- I wish- ”- and incautiously she took a step forward on the rock, that much closer to the edge.

I looked up from my phone “Sweetie it says they can hold their breath under water for an hour or more. It’s probably on its way to the Mediterranean by now!”

“No!” cried Anne. “I want to see it again- It was so gorgeous- I wish-“ I looked with surprise at her desperate straining face, scanning the blank waves, and then something interesting about the World Cup popped up on my phone and I glanced down, taking a step backwards.

A massive crash- Anne screamed- I looked up from my phone.

A huge seal larger than a very large man reared up to the rock, riding a wave effortlessly. It snatched Anne in its enormous mouth- for a split second I saw her flailing like a Barbie doll against its glossy foam-flecked pelt, and then it vanished.

I was alone on the rock. The sea was empty except for a seagull and a container ship, now quite far from the shore.

 I check the time, 11:32 PM. I was supposed to go to sleep after three “last episodes" ago since I have a meeting with my boss tomorrow and can’t afford to wake up late. 

 I finally get up off the couch and start getting ready for bed. I brush my teeth, brush my hair, check the locks on the doors. All that's left is to say good night to Albert.

 Albert is exactly where I expected him to be, in front of the patio door, his tail and ears tucked while his eyes watch the empty back yard like a camera.

 I reach out to pet him, but he startles back. 

 “Calm down buddy, it’s me. What’s got you all spooked?”

 I scan the backyard, not seeing anything but the dark empty lawn.

 There’s nothing there, he probably just needs to use the bathroom.

 “Why don’t you use the buttons, tell me what's wrong.” I gesture to the buttons on the ground.

 I bought Albert a set of buttons that have a word associated and read aloud when they're pressed. There are buttons for walk, bathroom, play, outside, mom, food, now, and a few more.

 Albert hesitantly walks over, not wanting to abandon his post. He stands in front of them for a moment thinking before placing his paw on a button.

 Outside. The robotic button announces.

 Weird, he never uses that one. If he wants to go outside, he picks “walk” or “bathroom”.

 “You wanna go outside?” It’s late, but a few minutes of cold fresh air could be nice before bed.

 “Sure, let’s go.”

 I walk towards the glass sliding door, reaching for the handle. A loud bark startles me.  Albert is an old dog and he hardly ever barks. Instead he relies on the buttons.

 “I get it, I get it. You're too energetic for your age. Watch, I'm opening it right now.”

 I unlock the door, and slide it open. He firmly stands in place, but his ears and tail are tucked and he explodes into deafening barks, each one sounds like it's using all the air in his lungs. 

 It freaks me out. I quickly shut the door and lock it and put a stick behind the door for extra measure.

 Albert stops barking but he’s growling weakly.

 There has to be something out there. He never acts like this. I flip on the patio light.

 Nothing. No light.

 I flick the switch a few more times.

 Still dark.

 Damn. The bulbs dead. I don’t use the patio lights much, how’s it’s burned out?

 I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight and try to wave the beam through the glass. But the light is too weak to see anything more than a few feet.

 Should I call the cops? But what would I say? “My dogs barking at nothing.” I should get some sleep, I don’t have time for this. 

 “Ok buddy, maybe you just saw a squirrel or something, you can sleep in my room tonight if that calms you down, and maybe calm me down too.” 

 I try guiding him by lightly dragging his collar but he doesn't move, he just stares into the empty nothingness outside. I try yanking harder, but it feels like I'm trying to pull a statue.
 
 “Come on Albert-” I huff, “I’ll give you a treat if you come.” I'm practically choking him but he still won’t budge.

 I defeatedly let go. “Fine, be that way. You can stay out here.” 

 I walk away, expecting to hear his paws scrabble to follow me. But no, when I glance back, he’s still there, in the same spot, watching.

 I crawl into bed and close my eyes and try to relax.

 Outside. 

 The sound of the button is muffled through the wall. I roll over and try to ignore it.

 Outside.

 Outside. 

 Does Albert know what the button means? Did I teach him correctly?

 Outside. Outside. Outside.

 He’s starting to piss me off, I just want to sleep.

 Outside. Now. Outside. Now.

 I push myself out of bed to see what's going on.

 I walk back into the dining room.  Albert is still in his spot now focused more than ever, his growling vibrates the air.

 I stare into the yard, for a moment, the clouds part, moon lights beams down to reveal… nothing.

 “That's it Albert, you're going on mute. Sorry buddy.”

 I remove the batteries from the ‘outside’ and ‘now’ buttons.

 I scrutinize the rest. Just in case, I thought and pulled out all the batteries for the rest of the buttons.

 “I promise I'll put them back after we figure out what's got you jumpy, for now just try to get some rest.”

 I march back to bed, finally at ease. My eyes get heavy and I start to drift to sleep.

 Outside. Now. 

 The buttons again.…

I imagined it, I tell myself. But I doubt that the moment I think it. I pull the blankets over my head, every muscle tense, always one moment away from calling the police.

 OUTSIDE.  NOW. 

 This time I know I wasn't imagining it, and it’s much louder. I grab my phone and dial 911.

 The call rings, and rings and rings endlessly. My grip tightens around the phone.

 COME. OUTSIDE. NOW.

 …’Come’ isn't one of the buttons, I think to myself, and I'm too scared to move, or to even cry.

Dad called it "the patrol." That's what he said when I was little and asked why he missed the fireworks every year.

"Somebody's gotta do the patrol," he'd say, ruffling my hair. Then he'd grab his flashlight and his jacket — even in July heat — and head out the back door while the rest of us watched the neighborhood displays from the porch.

He'd come back around midnight, hands dark with ash, smelling like woodsmoke. He'd wash up, have a beer, and that was it. No stories. No explanation. I learned early not to ask more than once.

I thought he was setting off his own illegal fireworks in the back field. That's what I told myself for thirty years. He was a private man. He had his thing. It wasn't my business.

He had a heart attack in February. My first July 4th back at the family house since the funeral, I came home to help Mom sort through his garage. That's where I found the box.

Metal lockbox, tucked behind the workbench under a blue tarp. Unlocked. Inside were calendar pages — just the July page, every year, going back to 1989. The year we moved to this property.

Each one had his handwriting in the margin.

1989: 6. First count. Very small. Maybe natural.

1990: 11. Growing. Set the line at the creek.

1991: 11. Same. Holding.

I flipped through them quickly, hands shaking. The numbers fluctuated in the teens for years. Notes like "pushed three back toward the field" and "one came close to the Pearson property" and "staying in the open — better."

Then:

2003: 31. High count. Kept them occupied. Almost lost the creek line. Do NOT miss a year.

2019: 47. Something changed. They're organizing.

2023: 53. My last count. If you're reading this, I'm gone. You need to learn what I learned. Go to the field at 9. You'll see.

---

I didn't go out that night. I told myself it was ridiculous. I had a beer on the porch with Mom and watched the neighbors' fireworks and went to bed.

But I didn't sleep.

At 9:05 I found myself standing in the back yard with Dad's flashlight. July heat and I had my jacket on without thinking about it.

The back field runs about a hundred yards from the house to a tree line. I walked out to the center of it.

The circle of scorched earth was there. Old — years of growth had come back sparse and gray. A fire pit, roughly, but wide. Eight feet across.

In the center: fresh ash. Gray and fine and recently disturbed.

And footprints. One set going in. Boots, size 10, my dad's size. No prints coming out.

They just stopped. In the middle of the scorched circle, they just stopped.

I looked up at the tree line.

There were shapes. Standing shapes, catching no light.

I counted them.

Fifty-three.

They were looking at the fireworks. All of them, turned toward the sound and light. When the finale went up, they all tilted their heads at the same angle, watching the colors explode over the neighbor's roof.

I walked backward, slowly, all the way to the house. I didn't run until I hit the back porch.

I called Mom.

"He didn't tell you to keep it going," she said quietly. Not surprised. "He was supposed to tell you."

"Mom, what ARE those? What are those things?"

"He always called them his patrols," she said. "Don't miss a year. He was very clear about that. Don't miss a year."

She hung up.

I went back this morning, in daylight.

I counted the scorched circles in the field. Seven of them, going back decades, the oldest barely visible. I don't know what happens out there. I don't know what the fire is for or why they respect the line.

I know there were 53 of them last night.

I know that my father's final count was 53.

And when I walked out to the center circle this morning, the ash was fresh again. There was a new set of footprints in it.

Size 10 boots. Going in.

Not coming out.

Lauren didn’t usually go for thrifting and second-hand bargains, but the new-looking pair of shoes which popped up on her screen were too lovely to resist. She felt drawn to them as soon as she saw them- a brand she knew and wore regularly, just her size. She actually smiled at the screen, so great was her pleasure and immediately messaged the seller.

“Hi, is this still available?”

In a few seconds, she got her desired response, and within a few more, she had made arrangements to pick up in an hour. The seller lived in an apartment building not too far from them, and he was selling off his late wife’s belongings. Lauren didn’t care, she just wanted the shoes, she didn’t care if the shoes had belonged to a hundred dead wives, nothing else was more important in the whole world than for her to have those shoes.

And it sounded like they were hers! She ran to tell her husband, Joel, the good news.

Joel was the best husband in the world- in the case of Joel and Lauren, the cliché “I married my best friend” was the literal truth. They did everything together, for years.

Her best friend had a bit of a bad back, but he still had no problem driving her to the building where she was meeting the seller. He winced as he backed smoothly into the parking spot, and for a second, Lauren felt a renewed gush of love and protective feelings for him as she looked at his forearms and hands, swinging the steering wheel around. He’d been doing a lot of digging and whatnot in the garden and outdoors lately, the tan and the muscles- but yes, also the bad back.

Oh she wanted those shoes so badly. Thank god he found parking quickly- sometimes he took ages.

She saw him wince again, and prepare to slowly get out of the car.

Being a good wife herself, she told Joel to stay in the car- she’d run to the building and pick up her shoes.

They weren’t hers yet, but as good as.

He looked at her gratefully, but also worried, as a good husband should be, and asked her if she was sure.

She reassured him that she was meeting the seller in the lobby of the building, and it would be perfectly safe.

He handed her the cash, and she skipped out, floating with excitement at getting the shoes.

She checked the photo again on her phone. She had never, ever seen a pair of shoes so beautiful, never in her whole life of shopping for shoes and wearing shoes.

Then the seller messaged her. Her heart skipped a beat.

Oh it was nothing. Just the elevator wasn’t working- she could come back at another time, or she could meet by the apartment door on the fifth floor, if she didn’t mind taking the stairs.

She was so relieved that the shoes were still available that she wasn’t even a bit miffed the seller hadn’t offered to come down. After all, maybe he had a bad back- like Joel?

So great was her desire for the shoes she floated up the five floors and arrived at the apartment door, barely out of breath.

The seller was waiting for her at the door.

Disappointed, she saw that he wasn’t holding the shoes. Instead, he invited her inside to try the on. She could see the shoes, on a little footstool behind him, even more beautiful than the pictures. Poor widower, she told herself, just wants a bit of chitchat, and so great was her desire for the shoes, that she agreed, and stepped inside.

Poor Lauren. She was never seen again.