r/stayawake

Hello again,

 

Okay, so where to begin. After I found that article at the library, I spent all night researching the Calder family. Luckily, I was able to go through some records and finally found the connection. T Calder (the missing person) is the grandson of the Calder in the picture. I had no idea if he was taken against his will or if he decided to go away but I figured, if there were answers to be found, they’d be at Gold Hill. So I went.

After picking up my car from the service station, I asked Jim how to get out there. Reluctantly, he gave me directions but also informed me that my car wasn’t exactly the best option for the trip. He explained the roads are rough and that my best bet was a truck. I don’t have that as an option, so I took my car anyways. I stopped by the gas station to fill up and get some snacks before I left and started heading out around noon.

For a place only 50 miles away, it took much longer than I thought it would to get there and the roads were worse than Jim described. They were a mix of concrete and gravel, with occasional washouts that claimed parts of the road. It felt like no one had been out there for decades. I started to see what used to be houses that were now no more than ruins of what used to be. Houses burned to nothing more than rocks and ash, foundations with rotten and collapsed walls jutting out in the air like a skeleton's rib cage. The sun shone down into the valley casting strange shadows through the hollow bones of houses that now stand completely empty.

The road continued to get worse, and I knew there wasn’t much of a point in trying to take it any further. Rather than turn around, I parked the car on what was left of the road, grabbed my bag and started on foot. I figured it was better to have to walk than risk getting stuck and hearing Jim’s inevitable “I told you so” when he had to pull me out. The town snaked and twisted back and forth between the low points of the mountains and hills that dotted this area. The further I made it into town, the stranger it felt. There is something incredibly eerie about walking through a place that hasn’t been populated in almost 80 years. I found what looked like an old general store that was partially reclaimed by juniper trees and bushes. Next to the store was a house still standing with a porch. The windows were all broken and the porch had smashed rocking chairs still sitting on it. At one point I found a child’s shoe half buried in the dirt. As I continued down the road, I found tire tracks on a dirt road that split off and went further back into the valley.

I tried to think back to my conversation with Jim to remember when he said it had last stormed out here. I thought surely, those tracks couldn’t have lasted through that right? I decided to follow the tracks down the path. Walking down the road I couldn’t help but feel watched. I knew it was just my mind playing with me but something about the angle of the sun and trees just makes it feel strange. The shadows danced and more than once made me think I had seen something moving on one side or the other, but every time I looked, I saw nothing. After about 15 minutes of walking, I started to smell smoke. Smoke? Was something burning out here? Then a few minutes later, to my right I heard a low, mechanical humming coming from just over the hill side. I started up the hill towards the top, pushing my way through trees and bushes so thick, you can hardly see in front of you. When I finally made it to the top I stopped.

Wedged in the valley, right there in the middle of nowhere Gold Hill, was a small camp.

Several small structures arranged in semicircles on the sides of the makeshift road. I could hear a generator running.  Several trucks parked nearby, none of them looked like they were particularly old. One of them even looked like the one that Mr. Johnson had described seeing leaving town with supplies. I just stood there trying to process what I was seeing.

Someone was living here…more than just one person, multiple people were living here.

“Hello?” I called out.

No one answered.

“Is anyone here?”

Still nothing.

I stood there in disbelief, staring at this camp. Tables sat in the middle of the structures, with what looked like boxes and canned food sitting on one. Propane tanks lined one side of a structure, children’s toys in front of another. A small fire burned with folding chairs arranged around it. At one point I could have sworn I heard music playing quietly.

I wanted to keep looking around but I knew that I didn’t have long before it would start to get dark and I didn’t want to be out here at night.  With that in mind, getting back to my car became priority number one and my curiosity would just have to wait. I got back to the dirt road and started walking back the way I came. After a few feet I noticed something on the road. Footprints….walking just off to the side of mine as if they were following me.

I figured I would post this as a running log, like a journal to arrange my thoughts as I work through this. I work as an investigative journalist for a paper in Utah and have recently been given the assignment of investigating a rash of disappearances along the I-80 corridor.

A little bit about me, my name is Sam. I grew up in a small town in Texas. When people who aren’t from there hear that, more times than not, they think of your stereotypical version you’d see in media. Everyone knows everyone, people to church on Sundays, high school sports are the most entertaining thing you can find to do and no one typically leaves, and in my case you would be right. I had no interest in working blue collar jobs and living my whole life 15 minutes from my childhood home. In high school I enjoyed writing and did good enough to get accepted to college, and focused on a degree in investigative journalism. I figured since everyone in a small town grew up knowing everyone else’s business anyways, might as well turn that into a job.

After graduation I got an offer to write for a small local paper near Salt Lake City, Utah and I took it. As the newest one there, I spent a few years with nothing too spectacular to write. There was the occasional accident to cover, changes to local municipal staff, and other boring things like that but nothing ground breaking or exciting. That is until a couple of days ago when my boss, Mr. Gregory, came to my desk and gave me this assignment and it may just be my first chance at something important.

My first stop was yesterday in Tooele. I arrived at the Tooele County Sheriff’s Department, where I met with Sheriff Deacon. Four missing people had been reported from the outskirts of the county and he was happy to answer any questions I had. After the normal pleasantries and generic questions, I asked if he had any leads about what was happening and he said:

“Unfortunately no and to be honest we don’t have a ton to go on. None of the four individuals had any family in the area and none of their cars have been located. All but one of them were only reported missing when they stopped showing up for work. We still aren’t 100% sure what happened. They could have just decided to leave and start over somewhere else. It’s a beautiful town but there isn’t always a ton of growth around here for restless people.”

I told him it didn’t make much sense. When I asked why they wouldn’t have told someone they wouldn’t be coming back at least, he just replied:

“I don’t know Sam. We’re still treating these as missing persons cases but, so far we have come up with anything. Everyone we have talked to never offered much to go on.”

He was able to give me the place of employment for each person thankfully and I spent the rest of the day going from one place to the next. Unfortunately, each stop was the same as the previous, fruitless.

This morning I woke up and started back on the road. The I-80 corridor from Tooele to Elko is a 215 mile stretch between west Utah and eastern Nevada with mostly nothing but desert beside the interstate with mountains off in the distance. As miles rolled by, I couldn’t help think about what the sheriff said. They didn’t find any of the cars? No sign of them at all? I mean it’s flat desert for miles in all directions. You would be able to see if they had pulled off or got stuck somewhere. Where could they have gone?

As I arrived on the outskirts of Wendover, my cars radiator decided it had had enough and my engine started to overheat. Luckily, I was able to limp my car into the first service station I saw. A tall portly man with a balding head and a beard that would make members of ZZ Top jealous named Jim, came walking out as I pulled in with a cloud of smoke pouring out from under my hood. As I parked he said:

“Lord have mercy son, how longs it been doing that?”

I explained to him I had only limped it along for maybe 10 minutes and popped the hood for him to check it out.
He took a few minutes to check out the engine compartment, muttering and humming as he looked and then said:

“Son, you’re lucky you pulled in when you did. Judging by the look of it you’d have done a lot hell of a lot more damage had you gone much further. I ain’t got this specific radiator in the back but should be able to get one in tomorrow morning, shouldn’t take more than four or five hours to get it swapped out. I’d say safe bet you’re back on the road the day after tomorrow.”

I told him that definitely beats having it towed all the way back home and having to start this process all over. He offered to take me to a hotel that was maybe 10 minutes down the road. I told him thank you and grabbed my bag out of the back of my car. I climbed into the passenger seat of Jim’s truck as we started down the road.

He asked what brought me out and I explained what I was working on. Being my first time out this way, I asked him if he had seen or heard anything about it. He said:

“Well hell, it’s a big desert out here. Many a people come out here and drop life savings into a casino then crawl in a bottle a drink away what little they have left. Plus, there’s plenty of places to go if a person don’t want to be found.”

I asked him if he had seen anything suspicious lately.

“Suspicious? No. I did have to tow a fella who broke down maybe 25 miles north of Gold Hill. That’s honestly about it.”

When I asked him about Gold Hill he explained that it was an old ghost town out between Wendover and the Goshute Reservation. He said the town had gone away and popped back up on and off since the 1850s. The gold rush, the arsenic boom, tungsten mining, reason after reason of the town to open and close. He also said that since the mining in the 1940s ended, there hasn’t been a reason for anyone to go back out there and in his own words:

“and I never had any reason to go check it out.”

When I asked him if the guy had said why he was out there, Jim just replied:

“No. I figured he got lost and turned around. Cell signal isn’t exactly a guarantee out there. It’s out tucked in the mountains and to call the paths out there roads is generous. I doubt much maintenance is done out there and there’s been some real rough storms in that area the past few months. Luckily the storms don’t ever make it up this far.”

It was about that time that we made it to the hotel and I was dropped off. Since I’ve got a couple of days until my car is back up and running, I might as well ask around here and see what I can find out. I haven’t ever heard of, much less been to Gold Hill. Maybe someone around here can give me some more information and I can check things out.

Well, now I’m going to go take a shower and get into bed.
I’ll write more soon.

Title: CLANDESTINE

Format: Feature Screenplay

Pages: 146

Genres: Horror/Dark Comedy/Satire/Surreal

Logline: After a local hero and his family are met with a grisly and unexplainable tragedy, Chief of Police, RUEBEN THORPE is taken off the case and told to focus on a minor budgetary issue with his fellow town council members.

Comps: Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992), Fargo (1996), Weapons (2025), Eddington (2025), I Saw The TV Glow (2024), Longlegs (2024)

CONTENT WARNING: >!Violence, Violent Crime/Murder, Child/Domestic Abuse, Sexual !<

>!Abuse/Violence, Substance Abuse, Suicide/Mental Illness, Terminal Illness, Transphobia/Genderism!<

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hello,

I have been writing since middle-school (around a decade), and have never shared a project publicly, having only shared with family/friends and occasionally sending in for notes. I wanted to share my feature horror/comedy script CLANDESTINE that I have been working on for the past couple of years.

I love all genres of cinema and storytelling, but have a fondness for the surreal and unorthodox. This project is something I wrote after having difficulty attempting more conventional and palatable ideas. I feel it exemplifies my predilection for macabre and absurd stories, layered with thorny interpretations and details. Those who enjoy weirder/darker stories like such (or the comps listed above), will hopefully enjoy this. Thank you!

Once again, link is here...

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

P.S... If you are interested in reading, but are hesitant due to the high-page count, message me for a read4read! I'm interested in meeting new artists and reading new projects, especially those that have yet to be realized.

Hello everyone,

Since my car isn’t supposed to be fixed until tomorrow, today was filled with walking around town and talking to some of the locals. I started with Bonnie, the front desk clerk.

She’s a nice enough woman, older maybe mid sixties? She’s petite with thick glasses and a warm presence almost like a grandmother. When asked about the missing people she didn’t have much to add, just the same things we’ve all heard. When I asked about Gold Hill though, it was a different story.

Bonnie mentioned an older man named Mr. Johnson who claimed he’d seen people hauling large amounts of supplies into the mountains in that direction. Immediately, my interest was piqued and I asked where I could find him. Bonnie told me that Mr. Johnson is always sitting in the diner down the street, so I headed that way. The diner was a textbook version out of a lifetime movie. Red cushioned stools along a counter, booths lining the walls on both sides with the smell of breakfast and fresh coffee filling the air. Mr. Johnson was right where Bonnie said he would be. He sat in a booth in the corner, large plate of eggs and a coffee in front of him. I walked over and asked if I could sit down.

I introduced myself and explained what I was doing here. I asked him to tell me about himself. He explained that after serving in Vietnam, he got a job as a truck driver and settled out here because he liked how far away it was from big cities. After warming up to each other a bit, I started asking him about Gold Hill and what he saw.

He said about 2 months back, two men loaded a truck up at the hardware store with as much as it could hold. Tools, a couple generators, some building materials and other basic supplies. When he tried talking to them about it, they were polite but vague. Then they took off towards the mountains and that was that. He said:

*“I’d seen them a couple times after that. It’s always the same thing, load up supplies and head off. I can’t figure anywhere else they’d be going heading in that direction.”*

It was about this time that a friend of his, Mr. Randall, sat down next to him. According to him, the two men had been friends for years. Mr. Johnson continued:

*“Place ain’t been used in over 70 years. Don’t know what those fellas are looking for but I doubt they’ll have any luck.”*

*“Why do you say that?”* I responded.

Mr. Randall spoke up:

*“Supposedly there was a lower shaft somewhere in the mine that got sealed up long ago. Every couple of years somebody gets a wild hair and claim they’re going to go find it. No one ever finds anything though.”*

I asked if the mine was dangerous to which Mr. Johnson just replied:

*“Hell son, everything in a mine is dangerous. You’re in a tunnel hundreds of feet below the rock. Ain’t enough money in the world to convince me to do that.”*

I continued to sit and talk with the two men for about an hour or so more. Everything just seemed so bizarre. Why would anyone care about an old mine? But they were adamant that every few years, someone gets almost obsessed about it and then that’s it, nothing ever comes of it. Still, if people are going back out there now, I’m definitely interested in why they’re doing it.

They said if I had any more questions about Gold Hill, I should swing by the library. So that was my next stop. I figured why not, I’m stuck here until the morning anyways, worst case I find something to read in the meantime.

When I arrived at the library I was greeted (and I use that term incredibly loosely) by an intimidatingly quiet librarian. Likely in her mid 50s, the woman sat maybe five foot tall, had straight, gray hair pulled into a tight bun. I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or what. She wasn’t exactly unfriendly but seemed like any conversation was an unnecessary interruption of whatever she was doing before I arrived.

When asked where I might find information about the mines she didn’t say a word, she just pointed to a back corner of the library where the archive terminals were located. I thanked her and went to the back.

For the most part, it was just more of the same. I went through document after document. Following articles talking about the operations picking back up in 1892 when the first mills started seeing productive gold and copper extraction, just to close in 1895. There was a “Major Boom” with the arrival of the Deep Creek Railroad in 1917 followed by closure in 1925. A “Resurgence” in 1943 to supply the war department during World War 2, just to come to a halt shortly after.

I found one article with the headline:

*“MINERS STRIKE NEW VEIN IN GOLD HILL”*
Dated: May 2nd, 1942.

Beneath the headline was a picture of six men standing in front of the newly opened mine. Below the picture were the names of the six men from left to right:

*M. Voss*
*T. Williams*
*J. Calder*
*W. Holiday*
*H. Elliot*
*L. Kessler*

After reading that I paused. Calder? Why did that name sound familiar? I pulled out my notes and looked through the names that Sheriff Deacon gave me.

There it was…

T. Calder.

"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.

I grew up with a typical middle class household upbringing. You didn't leave the fan on if you weren't using it, the radio playing if you planned on leaving the house, and you especially didn't leave the tv on while you went about your day unless you wanted your parents to complain about the electric bill.

Well, here I am 30 years old, my own house, no kids, no spouse, working my own job with my own money to do whatever I want. And while occasionally that just means doing things like eating ice cream for breakfast or staying in my pjs all weekend without someone nagging me, or playing the radio as loud as I can without worrying about people living upstairs, I'm still mindful of leaving my electronics running all day if I am out of the house. Call me frugal all you want, but I find it tacky and wasteful.

And maybe I take it a step further than most people but my tv has a sleep timer on it. All of my tech does, in the case that if I ever forget to turn them off, they'll turn off on their own.

Well, it was a night like any other, I was laying on the couch downstairs, texting my friends, while reruns of Regular Show played in the background. I wasn't watching it really, I was more distracted in the group chat. Ryan was cracking us up, and Amy was sharing photos of her vacation to Cancun.

At some point I got up to use the bathroom, and when I returned I realized the tv was off. No big deal, I figured I must have lost track of time and the sleep timer must have gone off. Nothing I wasn't used to and since I wasn't interested in watching more tv anyway, I didn't bother to turn it back on.

My mistake.

My lids were getting heavy so I said goodbye to the gc and reclined back on the couch, ready to crash here for the night, since another perk of living alone means I can sleep wherever I want to.

The whole house was in darkness save for the small lamp in my living room.

Now, I don't mean to brag, but I have a nice tv, one of those 70" babies that make my house the place everyone wants to come to to watch the game. I swear, this girl's a thing of beauty. Always crystal clear 4k with her. Naturally, my eyes drifted off to the black screen, kind of unfocused as sleep called to me beyond the horizon.

In the dark screen I could make out the outline of mundane objects in my house, like shadows. My lamp, the bookcase, the dining room behind me, the couch and my almost sleeping form, just murky black figures.

I was drifting off, no longer paying much attention when I sensed movement. My eyes flicked to the screen, and there it was, my shadowy counterpart lay on the couch, its head turned the way mine was, my reflection looking right at me, until it got up off the couch and walked away. I sat there frozen in shock, turning my head this way and that, certain there was someone else in my house. But then I felt a little ridiculous! Maybe I was the one who got up without realizing.

I stared at the screen again, certain all that would be staring back at me would be my own figure lying on the couch, but from what I could see, everything was there except me?

Something flickered on the screen again, a person, me, walking back to the couch while I lay there, immobile.

I got up immediately and turned on all the lights, grabbing a baseball bat from my glory days and brandishing it as a weapon I searched the house, calling for the intruder to show himself, but I found no one. I checked doors, windows, closets, but still nothing.

Finally, utterly and completely stumped I returned back to the couch, defeated. I looked at the tv again and all I saw of course, was my same living room, completely identical, and my silhouette staring back from the couch.

Again, I felt ridiculous. Ha, too many long nights playing Call of Duty boozed up or staying too late at work with very little sleep, I guess. I laughed and put my feet up, prepared to resume my almost slumber again when I noticed something...there was my reflection but it wasn't reclining, matching my movements the way reflections do, and should. Instead my silhouette was sitting up and waving?

I looked behind me. Nothing.

Immediately I found the remote, turned the tv on and the scary imposter figure vanished. Cartoon antics returned and pretty lights replaced its shadowy face.

I went to the settings and turned the sleep timer off, relieved, until click the tv shut off on its own. I figured maybe my finger must have slipped while I held the remote. A logical explanation really, it had to be the reason.

I closed my eyes, fumbling for the power button. I did not want to see my silhouette anymore. I kept trying but the tv still wouldn't turn on. I had no choice, I would have to turn it back on manually.

I crouched down on my knees trying to find the button on the side of the tv with one hand covering my eyes. It wasn't easy, in fact, it was near impossible, but luckily I found it and the tv switched back on, noise and color filling the space once again. I felt victorious.

I removed my hands from my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

Click!

It went off and my living room was once again submerged in darkness. But greeting me this time not on the couch, was my silhouette waving at me. Where I stood between the couch and the television, with some reasonable distance between us, my silhouette sat on the floor pressed against the glass. Somehow it had gotten even closer, we were face to face now, but it had no eyes and no mouth, in the black glass of the tv I could only make out its shape.

Experimentally, I turned my head, left. It followed and did the same as I did. I turned my head, slowly, right, and again it repeated the action as I did, just as slowly. I put my head down, making sure to keep my gaze locked on the screen before me and staying vigilant, but to my horror, my silhouette did not move along. It did not budge.

It sat there watching me.

Waiting.

Then, it waved at me again, but instead of hello, it waved slowly like it was saying a mocking goodbye.

I didn't waste any time, I bolted straight out of my house, my heart in my throat. I didn't even have shoes on.

I'm at my friend Ryan's house right now in his guest room where there's no tv. I've drawn down all the curtains, and I'm typing on my phone right now because even the lock screen going black is making me nervous. What the hell is happening, guys?

Chapter 1:
 
I have lost count of how many months I have been awake for. Or has it been years? Our ship, The Nessie 14, was stocked up with at least five years worth of food, that was how I kept track of the passing time. This proved useful until we hit an asteroid field, its disembodied, rocky finger tips unintentionally unlatching two of the four food silos, and one of the three escape pods in the process. The Nessie still bears the accident's cracks and scars, like a wounded soldier.
 
My stretcher is stained a mustard yellow. My body's sweat and oil has seeped into the sheets. Cleaning it is no use, and it is too sticky to sleep on now, causing my back to break out into eczema and rashes. I have resorted to moving one of the medically designated metal tables and turning it into a makeshift bunk. Underneath is a thinner tray where Marcus would be able to sleep, but I haven't seen him get any rest for weeks.
 
When I first met Marcus, he was a cocky, fit party boy. He is somewhere in his forties, but with grey hair peppered in more than the usual man his age. He seemed like an unstoppable force of socialization with anybody he came in contact with, especially the number of men in the office who he had small, mutual, and charming infatuations with. I was plentiful shyer than Marcus, but I really did look up to him. I never told him. When we were back on Earth, I could never really get a word in edgewise anyway.
 
Nadia is our other crewmate. She's in her early 30's, somewhat young for this kind of mission, but makes up for it with how brilliantly smart she is. A little too smart if you ask me. I can't say much though, I am as thick as pig shit.
 
Once we made it into space, we went into what the movies call Cryosleep. Professionally the scientists at the office called it a Medically-Induced Hypo-Thermatic Coma. Before we left, the procedure was altered, improved. This allowed the coma, our "Cryosleep" to be elongated, far beyond the previous crews before us. There are rumors Walt Disney is hidden somewhere, sleeping through the same procedure. I call bull shit. If he felt anything like how I felt, especially in such an early attempt, he must have the mind and body of a puss ridden blob fish by now.
 
Our ship was called the Nessie 14 because, well, this is the 14th attempt. Twice the ships exploded before reaching orbit. Eight other times, we never heard from or saw the ships and crews again. And three times, the crews turned around, returning to Earth. That didn't matter though, they were ridiculed for abandoning the mission, an expensive mission at that. It had cost the companies hundreds of billions accumulated over decades of past attempts. The astronauts didn't care though. They had been in space for long enough that they now only ramble nonsense, forever changed from how the confinement of time twisted and hollowed their brains.
 
Our mission isn't one of necessity, but to everybody, especially at the companies, it is a need. The Gilling Telescope, the most advanced of its kind, picked up something from the farthest reaches we have ever found. It didn't just pick up something, it picked up nothing. No stars, no moons, no planets. Nothing. Human kind, after millions of years, has found what we believe to be the edge of space.
 
Chapter 2:
 
I woke up from my coma the first out of the crew. There were clocks on the ship, but no form of calendar. Command didn't want us to know how many years we had truly been asleep for. Even though they kept this from us, I knew, everyone I cared for or loved had most likely been dead for generations.
 
We were instructed not to wake our other crewmates up, as it would interrupt the rhythm of the procedure and could cause harm to the individual. I was isolated for a period that was unknown to me, my only company being the ship's terminal, which spurted out random notifications and warnings, as well as the amalgamation of strange galaxy clusters in view from the multilayered, thick windows. As I watched the clusters, they had the sway and movement akin to fish and whales, as if they were living beings.
That time isolated on my own were the loneliest 105 days of my life.
 
Marcus woke up to the overwhelming smell of body odour and old crushed food packs. His eyes, blurred with a clay thick glaze from the coma, scanned the room. As his eyes wet and adjusted to the light, I could be seen, curled in the dark corner. The vague hum and buzz of my discman could be heard through my cheap plastic headphones. A TOOL CD whirred around inside the small machine. I was ritualistically picking at the barcode sticker still adhered to the back of it. I didn't notice Marcus sleepily approach me. He dropped to a squat, laid an ice cold hand on my shoulder and cockily sputtered "You look a little worse for wear, bud". A relieved and friendly smile pushed up my cheeks. I slowly breathed out. "What took you so long".
 
It took another two weeks for Nadia to wake up. In those weeks, Marcus and I got to know each other better. We had an unmarked console onboard we could read, and write our personal logs on, though we mostly just used it for video games and karaoke. Due to the failure of previous missions, many brands no longer wanted to be seen in conjunction with the mission, so many of the useful items around the ship came in pastel and white unmarked casings. We had unbranded beers aboard, which originally seemed like a waste of space, something that could have been replaced with more useful cargo. We were exceptionally grateful for it in the end. They were all empty vessels of glass by the time Nadia came to.
 
I learnt multitudes about Marcus' life back on Earth. His personal life seems pretty much what it looked like from an outside perspective. Parties every weekend. Flatmates by choice so there were always others around to socialize with. The closer I looked at him, the more I noticed the scarred holes in his earlobes, and the flimsy and eroded septum from what looks like years of cocaine use.
 
We were alerted to Nadia's waking by hearing a guttural groan, and a thick, soupy liquid splatting against the floor. It was like the elevator scene from The Shining, but with much cloudier and beiger vomit instead. We spent most of that day cleaning sick from out of the needle thin panels in the floor, and adjusting Nadia to her surroundings. Seemed like her lengthier sleep as well as her smaller frame caused more side effects post coma.
 
Chapter 3:
 
The next three months were what we expected. Wake up. Eat breakfast. Check the scanners. Wait. Eat Lunch. Check the scanners. Do repairs. Eat Dinner. Check the scanners. Sleep. Repeat. It took Nadia longer to warm up to us. She was very dedicated to the job. Trying to prove her work ethic, only maintaining recreational small talk with us when either Marcus or I tried to include her in our bored antics. Eventually she started allowing breathing room in her busy brain to conjure up jokes. "What issue did the asteroid have with its bum... a hemorrh-oid". It was unexpected from her but extremely welcome. I don't know how the others feel, but I think we became pretty good friends.
 
One night we sat around having dinner together, and Nadia breached the topic of loved ones.
"Do you guys miss your family, I mean sorry for the sudden deep conversation, but I mean... I do". She twirled a curl into her wiry, dark hair. Marcus was the first to respond.
"I was on my own, so not really, didn't have friends and family, I'm a bit old for all that". I noticed a solemn glint in Marcus' eye. It was a noticeable juxtaposition to his strong willed demeanor. I always saw Marcus converse and playfully interact with people all the time back in the office. To think he never considered himself close to them tugged at me.
"Hey you aren't too old for that, you have me- you have us". I responded, my mouth talking faster than my thoughts. His expression shifted to smug and he chuckled.
"Haha ok big man, what about you, miss your family?". The sudden return to the question sunk me into deep consideration.
"I used to look after my father, he lived with me. He used to be quite demanding, even when he couldn't properly speak". I had a certain harsh tone on the word 'demanding'. Marcus' face indicated he picked up that I hid more in that word than what it seemed.
"Then he passed away and I lost my way a little, didn't really do or have anything else. So with what training I had before looking after Dad, it got me into this mission... and that's that". My voice trailed off and we all paused and breathed for a beat.
"Well thanks Nadia for that chipper topic!" Marcus' chuckle being so contagious the saddening tension all diffused and we continued onto lighter conversations. Those nights, with Marcus chuckling and Nadia's deep thoughts, were really special to me.
 
 
After three months, the accident happened. It was 11:45 pm. Nadia was asleep. Marcus was in the storage room, to which he sometimes disables the anti-gravity measures and floats around listening to music. I was reading a book called The Holy Innocents. It made me a little sick, but I had already read the majority of the books in the console over the previous months so I endured. The starboard side solar panels had been down for a week. Nadia and Marcus had been spending 12 hours a day, taking turns going for space walks with repair tools, attempting to fix the issue. I would keep myself occupied by the systems, communicating with them, and endlessly testing whether their endless attempts at patching finally succeeded. I heard the anti-gravity measures reactivate and Marcus, already cloaked in one of the three thick, bulky space suits, tiredly walked up to me.
"Ready to try this again?".
I sighed.
"Yessir".
 
I waved Marcus out through the abnormally thick glass pane in the airlock door. I watched as the pressure of space caused the interior panels to cling to the walls of the ship for their lives. Marcus, steadily hooked to the Nessie by a dense cable, routinely shimmied himself around the corner, out of my view.
I began walking to the heavy set, surgically designed terminal chair. I didn't make it though.
The entire ship jolted, rotating with great pace on a north-west axis. My body was launched, like a baby bird's premature first flight, directly into a hardened corner of the terminal chair. My head collided first. What I heard before going unconscious was a bone crushing crack.
 
Chapter 4:
 
I woke up. The pain, I wanted to scream. Scream so loud my stomach would slither up my throat, metallic blood fill my mouth, until it dribbled off my flaky lips. As much as I tried, all that came out was the muffled sounds of a dying mammal. My jaw was shattered, sharp shards of bone poked through my face muscles like gravel or stones in a bloody wound. It was locked shut, and started dripping dark, red fluid. I held it with my right palm, and helped myself onto both legs with the left. The ship had stopped rotating. Loose objects and panels were scattered across the floor. Few sparks fountained from worn cables.
 
I heard a groan. Nadia. Her silent, wet huffs crept from the bed bays. I hobbled towards her noises, the sounds of skin and nails clipping against the metal floors slowly coming into earshot.
 
Nadia laid in a pool of blood, thickening around the perimeter of her body. Her skin was pale, and eyes unfocused, the figure of a dying snow angel. A long handle had been snapped off during the accident, and as Nadia fell from her bed, the handle pierced the side of her waist, smoothly crawling through the meat of her body until it spurted out the other side. I slumped down to my knees, my lack of balance making it feel more like a fall. I sloppily trace my hands around her wound, trying to find the correct spot to apply pressure. I kept one hand held on her, and the other hand reaching for her bed shirt's sleeve. It was an old stained Freddy Krueger shirt, the soaking, red blood stains unintentionally fitting the faded design. I pulled hard with the one hand, slowly ripping off her sleeve. With each rip and tug, her torso would jolt, compressing her raw wound into the edges of the handle. She would gasp a hideous, wispy gurgle each time, guilt striking my heart like a crowbar.
 
Her harsh, pained exhales reminded me of the deer my father used to hunt. When I was in my early teens he would take me to a small island, about an hour boat ride from the beach near our house. I hated it, but for my father, it was a necessity. He was raised in a cabin in the forest with his father.
I never met my grandfather, he passed away in prison when I was a child a few months before he was to be released. I had only heard the few stories my father would grunt, with malice on his tongue. The way my father hunted was inhumane. He would find a deer, a large one, and lock his brain onto it, the rest of the world, a smoky fog. He would spend hours ritualistically sneaking through the trees, rifle in hand, a predator in a wooden city. I was just there to watch, a dedicated spectator for his sport. Once he had enough of his unnoticed taunting. He would fire the rifle. Hit somewhere that wouldn't kill the animal, just hurt it enough it would squirm and writhe on the ground. He would drop on one knee, always the right one, and stab from the belly to the neck, slowly, the deer vomiting its last breathes in perpetual terror. Nadia's eyes, her sputtering heartbeat, her slowing, sickening gasps... I couldn't let it happen again.
 
I wrapped the sleeve where I could around the wound, the jutting handle an obstacle for this act. She needed better medical attention. The only way this could happen is if I could get her to the medical bay. I looked down, guilt building even more.
"I'm sorry" I muttered to her, but the inability for any jaw motion caused it to be a wet, incomprehensible mess. As I did this flecks of my still dripping blood decorated her face.
I guided my hands under her back and under her knees, I then pulled up. I used all the strength I was able to muster in my state to pick Nadia up off of the ground. She screamed, no longer a raspy groan, but a needly, sharp scream of pure agony. The sound had no other emotion, her body, her mind, was only pain.
 
I am not exceptionally fit, but I had enough strength, especially in that situation, even in that state, to trip and stumble myself into the medical bay and drop Nadia's progressively more limp body onto the long metal table. A fountain of darker blood crawled out of her mouth as her body heaved onto the surface.
This is when her glassy eyed gaze started to come into focus. I was relieved, thinking she was at least cognoscente enough to leave her paralyzed state. Her eyes weren't focused on me though, they were focused on the other side of the room. I traced her gaze with my own, and realized I should have never felt any relief, I should have just felt pure fear.
 
Marcus' motionless body lay pressed against the large window that adorns the wall of the medical bay. Heavy debris from the loose food silos, which had now been fully torn from the ship, covered him, forcing his body to be compressed into the glass. I could not see his face. His helmet was just a doorway into a confined space of only blood. A tear rolled down my cheek.
"Get... him..."
I looked down at Nadia. Her face was determined, but weak. She slinked her hands to her waist, putting pressure on her wound. I grumbled a saddened noise, and slowly traced backwards, keeping my eyes on Nadia until I turned the corner. Her determined look fading as I left.
 
I had never been in space. I was trained for it, but I was on the mission to monitor the scanners, sort out the technology and analyse from the inside. I was in my suit, head peaking out from the thick valve that I twisted my helmet into. I couldn't focus, the scraping of the helmet mechanically screwing into its latches picked its soundwaves at parts of my brain. I was stood in the airlock. I had to lock myself in there, and then venture out of the room all by myself. This was a procedure that needed two people, but there was only me. I flinched every time I felt the cold, damp fabric lining of my helmet, soaking in the blood from my jaw. I took a step. I had to do it. I had to save Marcus. I took another step. The entire ship shifted and I fell to the floor.
A smaller asteroid had collided with the ship. I thought it was over. Why couldn't it have been over. I couldn't do it. I couldn't go out there.
 
Chapter 5:
 
My bare toes felt the chill of the metal floors. My heel tapping repeatedly, at a continuous rate, like a machine in an oil rig. I sat back against the medical bay doors. A small red light spread its glare onto the top of my head, curling into oblivion off the split ends and the tip of my hairs. The medical bay doors were locked. I couldn't face what was in there. My brain was filing thoughts through a fog, an endless fractal that was sporadically being combed through. I sat there for an hour. Paralyzed albeit for my heel. Another hour passed. A tiny metal clang from behind the doors pulled me back to reality.
 
With swiftness I slam my fist against the door, spidering my fingers with haste until I found the lock, and disengaged it. The doors slid open, and an uncomfortable darkness thickened the air. My pupils darted in threes, until they could finally focus on Nadia's stationary body lying on the table. Arm strung off one side, caressed by a thin line and a needle which laid coldly on the floor. The line connected to her wound. She had stitched herself up.
At that time I hadn't even processed that the only sign Marcus had been crushed against the window, were the deep scratches of metal against glass looking out to empty space.
 
I rushed over to Nadia's side. I held my hand near her chapped lips. There was barely any breath pushing against my palm. I shuffled as fast as I could possibly go over to a nearby counter. I stumbled and crushed my organs against the hard edge, silently pleading for air as I winded myself. I spiraled my arms out like an octopus, pulling cabinets open, throwing piles over, trying to find an oxygen mask. My stress unfolded at such a rate I did not notice the slow, heavy footsteps behind me. I returned back to reality again at the sounds of metal squeaking against metal, and a pressurized puff of air. I turned around.
 
Marcus stood, still in his suit, hand clasped against an oxygen mask pressed onto Nadia's face. His helmet was missing, exposing his completely blood soaked face, a thick, deep, red wound across his temple. Chunks of blood coagulated inside his nostrils.
"What were you doing?" He tiredly demanded.
"I was trying... to help her" I unintelligibly spat out.
"I don't even know what you're saying, you know where this mask is kept! We all do!"
"I'm sorry" I said so quiet and full of guilt it was almost a hum.
Marcus, displaying a cowl of anger limped out of the room, pieces of fabric from the bulky suit fluttering to the floor.
 
Chapter 6:
 
The next three weeks rivaled the loneliness of my first 105 days awake on the Nessie. Although we have built back our comradery now, there was an undeniable and dark tension swimming through the air between us after the accident. Marcus wouldn't talk to me, unless it had to do with our mission, or making small repairs to the wounded ship. I sat in the corner again, listened to my discman, as Marcus tended to Nadia. It took her five days to wake up. Five days of silence again, not that I could talk anyway with my jaw.
 
One night, two weeks after the accident, Marcus left the med bay and made his way to the dust glazed corner I resided in.
"Can you talk now?"
I crack open my jaw, the bone hinge popping and cracking in place.
"Yes" I sounded different now, a sultry mix between a new accent and a speech impediment. The way my jaw was healing, I'd never talk the same.
He stood, looming over me. We no longer seemed like equals, people that were friends days ago. Now we were just a strong man, and the broken jawed monster in the dark. If Marcus heard me say this now, he would scoff. Nowadays it seems like he always knows what is going on in my pale head, and says just the right thing I want to hear to make me feel like I'm not a failure.
 
"You did nothing, you left her. Why?" He asked, his anger not quite masking his genuine questioning.
"To save you" I croaked.
"You didn't save me" His tone became demanding.
"I went to save you! I did".
"I could see very little through that window, but I could see you leave, leave Nadia, and then nothing. For the two hours I was stuck at that window, trying to pull myself in, watching her die".
My breath picked up in a defensive panic.
"She told me to leave, she told me to".
 
A voice shot through the room. A bullet of words pierced my heart. Nadia paced out of the medical bay.
"Take some god damn accountability you little... you little rat!" Her breath was heavy, this was the first time she had stood since the accident. She was in a fresh shirt now, allowing a new stain of blood to take another victim.
Marcus twisted around, worriedly shifting his feet in concern.
"No Nadia, you need to rest".
"I can't just let him shout excuses and excuses and EXCUSES!" She dropped to the floor, blood sneaking through her gritted teeth. She gasped. The same guttural gasp she made when I held her bloodied wound. Meat machinery clicked in my head. My eyes lost focus and I stared into the room as if it were space itself.
"He made me cut the deer..."
"What?" Marcus mutters in utter confusion.
"He made me...". I wasn't a spectator. Another excuse.
"I wish your jaw was still broken you horrible fucking man" Nadia continued. She mustered enough strength to determinedly guide her arm towards a nearby table. Her hand lied upon a metal cup, and without a beat, lunged it towards me. It hit my jaw. I cried out the loudest my throat could expel, like a wounded animal. I am not a wounded animal. My eyebrows furled and the oily skin on my forehead tightened.
 
Chapter 7:
 
Those three weeks of turbulence are finally over. The yelling, the arguments, the disappointments we were able to put them behind us. They were a temporary asteroid field that we repaired together and now have moved on. I slip off of the table and the soles of my feet spread across the metal floor. A hard dried substance clinging to the floor panels dig into my skin, but I pay no mind. I cheerfully careen my way through the ship. I need to shower, but it is not an urgent necessity as my body odour isn't a dominant smell these days anyway.
"Marcus I'm up!" My voice bounces and twirls through the empty hallways, which are thick with static and silence. In return I hear him talking from near the main terminal.
 
I make my way up to the terminal. The hallways seeming more mazelike, and even natural. That was possibly just the mold and stains which relocated itself to bare surfaces, growing everyday like an infinite puzzle. I glide past the medical bay, the red locked light flickering in glitched, pulsating bursts. Without decelerating I glide my hand across the face of the doors. I can feel multiple dents from smaller fists that were punched through from the opposite side. I pressed in slightly, the doors staying idle as the lock refrains them from jostling in their place.
"You eaten yet Marcus?"
His monotone voice responds, as I can hear it passing through the hallway much easier as I draw nearer. I step into the doorway, facing the terminal, and see Marcus in his usual spot upon the terminal chair.
"Already at work I see" I chuckle to us both.
"Scanning... Scanning" Marcus responds, his robotic voice wheezing through the speakers. I pull up a chair, shrieking metal noise spouting out, as I scrape it in front of Marcus.
 
Marcus' corpse lay upright, strung up a distance from the terminal chair with cables and strings.
"How's the work going?" I ask, making tired morning small talk.
"Scanning... Scanning" Marcus responds again.
"Haha yeah I get you, work's work". I go to affirmatively pat him on the shoulder in jest. My mind contorts and clocks what I am doing. Do not touch him. Do not feel him. Keep the immersion.
 
Marcus' body is skinny and brittle. His stiff, sloppily positioned posture, strung about like clothes on a washing line, resembled that of a sapling, thin roots with even thinner branches. His eyes were a dark grey, both looking like they had receded into his skull, and like they were on the verge of toppling onto the floor. His handsome, grey, peppered hair was stringy and loose, no longer giving the aesthetic of a young spirited, charming man.
After a fluttering beat, my thoughts travel back to normalcy.
"I am going to go have a little break before I get into working ok"
"Scanning... Scanning"
"Ok yeah see you soon" I make my way to another room, and deactivate the antigravity measures.
 
"Scanning... Scanning... Warning"
 
Chapter 8
 
I let my limbs go limp, gracefully contorting in antigravity. I'm listening to my discman, floating in complete silence, letting all thoughts pour out of my skull, emptying my mind. I see out the window something unusual, well, it's what I don't see. I don't see anything. I see nothing. My eyes widen in complete satisfaction and amazement. Then, my skin tightens.
 
A sequence of crumbling and metal shrieks start echoing through the ship. A layer of the thick glass windows that line the ship start snaking thin almost unnoticeable cracks through their exterior. The ship starts vibrating at only the consistency of a small bumblebee, but noticeably increases within seconds. Pressure within my joints start popping like internal bubble wrap.
 
I grasp onto the wall and propel myself towards the exit. The red light disengages as my fingers, pivoting with an uncomfortable tightness, unlocks the door. I re-enter gravity as my body slinks heavily to the floor. I wind myself as my ribs collide with the stained panels. In a tornado of limbs I clumsily push myself forwards towards the terminal
"Warning... Warning".
"Marcus what is going on?" I shout towards his corpse.
"Warning... Warning"
"Piece of shit" I mumble under my breath, entertaining the idea that he could even hear me. I brush the cables that prop him upright aside, and type into the terminal. His face, frozen in shriveled, moldy, infinite sleep, watches over a short distance from my head. I type a string of messages, simplified to the question "What is happening". As the ship's metal groans the terminal spells out shrill audio from its speakers.
"Limited distance remaining, undocumented pressure damaging hull, repair or 98% human fatality hypothesised".
 
Sweat spirals off of my forehead as I fling my view back towards the window. The void of space started to gradient to a different colour, as we get closer a wall of murky light absorbs what was once darkness. Slowly, from a short distance, a lone piece of debris drifts from beyond the glass. I try focusing my eyes. There are thick letters dashed across the debris, almost unintelligible with how creased and compact it had become. My eyes expand with fear and awe as my brain pieces the words together.
"Nessie 7"
A sharp, unsatisfying crack pounds into my head as I watch an intricate web of thick white lines develop across the window in the storage room. Muffled whistles start pushing into the glass and I have only seconds to act. My toes press with force against the panels and I launch myself towards the lock. Shrieking sounds of glass and air becoming more overwhelming. Another push, propelling myself again. the web of glass expanding to the full size of the large window. My skin keeps getting tighter, shrink wrapping my bones and muscles in a fleshy package. With all my strained strength I launch myself one last time, a finger length away from the lock. Then with the cry of one thousand tiny glass shards, and the wind of a planet wide blizzard the window breaks. My hand reaches the lock as my legs and hips are sucked towards the murky abyss. Tears are vacuumed from my eyes as, with all the hope I have left, I activate the lock. The doors barrel towards each other and shut with a large crack and thud in the centre. I release a heart stopping scream and pull away.
 
Droplets dance along the floor beside me and I pull my gaze down. The bottom of the door's crease is painted red, and my left foot is missing three and a half toes. Red pulp and toothy bone protrude where the toes used to be attached. The Nessie moans and roars, twisting inwards on itself. The pressure, the pulling, the compressing, its overbearing. At the speed we are travelling towards the cloudy edge of space, we won't make it before we collapse inwards and transform into a crumpled piece of paper. I need more speed. I need to finish the mission.
 
There are two remaining escape pods that sit within a well at the bottom of the Nessie. Developed to protect us during an emergency, they launch outwards at a speed exceptionally faster than that which we are travelling now. That is my only way out. I hobble through the corridors, one wrong movement away from slipping on my own slinking trail of blood. One fall, one stop in momentum, and I could miss my window to escape, and become stuck, melded and bursting inside an imploded metal prison. I press on, past the red light of the medical bay doors, past our dingy, damp sleeping quarters, and to the few steps that remain to make my leave. With each hobble down these steps, I writhe in pain, gaining my breath before each drop as even the smallest bump shoots agony through my foot.
 
I now stand at the escape pods. Two undamaged circular orifices with a view to a compact metal char and a baron console. This is it, this will bring me past the edge of space. The ship roars and sparks, glass shattering and panels crumpling. I have no time to breathe and with my one healthy foot I push myself into the pod. The door speeds to a robotic close and decompresses with an industrial exhale. I don't even think about sitting in the chair, I set the velocity to max, ignoring the warning. Disengage the launch countdown and... The roar of the engine pulsates as I shoot out into space. I don't look out the front window. I look back. The walls of the ship are an obstacle to my view, but I know I'm in the eyeline of Marcus. Guilt wells up as tears thicken against my tight eyelids. My crew once trusted me. Considered me their friend, and what did I do to them. String Marcus' corpse up. Lock Nadia in a room to starve. I made that choice for them. I am the one leaving their bodies behind as I get to run away and see the outcome of our shared work.
The Nessie crumbles inwards slowly as I look away, my brain slowly focusing on the quick collapse of the escape pod. Alarms whirr and bounce their sounds through the deteriorating structure. I just need more time. One of my lungs tighten as the other one expands full of liquid. My face tightens on one side and sags on the other. The pressure is too much for my body. My ears trickle blood profusely, until it slips across my lips and into my mouth. The alarms are almost silent as my ears are blocked and muffled. The murky wall becomes brighter as I propel closer. I am almost there. The mystery uncovered and the mission almost complete. What is beyond the edge of space? Galaxy clusters shoot past and swirl around me, becoming strands and trails of light at the speed I am travelling. My knees swell, filled with fluid and my eyelids puff up until my vision is as though I am looking through two straws. I shut what remains of my vision, my body contorting and the escape pod ripping into strings of material and metal as I break through the barrier.
 
Space breaks into an exploding splash. Voids of stars and darkness spray and clump like a blast of water from a whales blowhole. I open my eyes, glazed over with blood and crust. I see a bright void, a sky above the space below. Static clusters of galaxies and stars resemble vast islands, and the dark pit that we know as space, just an ocean. I am but the size of an ant, in whatever this world is. It's beautiful, it's horrifying, it can't truly exist, can it? A large collection of space and galaxy reaches out with an elongated form, a limb, and swats me and the debris downwards. My head crumbles from the impact, my body just a collection of mush and bones gracefully twisting through a plateau of inconceivable life. My vision goes dark.
 
I lay on humongous interstellar grains. A beach of stars. What resembles the remains of my body decays purple, and frost claws and grasps at the edges of my skin. I do not remain anymore, just the mind and body of a puss ridden blob fish. The black, bleeding orbs that contain the last resemblance of my eyes drift upwards, and everything fades to black.

I am Willy Pete, the crazed writer recording all of the oddities, visuals, stories, and research surrounding the Altar-Net. Thank you for absorbing this stuff into your gray matter.

To all of you who take some time to read my posts, whether or not you comment or upcharge them, I must take a break. I've been posting daily, here and elsewhere, telling you things I've seen and experienced and heard about during my research on the Altar-Net. The finale of Keht-o-Komz will arrive soon. Another story about that damned cat is on the way. I have a backlog of stories from survivors of the Water Walls. There are more third person stories such as Diamond-shonal Shiffed.

But I need to catch my metaphorical breath, just for a day or two. In the meantime, I will try to post very short stories, or expositions. I must keep the engine idling instead of letting it stall. Yoon-Iverz is growing bored. The Altar-Net is falling apart because Yoon is not maintaining it. I have Kraig's journal and I will eventually share his findings here.

Sharon and the others, they've been thrown through the cosmos and we may have to look for them. Zach, James, Mr Praunski, and the rest of the population of Clarkson County hold more weird stories.

At the moment I'm fighting an infection of the soul. Jimmy, an old literal literaturial demonic entity, has been summoned. He is not dangerous for most. All he does is pull readers into stories and make them the monster. He seems to favor my fingers for crafting those.

You can find these tall and short and medium tails in several subreddits. Just check my profile. I've got ambitions to utilize YouTube to give visuals, post interviews with Altar-Net refugees, and expand the understanding of the Common Denominator. Eventually I may create a website, almost like an archive.

I should get back to my studies. I hear a baby crying outside.

The air conditioner ran twenty-four hours a day in my apartment. I never turned it off. If I turned it off I'd hear the refrigerator ticking, and then I'd have to sit with the quiet, and the quiet always turned into thinking about Grelling & Associates, where I spent eleven hours a day formatting compliance spreadsheets nobody read.

I know "office job" isn't supposed to be a horror story. But there's a version of it that is. A cubicle drawer that sticks. A coffee mug with a ring of dried brown at the bottom because you stopped washing it three weeks ago and at some point it just became part of the mug. A fluorescent light that buzzes at a pitch you can't quite hear, so by 4 PM your jaw hurts and you don't know why. You don't feel anything, good or bad. You format cells. You go home. You wait for the alarm.

Two years of that.

So when the ad showed up in my feed, "Leave the desk. Work with your hands. Build something real," I clicked before I finished reading it. I wanted copper under my fingernails. I wanted to strip insulation and twist wire and be done with something at the end of a day, actually done, not "reassigned to a new project" done.

Sign-up was easy. Name, address, a $45 processing fee. The exam was remote, proctored by webcam. Two hundred questions, three hours, pass or retake in thirty days.

I did it on a Saturday. Made coffee, sat down at 8:55, opened the link. White background, blue text, a timer counting down from 3:00:00. At the top: ELECTRICAL TRADESMAN CERTIFICATION, CANDIDATE ASSESSMENT. PLEASE ANSWER ALL QUESTIONS HONESTLY.

Honestly. Weird word for a multiple choice test. I didn't think about it. I clicked Begin.

First twenty questions were normal. Ohm's law, wire gauge, NEC code references, stuff I'd actually studied. I moved through them fast. Outside my window a lawnmower was going two houses down.

Question 21 asked about grounding methods. I picked B. Question 22, insulation ratings, I picked C. Question 23:

When you strip the sheathing from a length of Romex, what do you feel beneath your thumbnail?

No multiple choice this time. Just a text box and a blinking cursor. I typed something about the copper being slick and the insulation having a little resistance. It ate my answer and moved on.

Question 24:

You are holding a live wire. Not metaphorically. Your palm is wrapped around it. Describe the temperature.

I sat there for maybe forty seconds. This wasn't in any of the prep forums I'd read. But the timer kept going, so I typed something about it being warm, not painful, like a mug left too long in the microwave.

Question 25: what does the air smell like where you work.

I typed: cold. Recycled. Like nothing has ever been alive in there. And then, for about three seconds, I actually smelled it. Not my apartment. The fourteenth floor of Grelling & Associates. Then it was gone.

I checked the timer. 2:47:00. Thirteen minutes in. That tracked, I guess.

Question 26:

You are not qualified. You have never been qualified. Why are you here?

I typed something about wanting to be useful. Wanting to build something that wasn't a spreadsheet. Tired of being a formatting function. It disappeared, no checkmark, straight to the next one.

You are tired. How tired?

I typed "tired enough to let someone else decide what I am" and then just stared at it, because I hadn't meant to write that.

Next time I looked at the timer it said 1:58:00. I don't remember the questions in between. The box was empty and waiting, patient, like it had all the time it needed and I didn't.

Question 73:

What is the last thing you said to another human being that wasn't a transaction?

I couldn't think of one. I typed "I don't know" and the question just sat there. Didn't advance. So I sat there too, I don't know how long, the lawnmower outside had stopped, the coffee had gone cold and skinned over. Eventually I typed that six months ago my sister asked if I wanted to come for dinner and I told her I was fine, and that was the last non-transaction I could remember.

Question 74:

You are hollow. We can see that. This is not a criticism. This is a qualification. Do you understand?

My hands were shaking a little. I typed yes.

Timer said 1:12:00, then 0:47:00, then 0:03:00. I don't remember answering whatever came in between but the box kept filling and emptying and at some point I realized my face was wet. I don't know when that started either.

The ones I do remember:

If you could be reduced to a single function, what would it be?

You have been waiting to be used. How long?

Open your hands. Palms up. Describe what you see.

I actually did it, lifted my hands off the keyboard, turned them palm up, looked. Typed: lines, a callus from the mouse, a paper cut on the left thumb from three weeks ago that never healed right. Hands that had never held anything that mattered.

Then, last one:

You will be given a purpose. You will not choose it. You will not refuse it. This is the terms of your qualification. Type I UNDERSTAND to continue.

I typed it. Because I was tired, and the cursor had been blinking at me for what felt like an hour, and some part of me wanted to be told what to do by something that wasn't a spreadsheet. I hit enter, the timer hit zero, and the screen went white. Not a crash, not a loading icon. Just white, deep white, the kind that looks like it goes back further than a monitor should allow.

Then, small black text in the center:

CANDIDATE QUALIFIED. WELCOME TO THE TRADE.

Then my desktop came back. Browser, email, the lawnmower starting up again outside. I closed the laptop and slept for fourteen hours.

That was five weeks ago.

The license came in the mail three days later. Real card stock, embossed, my name and a credential number, no return address, no company logo. Just: CERTIFIED, ELECTRICAL TRADESMAN, PROVISIONAL, ASSIGNMENT PENDING.

I felt good. Light, actually, for the first time in two years. Called my sister. Stood outside in the sun for twenty minutes doing nothing. Told myself okay, this is the pivot, I'll get placed somewhere, I'll come home tired for a reason.

The assignment showed up on a Tuesday. Not an email. I woke up and there was a work order sitting on my kitchen counter, printed on heavy cream card stock like a wedding invitation. An address, a time, and under task description: "Panel upgrade. Residential. Bring your own hands."

I went. Obviously I went, I'd been qualified, I'd been welcomed to the trade. Drove out to a neighborhood I didn't recognize, identical lawns, houses with numbers instead of names.

Front door was unlocked. No furniture inside, no homeowner. Just a breaker panel on the far wall, open, and a black cable running from it down into the concrete floor like it had grown there.

I reached for it.

That's when I saw the camera. Small dome unit up in the corner of the ceiling, the kind you see in office elevators, and under it a little screen, phone sized, showing the feed from it. Showing me.

Except on the screen my hand wasn't reaching. It was already around the cable. Gripping it. Knuckles white, wrist turning, feeding cable through the panel, and I could see the tendons moving under the skin on that little monitor and I could not feel any of it happening.

I looked down at my actual hand.

It was on the cord.

I don't know when it got there. My fingers were wrapped around the cable, tight, pulling, and I was stripping the sheathing with my thumbnail and the copper underneath smelled hot, exactly like the answer I'd typed weeks earlier. Like a mug left too long in the microwave.

I tried to let go. My fingers didn't loosen.

I tried to step back. My feet didn't move.

My other hand came up on its own and gripped the cord six inches below the first, and both hands worked together, stripping, twisting, feeding, like they'd done this a hundred times.

I opened my mouth to scream. What came out was a hum. Low, steady, and I recognized the pitch immediately, it was the exact hum of the air conditioner in my apartment. The exact hum of the fluorescent light on the fourteenth floor.

It lasted about four seconds. Then my mouth closed and my hands kept working and I just stood there and watched them.

That was three weeks ago.

I've done six jobs since then. I don't drive to them anymore, not really, I mean I get in the car but I don't remember most of the trip. I wake up and I'm there, hands already moving. I stand inside my own body like a passenger who isn't the one driving. The work itself is good, clean, I can see that much. Whoever's doing it does excellent work.

I'm typing this slow, one finger at a time, because my hands don't want to be doing this. They want to be on assignment. I can feel them pulling toward the outlet behind my desk, toward the nearest length of wire, the way a compass needle pulls north. I've got my palms pressed flat against the desk right now just to keep them still.

I don't know who built the system, or how long it's been running, or how many of us there are. I don't know if the guys I see on real job sites are people, or if they're what I'm turning into, or if there's still a difference.

Here's what I do know. The exam wasn't a test. It was an interview. It was a guy sitting at his kitchen table typing yes, I'm empty, yes, I'm tired, please put something in here, I don't care what, just give me a function so I can stop being this shapeless nothing in a cubicle.

And it heard that. And it said welcome to the trade.

So if you see an ad for a certification, any trade, any "build something real," and it tells you to answer honestly, and question one is about wire gauges but question twenty one asks what you feel under your thumbnail:

Close the laptop.

Go outside.

Call someone, and say something to them that isn't a transaction.

Don't type I UNDERSTAND.

I typed it because I was so tired, and somehow they knew that, they could see the hollow part, the part with room in it, waiting to be filled with a function.

My hands are pulling toward the wall again. I can feel current in the wiring behind it, sixty hertz, steady like

Dad smelled like burned hair and smoke, his face still covered in soot. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

“Is mom making pancakes?” I asked tiredly.

“Judy is. Your mom’s still asleep. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

We walked downstairs together. Judy was standing over the stove wearing an oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Max, Kayla, and Darren sat at the table. They looked just as tired as I felt.

Judy served up her pancakes, and, I won’t lie, they weren’t nearly as good as mom’s, but I gobbled them up regardless. Me and the other kids spent the rest of the morning watching cartoons.

The adults had an air of relief about them. Dad laughed with Jake. Mom and Judy conversed for a while over the world and all things in it. No one ever mentioned the previous night.

Well, Darren tried to. But his mom didn’t allow it. Jake shut it down, too. But it wasn’t awkward. Nobody had to force themselves to move on. We just… did.

Dad showered. Mom rested. The day went on without incident. At some point in the afternoon, we were packing our things into the car again. It wasn’t as urgent this time. If anything, it felt happy. I even found myself excited to finally get back to my own bed.

I slept most of the way home. When I woke up, I actually recognized my surroundings. The old convenience store. The house that burned down last year. Mom and dad held hands lovingly, but didn’t talk much.

We finally got home after the sun went down. Mom was a little hesitant to go inside, but Dad reassured her. She was free now. We were free. I had no idea what it meant, but I could feel his conviction.

Even still, mom made me sleep in their bed that night. Then every night for the next week afterward. Emmy, too.

Dad held me tight. Mom kept her arm draped over my chest. We ate a lot of pancakes in those following days. It kind of felt like Mom was trying to apologize for something, but I didn’t know what.

All I knew was she was putting her all into those breakfasts.

After a while, I was finally able to sleep in my own room again, albeit with the door open. We went back-to-school shopping. I went into 4th grade with an abundance of new clothes and the coolest backpack out of all of my friends.

Life went on.

One year without incident. Then two. Then three. I went through middle school. I graduated high school. I moved away for college a year or so ago. We never had to randomly leave the house again because of some mystery stalker, but dad never stopped looking over his shoulder.

Mom has a full head of grey hair now, but she never lost her beauty. Emmy recently started her last year of middle school. Dad just… he seems to always want to keep his mind occupied.

They never brought up what happened that night. They never brought up the road trip. We visited uncle Jake and Aunt Judy a few times over the years, but the visits were calmer. They were for holidays and special occasions. Not for escape.

I developed a pretty close friendship with Max. We’d talk on the phone all the time. Play video games together. Every time I visited, we were building with those LEGOS he loved so much.

Darren eventually went into the army. Kayla is in her sophomore year of high school now.

Well… she used to be.

They’re all dead now. Everyone except for Darren, at least. I hope that he’s okay after hearing the news. He should be coming home soon.

See, I’m writing this now because of a phone call I got from my dad. I had just gotten home from a long day of classes. I was ready to eat some ramen and unwind, but he called while I was checking the mail.

“Hey, Dan,” he announced solemnly.

“Hey, Dad, how have things been?”

He sighed.

“We’re fine here, buddy, but, uh…”

He paused.

“But what?” I asked expectantly.

“Jake’s house burned down, Dan. He, uh… he didn’t make it.”

He sounded like he was holding back tears. I was shocked.

“What?? What about Aunt Judy?? What about Max or…”

He interrupted.

“They’re… they’re gone, Dan. I’m sorry.”

The news hit me like a truck. I didn’t know Kayla all that well, but Max… Max was like a brother to me. An online brother, but still a brother nonetheless.

“But… no, that doesn’t make sense. Max was just texting me last night. He told me he’d come visit me sometime soon.”

I didn’t want to believe it. Max’s exact words were, “I’ll be seeing you soon, Dan-Man.” I mean, I guess that was the last text he sent me. I didn’t hear from him after that. But still, this couldn’t be happening.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dad choked. “Their funerals are next week. I know you’re busy up there with classes and whatnot, but it’d mean a lot if you could make it.”

“I… I don’t know what to say. Of course, of course. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Dad sniffled. I was about to comfort him when I heard a sound echoing from the background of his call.

knock knock knock

“Hold on, son, let me go answer the door.”

The line went dead. I stood there, still as could be by my mailbox, just… processing. I couldn’t believe what he had just told me. The phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from Dad.

“See you soon, kiddo.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples, attempting to block the tears as I slid my phone back into my pocket. I hadn’t even opened the mailbox yet. I was just… stuck… I guess.

I figured I’d just collect my mail, then go inside and start packing for the long trip home, but when I opened the mailbox… curiosity overwhelmed me.

There was a package inside, buried beneath my regular bills and magazines. It was gift-wrapped like a Christmas present.

I brushed the mail aside and pulled the package out first thing. It was pristinely wrapped. Someone had taken time with this.

I peeled back the tape and began unwrapping. At first, I didn’t recognize what I was seeing, but then it clicked.

It was Jake’s metal lockbox. The one from all those years ago with the pictures of mom and dad. I felt my heart drop a little.

I unlatched the lid and slowly opened the box. What I saw… well… that’s why I’m writing this now.

It was… my Superman stuffy. Dusty and stiff, but it still had my initials written in faded black Sharpie across the tag. But that’s not the thing that worried me.

What worried me… was the note tied around Superman’s torso, written in sloppy, obsessive handwriting…

“Found You.”

It’s been a long 30 years. I’ve made some memories, learned some lessons, but most importantly, I became attached. Max was like the son that I never had.

I met him back in 1996. Sweet as sugar and as cute as a button. A little mischievous, though. But I think I taught him well, regardless. Just wish he’d… I don’t know… grow up?

He never really grew out of his immaturity. Who could blame him, really? I mean, his parents were hardly ever around. I was at his house 8 hours a day, Monday-Friday. Only time I ever even saw them was when they were paying me.

At first… it was mainly about the money. I was paid extraordinarily well for the work I was doing. 1500 a week, and all I had to do was just… supervise. Make sure Max didn’t kill any more pets. Keep him away from sharp objects. That kind of thing.

Don’t get me wrong, the kid was a riot. From the very first day on the job. His parents should’ve been much more stressed than they appeared. I mean, how? How do you look calm while your kid is actively crawling across the ceiling?

Not only that, but by some miracle of God, they looked, dare I say… energized. I’ve been watching Max for 30 years now. I’m not even 50, and I look like a 70-year-old.

After a while, though, I realized that you kinda just… learn to love him. Sure, watching him eat livestock so he doesn’t choke is a bit of a chore. Never seeing his reflection is… disconcerting. But you get over it. Life goes on.

I’ve celebrated Christmases with this kid. Not because I want to, though. God, no. I wanted to be home with my family. Oh, but when those parents call, I learned pretty quickly that it’s best you answer.

Broken bones and lacerations taught me that. But who was I to argue? I needed the money. That’s the thing, though. I don’t need the money anymore.

There’s enough in my account for me to live the rest of my life out on some desert island. Sippin’ margaritas out of coconuts. But they’ll find me. They always seem to find me.

Max hates it when I try to leave. After all the work I’ve done, he still bites. Poor little guy. He just doesn’t know any better. That’s another major conflict for me. It’s not that I don’t love my little Maxxy. It’s just… I’m tired, you know?

Two days off a week for 30 years, man. No vacations. No bonuses. Just supervision for Max and surveillance for me. When do I get a break?

That’s the conversation I was trying to have with his parents a few weeks ago. I came in on a Saturday, which, of course, proved to be a mistake when I found them bathing Max in a tub of pig blood while wearing owl masks. They were mad, but I just… I didn’t care. I was done.

I wanted to tell them as gently as I could, and at first, it seemed like they were understanding. They told me they knew he could be a handful and thanked me for my time and effort. I walked out without incident.

But then I stopped waking up in my own bed. I started just… appearing at their house with Max leering over me, teeth clenched and frothing at the mouth.

I mean, I think it’s been a few weeks. Maybe it’s been longer? A few months, maybe? It’s all the same. All I know is I haven’t seen his parents in a while, and every time I try to leave, there’s a brick wall behind every door.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I’m losing my patience. We’re running low on pig carcasses. Max is getting hungrier and hungrier… I can see it in his eyes.

He’s biting more these days. It used to be almost playful, but now he’s breaking the skin. I have to physically pry his jaws away from my fingers and limbs, and he just keeps growling at me.

He’s also been watching me sleep a lot more recently. I try and stay awake, but he just… I don’t know. It’s like there’s something about this place that makes it impossible.

All in all, this experience has been okay. Just ready to get off is all.

Maybe one of these days. I’m actually kind of hopeful. Because a few days ago, I heard something that sounded like music to my ears.

Someone knocking at the front door.

I opened the door slowly, expecting the brick wall again, but instead… there was a young girl standing on the front porch. She looked… uneasy to see me, to say the least, but she introduced herself nonetheless.

“Hi, uh, I’m Emma… I was just reaching out about the babysitting job?”

Heyo! This was a story I wrote for my cousins 11th bday so this is my first attempt at Middle Grade writing!

Eric looked up at the arch over the gateway made of rotting wood and rusting steel. Pinewood Cemetery. He looked back at his friends, Tim, Jeremy, and Carlos. The moon was high in the sky and not a single cloud threatened to get in its way. He shivered standing with them out on the cool September night, but unfortunately for Eric, his shivering wasn’t from the temperature. 

“Do I really have to go in there?” Eric asked, knowing already the answer he would receive in return.

“Yes.” the other three said in unison.

“You chose Dare, dude. This is the dare.” Tim said, keeping an eye out for other people that might be passing by. The wind howled just beyond the gate, mimicking the howl of a wolf. 

“Just walk around the outside path once you get in there, you’ll be done in no time.” Jeremy urged. He hadn’t brought a jacket and Eric could see the goosebumps growing on his skin. 

“I don’t know guys,” Carlos started, “when we were here before dark, the groundskeeper told us to avoid the place at night entirely. You remember that don’t you?” Eric nodded his head, though Carlos left out the other part where the groundskeeper said, “If you end up only seeing a ghost, you’d be in pretty good shape.” He knew that it was childish and silly to hang on the words of a grumpy old man, but he had said it with such sincerity, and uncomfortability. 

“Carlos, stop freaking him out, he’s already being a wuss and trying to get out of it.” Eric felt heat rush to his face with anger. 

“I’m not a wuss! Don’t call me that.” Tim crossed his arms in defiance. 

“If you’re not a wuss then walk through the cemetery quick. It’s not that big, and like Jeremy said, you’ll be back in no time.” Carlos put a reassuring hand on Eric’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to do it, man. It won’t make you a wuss.” 

“Uh yeah…It will. He’d be chickening out of the dare. What’s the point of offering him a Dare if he’s just going to wuss out of it.” Eric felt hot enough that he thought that steam would start coming out of his ears.

“I’m not a god damned chicken! And I’m not a god damned wuss! I’ll show you! I’ll show you right now!” 

“Alright! Then do it! We’re waiting!”

“Hey! Quiet down he said, whispering as loudly as he could while still keeping it a whisper. Eric glanced over at Carlos, he didn’t seem to have any reassurance this time. Without saying another word, Eric opened the gate to Pinewood Cemetery and started to walk. 

*****

By the time Eric got out of ear shot of his friends, his confidence he had built out of frustration and anger had subsided and the fear had returned with a vengeance. The wickedly bent trees above him cause even more wicked and sinister shadows on the ground and headstones. Every breath he took felt like it was going against the eerie silence of the space around him. Each crunch underneath his every step, felt like pulling the trigger of a loaded gun, causing what he thought were echoes all around him. Wherever he glanced, unfamiliar dark shapes danced and swung. 

When he glanced forward he saw that he was coming across a mausoleum, a large one, so large you could see it from the road despite that it was in the dead center of the oblong cemetery. It was already spooky to him in the daytime, with its chipping away off-white stone and crooked black metal barring over the windows. But now that he was coming up to it in the dead of night…it was out right creepy. Half of the building glowed in the pale blue light from the moon, the other half sat in utter darkness, holding whatever secrets its nooks and crannies had to hold. He stopped for a moment, trying to get a grasp on his breathing and only daring to look when he felt it was safe too. Eric didn’t know why, but he felt like the mausoleum was staring at him, watching his every move. 

He looked back toward his friends, he could barely see them due to the only light source around being the moonlight. He wondered if instead of having to walk around the whole cemetery, if he could get away with just sitting on the steps of the building for a few minutes and then slowly start making his way back. He tested this idea by waving toward his group of friends. They made no response or wave in return, seeming to continue on doing whatever they were on about. The slightest bit of tension released from Eric’s neck and shoulders, allowing him to breathe somewhat normally for the first time since he had walked in. He took a seat on the bottom step and pulled out his phone, trying to open Instagram only to see that he didn’t have any service. 

“Of course.” He muttered to himself, resorting to opening up the Solitaire app and starting a game. Before he could make his first move, he heard something from behind him. It was muffled and faint so he couldn’t make out what it was. He raised an eyebrow suspiciously, seeing that the only thing behind him was the door to the building. He went back to his phone and got ready to start his game once again when the noise came again, but much louder. 

THUD.

Eric jumped up, startled at the sudden noise. He could’ve sworn this time that it came from behind him, he knew he was only imagining it, but he also could’ve sworn that he felt the ground shake a little when it happened. He stood there, his shivering returning and now on the verge of tears. 

THUD. THUD. 

The thudding continued, rhythmically, like whatever it was behind the door was keeping time to a song only it could hear. Eric took a few steps back now, scrambling to close out his Solitaire game and turn the flashlight on. As he found the flashlight mode on his phone the thudding stopped. Silence once again blanketed the world around him, leaving only the howling wind, crickets, and his heart thumping madly with anxiety against his chest. For a few agonizing moments nothing happened. Then, the knob of the mausoleum door slowly started to turn. 

Eric wanted nothing more than to haul ass down the path to the gate and run, screw going back to the sleepover, he was going to run all the way home and cry in his mom’s lap while his dad chewed him up for trespassing…but he couldn’t move. No matter what he tried to do, fear had frozen him in place.

After half of a minute of the door knob first squeakily turning one way and then even more squeakily turning the other, the door knob stopped moving and everything was still once again. Eric found that his lip was trembling and that tears had started trailing their way down his cheeks. He wished so badly to be able to run, but he couldn’t, so he now wished that whatever was behind that door would just come out already, enough with the waiting.

As if Eric himself had willed his wishes into existence, the door started to creak open, swaying silently and slowly, inching itself open. When the door was completely open, the sound of scuffling and a low moaning sound came from inside the pitch black building. He raised his hand that was holding his phone and shined the light through the open doorway, hoping to the heavens above that what he was hearing was simply just a critter that had somehow made its way inside…but he knew that wasn’t going to be the case. What he saw when the light shined inside shook Eric to his core.

It was a man in a withered suit, tears all over the jacket and pants, dirt covered almost every inch of the man as well. The skin was pulled taut and ripped in multiple places across the face and hands, showing rotted black flesh underneath. It was missing one of its eyes with nothing but inky blackness in its place. The man was missing hair in many places on his head and blood coated his chin and lips. A dead and mutilated rat hung by its tail from the man’s hand. Both Eric and the rotting man stood silently, neither one of them making a move. After only a few seconds that felt like a millennium to Eric, the rotting man burst forward toward him. Eric, thankfully, found that his legs were no longer frozen and booked it down the path from which he came. 

He could no longer see his friends, clouds had found their way into the night sky and essentially flipped the light switch on his part of the world. A horrid scream echoed through the graveyard behind him, a mixture of a little girl's scream and someone choking on a piece of fried chicken. He didn’t try to hold back his fear anymore, he openly sobbed as his legs pushed him forward as quickly as they could. 

He felt he was halfway there when another one of those horrible screams came again. Eric glanced over his shoulder and saw the rotting man was only ten or fifteen feet behind him, random bones popping and snapping as he pushed to get closer to the boy in front of him. 

“GET AWAY!” Eric yelled and managed to push himself harder.

Finally the gate had come into view. It was hard to tell at first but he quickly realized his friends were still standing there.

“Help! Tim! Carlos! Jeremy! Help me!” They didn’t respond, continuing to chat amongst themselves.

 He slowed down as he approached the gate, quickly getting it open enough to slip through. Before he could fully slip through, he felt the icy cold touch of one of its fingers grazing along the back of his neck. He grabbed the gate and slammed it shut. Then tried backing away so quickly that he ran into Carlos and found himself at his friend's feet.

“Why didn’t any of you come help me?!” Eric yelled. His friends looked at him and were confused. 

“What are you talking about?” Tim asked, looking behind them at the cemetery.

“I was just yelling for your help back there before I made it to the gate!” Once again his friends looked confused.

“We didn’t hear anything, man…not until you damn near ran through the gate trying to get out.” Carlos crouched down with Eric.

“Why were you trying to get out so bad?” Eric looked at Carlos and the rest of his friends flabbergasted. 

“Are you kidding me?! There was a dead man running after me! All the way from the mausoleum! He was running after me like I was his next meal!” The boys stood in silence for a second. Then Tim started to laugh, then Jeremy joined in. Laughter filled the air as Eric jumped up to his feet to look past them, only now Eric was the one confused. The moon was out just as strong as it was when he entered the cemetery. Everything was just as it was before the mausoleum. 

“The mausoleum…” Eric muttered.

“What?” Tim asked, starting to get his handle on his giggle fit. 

“You guys will believe me if you see the mausoleum.”

“No chance. We’re getting back to the house, my mom will notice if we’re gone for too long.” 

“But…but…” Eric started as Carlos gently pushed him along when they started to walk back to Jeremy’s house. When the four got halfway back, Eric asked Carlos a question.

“You believe me right?” Carlos only shrugged his shoulders.

“The dark can play tricks on you, man. I remember a few years ago when I was afraid that the sound coming from my closet was a monster of some sort, but when my dad checked the next morning, it turned out to just be a water pipe that was just above the ceiling tile.” Eric’s shoulders slumped and he felt tears starting to form in his eyes again. 

“So you don’t believe me…” Carlos put his arm around Eric’s shoulders. 

“Look, I believe you saw something that scared the hell out of you. Obviously. I just think that maybe it wasn’t what you claim it is.” Eric didn’t say anything more for the rest of the walk.

*****

They spent the rest of the evening snacking on Doritos and playing Fortnite until they eventually passed out between one and two in the morning. Eric’s friends had him convinced that what he saw was probably just a trick on the mind over a rotting man chasing him through a graveyard in the middle of the night.

When his mom picked him up, he told her about everything they did, excluding the part where he was forced to trespass into a graveyard. On their way home, his mom drove past the graveyard due to construction closing off the normal way home. Out of curiosity, Eric looked out the window. His mom coincidentally slowed down by the gate and Eric saw two things that confirmed that his night wasn’t just a trick on the mind. The first, was that a dead, mutilated rat lay just inside the cemetery gates. The second was that he could see the mausoleum clearly in the daylight, and the door was wide open. Though when his mom started to speed up again, Eric swore that he saw the door start to inch itself close…

Bạn có bao giờ nghĩ đến một ngày nào đó, bạn sẽ bị một sinh vật mang hình hài giống hệt mình thay thế hay chưa? Và mục đích của chúng không phải là bắt chước bạn mãi mãi, mà là để tiếp cận và giết hết những người đã vô tình chào mời chúng vào nhà.

Tôi sống cùng em trai ở một vùng ngoại ô xa trung tâm thành phố nhộn nhịp và đông đúc. Cả khu chỉ lác đác khoảng năm, sáu căn nhà, nằm cách nhau bởi những khoảng đất rộng và yên tĩnh. Phía sau nhà tôi là một khu rừng khá lớn, nơi bọn trẻ trong vùng thường truyền tai nhau đủ loại câu chuyện kỳ lạ. Mỗi ngày, chúng tôi lại tụ tập thành từng nhóm để vui chơi và kể cho nhau nghe những điều mình từng trải qua hoặc nghe từ người lớn. Trong vô số câu chuyện ấy, nổi tiếng nhất là truyền thuyết về “The Mimic” — một cái tên mà hầu như đứa trẻ nào trong vùng cũng biết đến, và đó cũng là câu chuyện khiến tôi sợ hãi nhất.

Cha mẹ tôi mất sớm khi tôi mới mười tuổi, còn em trai tôi chỉ vừa lên bảy. Là những đứa trẻ mồ côi giữa một vùng quê thưa dân, chúng tôi luôn nhận được sự quan tâm đặc biệt từ những người xung quanh. Người lớn trong vùng đối xử với hai anh em rất ấm áp, xem chúng tôi như người thân trong gia đình. Bọn trẻ cũng thường xuyên rủ chúng tôi chơi cùng, chia sẻ đồ chơi, bánh kẹo và những món ăn mà chúng có.

Dù vậy, mỗi khi nhìn thấy những đứa trẻ được cha mẹ chăm sóc, yêu thương và chờ đón sau mỗi buổi chiều, trong lòng tôi vẫn không khỏi ngưỡng mộ, đôi khi xen lẫn một chút ghen tị. Em trai tôi là một đứa bé ngoan ngoãn và hiểu chuyện hơn nhiều so với tuổi của nó. Có lẽ vì biến cố đến quá sớm nên nó học cách trưởng thành rất nhanh.

Cuộc sống của hai anh em cứ thế trôi qua trong sự bình yên giản dị. Mỗi sáng thức dậy, chúng tôi lại dắt nhau ra ngoài chơi, nhận những phần thức ăn mà hàng xóm tốt bụng mang cho, rồi hòa vào đám trẻ trong vùng với những câu chuyện bất tận. Khi mặt trời lặn, hai anh em lại trở về căn nhà quen thuộc, cùng nhau ăn tối, trò chuyện đôi câu trước khi chìm vào giấc ngủ, chờ đón một ngày mới giống như bao ngày khác.

Một ngày nọ, cả đám trẻ lại tụ tập trước sân nhà Jien — cô bé sống trong ngôi nhà lớn nhất vùng. Như thường lệ, mỗi đứa lại nghĩ ra một trò chơi hoặc một câu chuyện mới để kể cho cả nhóm nghe.

Hôm đó, Brian — thằng nhóc suốt ngày luyên thuyên về đống tiểu thuyết kinh dị ở nhà nó — là đứa đến muộn nhất. Từ xa, nó đã vừa chạy vừa lớn tiếng gọi:

— Này! Hôm nay tớ lại có một câu chuyện đặc biệt để kể cho các cậu đây. Có ai dám nghe không?

Min nhíu mày khó hiểu:

— Chuyện gì mà lại không dám nghe chứ? Bình thường anh vẫn kể đầy ấy thôi.

Brian nở nụ cười đầy bí hiểm.

— Là một truyền thuyết của chính vùng này đấy.

Nói rồi, nó chạy đến chỗ chúng tôi, ngồi phịch xuống sân như không thể chờ thêm được nữa.

— Câu chuyện về “The Mimic” nhé. Các cậu có muốn nghe không?

Vừa nghe đến cái tên đó, cả đám lập tức bị khơi dậy sự tò mò. Dáng vẻ hào hứng của Brian khiến không ai còn tâm trí nghĩ đến trò chơi nào khác.

— Kể đi, Brian! Chúng tớ đang nghe đây! — cả nhóm đồng thanh thúc giục.

Brian nhìn quanh một lượt, hạ thấp giọng như sợ có ai đó nghe thấy, rồi bắt đầu câu chuyện.

Sâu trong khu rừng phía tây từng tồn tại một sinh vật kỳ bí mang tên The Mimic. Cái tên ấy đã nói lên tất cả — một kẻ chuyên bắt chước. Theo lời đồn, hắn thường săn lùng con người vào lúc nửa đêm, đặc biệt là những ai đang ở một mình trong phòng.

The Mimic có khả năng giả giọng người thân của nạn nhân để dụ họ mở cửa, thậm chí còn có thể bắt chước cả ngoại hình của họ một cách hoàn hảo. Tuy nhiên, hắn vẫn có những điểm yếu nhất định. Chỉ cần bạn đóng chặt cửa và nhất quyết không mở, hắn sẽ không thể tấn công được.

Đôi khi, khi nhận ra con mồi không mắc bẫy, hắn sẽ không tiếp tục giả giọng nữa mà để lộ chất giọng khàn đặc đầy đáng sợ của mình. Có lúc hắn đập cửa điên cuồng như muốn phá tung mọi thứ để xông vào, nhưng cũng có lúc hắn chỉ đứng im bên ngoài một lúc lâu rồi lặng lẽ biến mất vào màn đêm.

Nghe xong câu chuyện, đám nhóc đứa nào cũng nổi hết da gà. Riêng tôi, vốn là đứa gan dạ nhất nhóm, nên chẳng cảm thấy sợ hãi gì mấy.

— Chả có gì hay ho cả. Mày làm quá lên thôi. Chỉ là truyền thuyết, làm gì có thật chứ. — Tôi cười khẩy.

Brian lập tức phản bác:

— Nhưng… mẹ em nói bà ấy đã từng gặp nó rồi.

— Mày đùa đấy à? Chẳng vui chút nào đâu.

Ngay lập tức, cả đám nhốn nháo như thể vừa nghe thấy tin động trời. Jien vội ôm chặt lấy Min, gương mặt lộ rõ vẻ sợ hãi.

— Có gì đâu mà sợ. Mày nhát thật đấy. — Tôi bật cười. — Mẹ thằng Brian chắc chỉ nhìn nhầm thôi, hoặc xem phim kinh dị nhiều quá.

— Không phải đâu! Mẹ em bảo là gặp thật mà. — Brian khăng khăng bảo vệ lời kể của mình.

Nhưng tôi vẫn cho rằng đó chỉ là một câu chuyện được thêm thắt để truyền thuyết trở nên đáng tin hơn.

— Thế thì kể nghe xem nào. — Tôi khoanh tay nhìn nó. — Mẹ mày đã gặp cái gì?

— Mẹ em kể rằng chuyện đó xảy ra vào một lần bố đi công tác xa. Hôm ấy, ở nhà chỉ có mẹ và chú chó Kii…

Sau khi ăn tối và dọn dẹp xong, mẹ ngồi xem tivi như mọi ngày. Kii nằm ngay bên cạnh, lim dim mắt như sắp ngủ. Mọi thứ đều rất bình thường cho đến khi từ một góc tối trong nhà bỗng vang lên một âm thanh lạ.

Ban đầu, mẹ tưởng mình nghe nhầm. Nhưng khi lắng tai nghe kỹ, mẹ nhận ra đó giống hệt giọng của chính mình.

Kii cũng lập tức phản ứng. Nó vểnh tai lên, dựng đuôi và nhìn chăm chú về phía phát ra âm thanh. Điều đó khiến mẹ càng thêm bất an, bởi rõ ràng không chỉ mình mẹ nghe thấy.

Một luồng lạnh buốt chạy dọc sống lưng. Tay chân bà cứng đờ, không dám cử động mạnh.

Rồi tiếng gọi ấy lại vang lên.

— Kii… Kii…

Đó là giọng của mẹ, nhưng lại phát ra từ góc nhà tối om.

Âm thanh ấy lặp đi lặp lại hai, ba lần, kéo dài trong vài chục giây. Mỗi lần tiếng gọi vang lên, Kii lại nhìn chằm chằm vào góc tường và sủa đáp trả như thể đang đối diện với một thứ gì đó mà mẹ không thể nhìn thấy.

Còn bà thì chỉ biết ngồi chết lặng trên ghế, cảm giác sợ hãi ngày một lớn dần khi tiếng gọi mang chính giọng nói của mình vẫn đều đều vọng ra từ bóng tối.

— Chỉ có vậy thôi à? Tao vẫn chưa tin lắm. Có khi chỉ là trùng hợp thôi thì sao? — Tôi chen ngang, dù trong lòng đã bắt đầu có chút rùng mình nhưng vẫn cố tỏ ra bình thản.

Brian nhìn tôi một lúc, vẻ mặt vừa lo lắng vừa dè chừng, như thể nó sợ phản ứng của tôi còn hơn cả câu chuyện mà nó đang kể.

— Dạ… nhưng em vẫn chưa kể hết…

Giọng nó nhỏ đi thấy rõ.

Cả nhóm lập tức im lặng. Những tiếng côn trùng kêu ngoài bãi cỏ dường như cũng trở nên rõ ràng hơn trong khoảnh khắc ấy. Brian nuốt khan một cái, hít sâu rồi tiếp tục kể phần còn dang dở của câu chuyện.

— Mẹ em bế Kii chạy thật nhanh vào phòng ngủ rồi khóa chặt cửa lại. Dù đã ở trong phòng, bà vẫn chưa thể hoàn hồn sau những gì vừa xảy ra…

Khoảng một tiếng sau, từ bên ngoài bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cốc… cốc… cốc…

Cùng lúc đó là một giọng nói trầm thấp quen thuộc:

— Em ơi, anh về rồi đây. Mau mở cửa cho anh.

Đó là giọng của bố em.

Mẹ lập tức đứng dậy, bước nhanh đến cửa. Bàn tay bà vừa định chạm vào tay nắm thì chợt khựng lại. Bố vẫn đang đi công tác xa, làm sao có thể về nhà vào giờ này được?

Một cảm giác lạnh buốt lan khắp cơ thể.

Mẹ từ từ lùi lại khỏi cánh cửa, hơi thở trở nên gấp gáp. Kii cũng đứng bật dậy, không ngừng nhìn chằm chằm về phía cửa như thể đang theo dõi một thứ gì đó ở bên ngoài.

Run rẩy, mẹ với lấy chiếc điện thoại đặt trên giường và gọi cho bố.

Chỉ sau vài hồi chuông, đầu dây bên kia vang lên giọng nói quen thuộc:

— Vợ gọi anh có chuyện gì vậy? Anh vẫn chưa về được đâu, chắc phải đến mai mới kịp. Vợ đợi anh nhé.

Mẹ gần như nghẹn giọng:

— Anh… anh vẫn chưa về sao? Vậy người đang đứng ngoài cửa là ai?

— Em nói gì cơ?

Giọng nói kêu gọi ngoài cửa dần trở nên khàn đặc hơn, tiếng gõ cửa thì đã chuyển thành âm thanh đập cửa một cách mạnh bạo.

— Có ai đó đang ở ngoài kia… Nó dùng chính giọng nói của anh để gọi em mở cửa…

Đầu dây bên kia im lặng vài giây.

— Vợ à, nghe anh này. Bình tĩnh lại. Tuyệt đối đừng mở cửa. Cứ ở yên trong phòng, em sẽ an toàn.

Sau đó, tiếng đập cửa và giọng nói bên ngoài vẫn kéo dài thêm một lúc rồi mới biến mất.

Đêm hôm ấy, mẹ em không hề bị thương hay mất mát thứ gì. Thế nhưng, những gì bà nghe và trải qua đã để lại một vết sẹo trong tâm trí. Cho đến tận bây giờ, mỗi khi nhắc lại chuyện đó, bà vẫn không thể quên được cảm giác sợ hãi ấy…

— Thôi anh đừng kể nữa… Chị Jien khóc rồi kìa. — Min vội lên tiếng ngăn lại.

Tôi quay sang nhìn. Jien thật sự đã đỏ hoe mắt, hai tay ôm chặt lấy Min như sợ chỉ cần buông ra một chút là thứ gì đó sẽ xuất hiện từ trong bóng tối.

Dù chẳng ai muốn thừa nhận, nhưng câu chuyện của Brian đã khiến cả đám nhóc chúng tôi sợ đến mất vía.

Những ngày bình thường, sau khi chơi xong, đứa nào cũng tự chạy về nhà. Thế nhưng hôm đó, không ai còn đủ can đảm để đi một mình. Đứa nào đứa nấy đều nằng nặc đòi bố mẹ Jien đưa về tận cửa nhà mới chịu.

Trên đường về, cả nhóm im lặng một cách lạ thường. Không còn tiếng cười đùa hay tranh cãi như mọi khi. Mỗi đứa đều thỉnh thoảng liếc nhìn những góc tối ven đường như sợ rằng chỉ cần quay đầu đi một chút, sẽ có thứ gì đó trực chờ lao tới.

Tối hôm ấy, tôi dám chắc rằng chẳng đứa nào ngủ ngon. Có lẽ bọn nó sẽ trùm chăn kín mít, khóa chặt cửa phòng rồi nằm co ro trên giường, cố gắng quên đi câu chuyện đáng sợ mà Brian đã kể lúc chiều. Thậm chí ngay cả tôi, người luôn tự nhận mình gan dạ nhất nhóm cũng không ngoại lệ. Tôi không thể ngăn bản thân nhớ đến giọng nói vang lên từ phía sau cánh cửa trong câu chuyện ấy.

Dù vậy, tôi vẫn nhất quyết không tin câu chuyện của Brian.

“Nhảm nhí. Làm gì có ma quỷ hay quái vật nào ở đây chứ… Tao phải tận mắt thấy thì mới tin.” — Tôi luôn tự trấn an mình bằng thái độ đầy hống hách như thế.

Đã vài tháng trôi qua kể từ ngày nghe câu chuyện ấy.

 Trong khoảng thời gian đó, đám trẻ trong vùng liên tục kể về những hiện tượng kỳ lạ mà chúng gặp phải.

Min quả quyết rằng có lần nó nghe thấy tiếng mẹ gọi mình giữa đêm khuya, dù đến sáng dậy hỏi thì mẹ nó bảo bà vẫn ngủ say trong phòng. Jien thì kể rằng dạo gần đây, mỗi lần ra ngoài, bố mẹ nó đều dặn phải khóa chặt cửa và còn thống nhất với nhau một mật mã để nhận biết lẫn nhau.

Tôi chỉ bật cười trước những câu chuyện ấy.

— Chắc người lớn chỉ đề phòng trộm cướp thôi. Còn Min, tao nghĩ mày bị ám ảnh quá rồi nên tưởng tượng ra tiếng mẹ mình đấy.

Tôi nói với vẻ như chắc chắn mình hiểu rõ mọi chuyện.

Trong mắt tôi lúc đó, tất cả chỉ là những lời đồn bị thổi phồng bởi nỗi sợ hãi của trẻ con và sự cẩn trọng quá mức của người lớn.

Nhưng rồi đến một ngày, những điều kỳ lạ bắt đầu xảy ra với chính tôi.

Hôm ấy, John — em trai tôi — xin phép được ra ngoài chơi với một nhóm bạn mới quen và ngủ lại qua đêm ở nhà họ. Tôi vốn khá dễ tính nên đồng ý ngay mà chẳng suy nghĩ nhiều, dù sao thì nó cũng đã mười bốn tuổi rồi.

“Không có nó ở nhà cũng hơi chán nhỉ…” — tôi thầm nghĩ.

Tôi mở cửa bước ra ngoài đi dạo quanh khu mình sống.

Hôm ấy, thời tiết đẹp đến lạ. Bầu trời trong xanh, gió thổi nhè nhẹ qua những tán cây. Tôi lang thang hết chỗ này đến chỗ khác, lúc thì hái vài bông hoa ven đường, lúc lại đuổi theo những cánh bướm đủ màu đang bay lượn trên đồng cỏ. Cuối cùng, tôi ngồi dưới gốc cây táo lớn gần khu đất trống để tận hưởng không khí mát mẻ của buổi chiều.

Được một lúc thì Min và Jien cùng vài đứa trẻ khác bắt gặp tôi. Chúng chạy lại ríu rít xin chơi cùng.
Thế là cả đám lại tụ tập như mọi khi. Chúng tôi cười đùa không ngớt, bày ra đủ trò chơi ngốc nghếch rồi kể cho nhau nghe những câu chuyện hài hước khiến đứa nào cũng ôm bụng cười.

Chẳng mấy chốc, mặt trời đã ngả dần về phía chân trời. Ánh nắng vàng cam phủ lên cả khu ngoại ô yên tĩnh.

Chúng tôi tạm biệt nhau rồi ai về nhà nấy.

Tôi cầm phần thức ăn tối mà hàng xóm tốt bụng đã chuẩn bị giúp mình, trở về căn nhà nhỏ. Tôi bật chiếc bếp cũ lên để hâm nóng thức ăn rồi mang ra bàn phòng khách.

Tivi vẫn phát những chương trình quen thuộc như mọi ngày. Tôi vừa ăn tối vừa chăm chú theo dõi màn hình, thời gian trôi rất nhanh.

Ăn xong, tôi dọn dẹp bàn ăn, tắt tivi rồi đi lên phòng chuẩn bị ngủ. Tuy vậy, tôi vẫn chưa buồn đi ngủ ngay. Chiếc đèn bàn vẫn sáng khi tôi mải mê chơi trò chơi trên cái máy điện tử cầm tay của mình.

Mãi đến khi đồng hồ điểm mười hai giờ đêm, tôi mới ngáp dài, đặt máy xuống rồi đứng dậy tắt đèn.

Chiếc giường của tôi nằm sát cửa sổ, nơi có thể nhìn thẳng ra khu rừng phía sau nhà. Ban ngày, đó chỉ là một khu rừng bình thường. Nhưng khi màn đêm buông xuống, những tán cây đen đặc chồng lên nhau khiến nó trở nên âm u và đáng sợ lạ thường.

Tôi vô thức liếc ra ngoài cửa sổ.

Bóng tối bao trùm tất cả.

Sâu từ trong rừng cây, tôi chắc đã thấy một cái bóng đen cao gần ba mét, đang lấp ló đứng ở đó. Nó bất động, đôi mắt sáng rực nhuốm đỏ đang nhìn về phía căn nhà của tôi.

Một cảm giác khó tả thoáng lướt qua khiến tôi vội kéo kín rèm lại rồi chui vào chăn, tự nhủ lòng mình rằng chỉ đang gặp ảo giác.

Tôi cố híp mắt trong sự dè dặt sợ hãi. Vừa lim dim được vài phút thì từ dưới nhà bỗng vang lên tiếng gõ cửa.

Cộc… cộc… cộc…

Ngay sau đó là giọng nói vang lên:

— Anh hai, mở cửa cho em với. Anh hai còn thức không?

Là giọng nói của John.

Tôi dụi mắt, lồm cồm ngồi dậy rồi bước ra khỏi phòng, đi xuống cửa chính.

— Ủa? Mày không ngủ lại à, John?

Giọng thằng bé vang lên từ bên ngoài:

— Bạn em hủy kèo mất rồi. Nên giờ em phải tự đi bộ về đây nè, chán chết đi được. Anh mở cửa cho em mau đi.

Tay tôi đặt lên nắm cửa nhưng vẫn chần chừ.

— Là mày thật không đấy, John?

Bên ngoài im lặng vài giây rồi đáp lại:

— Anh hỏi gì kỳ vậy? Em đây mà. Mở cửa cho em đi.

Giọng nói nghe hoàn toàn giống em trai tôi.

Sự thúc giục có phần gấp gáp của nó khiến tôi hơi nghi ngờ. Nhưng rồi tôi tự cười nhạo chính mình.

Mình nghĩ linh tinh quá rồi.

Trời đã khuya thế này, việc nó sốt ruột cũng là chuyện bình thường.

Nghĩ vậy, tôi mở cửa.

John đang đứng trước hiên nhà.

Nó ngẩng đầu nhìn tôi rồi nở một nụ cười quen thuộc. Thế nhưng không hiểu vì sao, nụ cười ấy lại có chút gì đó gượng gạo khiến tôi cảm thấy không thoải mái.

Dẫu vậy, cơn buồn ngủ đã làm tôi chẳng còn tâm trí để suy nghĩ nhiều.

John bước ngang qua tôi, đi thẳng về phía phòng của nó.

Cạch.

Cánh cửa phòng khép lại. Ngôi nhà một lần nữa chìm vào im lặng.

Sáng hôm sau, vừa thức dậy, tôi sang phòng John xem thử nó đã dậy chưa.

Nhưng căn phòng lại trống không.

Chiếc giường bừa bộn một cách kỳ lạ. Chăn mền bị xới tung lên như thể có ai đó vừa lục lọi khắp nơi để tìm kiếm thứ gì.

Tôi nhíu mày nhìn quanh.

— Quái thật… Bình thường thằng oắt này ngủ nướng lắm mà. Hôm nay lại dậy sớm hơn cả mình à?

Nghĩ vậy, tôi bước xuống phòng khách.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng cạnh cửa sổ, quay mặt về phía tây, là hướng của khu rừng sau nhà.

Điều kỳ lạ là nó đứng hoàn toàn bất động.

Không cử động.

Không nói gì.

Và có thể là không thở.

Cứ như một bức tượng.

— John!

Tôi gọi lớn rồi chạy lại gần.

Thằng bé không hề giật mình. Nó từ từ quay đầu về phía tôi.

Trên môi nó lại xuất hiện nụ cười gượng gạo mà tôi đã thấy vào đêm qua.

Một nụ cười kì lạ khiến tôi cảm thấy vô cùng khó chịu.

— Này, mày sao thế? Sáng sớm đứng đây làm gì vậy?

— Có gì đâu, anh hai. Em tập thể dục ấy mà!

Tôi nhìn nó đầy nghi ngờ.

Rõ ràng tôi đã thấy nó đứng yên ở đó từ khá lâu, chẳng hề nhúc nhích lấy một lần. Thế mà giờ nó lại bảo mình đang tập thể dục. Nghe vô lý đến mức chẳng ai muốn tin.

Nhưng nếu không phải tập thể dục thì nó đang làm gì? Tôi cũng không biết.

Vì thế tôi chỉ nhún vai cho qua rồi tiếp tục công việc thường ngày, dù trong lòng vẫn còn vương lại cảm giác khó hiểu về hành động kỳ lạ của em trai mình.

Ăn xong bữa trưa, tôi lập tức chạy sang nhà Jien. Vừa đến nơi, tôi đã thấy Brian và Min cũng đang ngồi ở đó.

Không chần chừ, tôi kể cho cả nhóm nghe những hành động kỳ lạ của John từ tối hôm qua đến giờ.
Nghe xong, cả đám bắt đầu đưa ra đủ loại suy đoán.

— Anh John bị huỷ kèo nên không khoẻ hay sao? — Min bật cười.

— Hay là chơi bời chán quá nên ảnh cố tình pha trò thôi. — Jien góp lời.

Brian ngồi im một lúc rồi bất ngờ lên tiếng:

— Hay là… đó không phải John?

Nghe đến đây, tim tôi như hẫng một nhịp.

— Này, mày nói linh tinh gì vậy, Brian? — Tôi lập tức gắt lên.

Brian nhún vai.

— Thì em chỉ đoán thôi mà. Giống như câu chuyện em kể tháng trước ấy…

Cả nhóm bỗng im bặt.

Không khí trong căn phòng trở nên nặng nề đến lạ.

Tôi có thể nghe rõ nhịp tim mình đang đập nhanh dần trong lồng ngực.

— Đừng đùa nữa, chả vui chút nào đâu, Brian. — Tôi nhăn mặt tỏ vẻ khó chịu.

Jien thấy bầu không khí căng thẳng liền vội đổi chủ đề:

— Thôi nào, mọi người ngồi xuống đi. Em lấy bánh ra cho cả nhóm ăn nhé. Mà sao anh Aline không rủ anh John sang chơi cho vui?

Tôi thở dài.

— Thì tao thấy nó chẳng có vẻ hứng thú gì. Nên tao qua đây một mình.

— Vậy à…

Chẳng ai nói thêm gì về chuyện đó nữa.

Một lúc sau, đám nhóc lại quây quần quanh chiếc bàn nhỏ, vừa ăn bánh vừa trò chuyện đủ thứ trên trời dưới đất. Tiếng cười nói nhanh chóng lấp đầy căn phòng, nhưng riêng tôi vẫn không thể gạt khỏi đầu câu nói ban nãy của Brian.

“Hay là… đó không phải John?”

Dù luôn tự nhủ đó chỉ là một câu đùa ngớ ngẩn, tôi vẫn cảm thấy một nỗi bất an mơ hồ đang âm thầm lớn dần trong lòng mình.

Ăn hết đĩa bánh, tôi đứng dậy vươn vai cho đỡ mỏi vì đã ngồi quá lâu.

Tôi bước ra ban công tầng hai nhà Jien. Từ đây có thể nhìn thẳng sang căn nhà nhỏ của hai anh em tôi ở phía bên kia con đường.

Và rồi tôi nhìn thấy John.

Nó đang đứng lấp ló ngay cửa sổ nhà mình, hướng mắt về phía nhà Jien.

Đúng lúc ấy, đám nhóc cũng ùa ra ban công.

— John ơi! Sang đây chơi với tụi này đi!

Từ xa, John đáp lại bằng một nụ cười kì quái rồi lập tức bước về phía nhà Jien. Chẳng mấy chốc, tiếng chuông cửa vang lên. Đám trẻ vội chạy xuống mở cửa.

— John à, cậu qua trễ quá! Bánh sắp hết mất rồi!

— Tiếc thật đó, nãy giờ vui lắm luôn!

— Mau vào trong ngồi chơi đi!

John bước vào nhà giữa sự chào đón nhiệt tình của cả nhóm.

Chúng tôi nhanh chóng ngồi thành một vòng tròn trong phòng khách. Tôi ngồi đối diện với John, vừa đủ để quan sát nó một cách rõ ràng.

Đứa nào cũng cười nói rôm rả, thi nhau kể những câu chuyện ngốc nghếch để chọc cả nhóm.

Chỉ riêng John là khác.

Nó ngồi yên lặng từ đầu đến cuối.

Thỉnh thoảng, nó mỉm cười khi nghe người khác nói chuyện, nhưng hầu như không tham gia vào bất kỳ câu chuyện nào. Cảm giác như nó đang âm thầm quan sát tất cả chúng tôi hơn là thực sự hòa vào cuộc vui.

Tôi vài lần định bắt chuyện với nó, nhưng rồi lại thôi. Không hiểu sao, từ sáng đến giờ tôi luôn cảm thấy có điều gì đó không đúng.

Dẫu vậy, nhìn vẻ mặt bình thản của John, tôi lại tự nhủ có lẽ mình đang suy nghĩ quá nhiều.

Hôm ấy, cả nhóm chơi đến tận chiều tối. Chúng tôi thay phiên nhau chơi điện tử, đánh cờ caro rồi lục tung đống đồ chơi của Jien để tìm trò mới.

Tiếng cười vang khắp căn nhà.

Nhưng giữa những âm thanh náo nhiệt ấy, tôi vẫn nhiều lần vô thức nhìn sang John.

Và lần nào cũng vậy.

Nó vẫn chỉ ngồi đó, lặng lẽ dõi theo mọi người bằng ánh mắt khó đoán.

Ting… ting…

Âm báo tin nhắn từ điện thoại tôi bất ngờ vang lên giữa lúc cả đám đang cười đùa.

Tôi tiện tay mở màn hình ra xem.

Người gửi: John.

Nội dung tin nhắn:
“Anh hai, em chuẩn bị về nè, ở nhà một mình buồn không haha.”

Tôi chết lặng.

Từng chữ trên màn hình như đóng băng trước mắt tôi.

Chậm rãi, tôi ngẩng đầu lên nhìn John đang ngồi đối diện.

Nó cũng đang nhìn tôi.

Rồi từ từ nở một nụ cười.

Một nụ cười rộng đến mức khiến tôi lạnh sống lưng.

Tim tôi đập thình thịch trong lồng ngực.

— Mày… đùa gì vậy, John? — Tôi bật cười gượng. — Đang ngồi ở đây mà lại nhắn tin bảo sắp về. Tính hù tao à? Không dễ đâu nhé…

Giọng tôi run đến mức chính tôi cũng nhận ra.

Những đứa trẻ khác nghe thấy câu nói ấy liền quay sang nhìn. Tiếng cười đùa trong phòng đột ngột biến mất. Không khí trở nên im lặng đến đáng sợ.

John vẫn ngồi yên.

Nụ cười trên môi nó không hề thay đổi.

Rồi nó cất tiếng.

Nhưng đó không phải là giọng của John.

Âm thanh phát ra méo mó và kỳ dị, như thể nhiều giọng nói đang chồng chéo lên nhau. Có lúc nghe giống tiếng người, có lúc lại hoàn toàn xa lạ, khiến không ai có thể hiểu được nó đang nói gì.

Cả căn phòng đông cứng.

Không ai cử động.

Không ai nói được một lời.

Tất cả chỉ biết ngồi đó, nhìn chằm chằm vào sinh vật đang mang diện mạo của John.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhớ lại câu chuyện Brian từng kể. Nhưng mẹ của Brian đã sống sót, bởi bà ấy không mở cửa cho hắn.

Còn chúng tôi thì khác.

Chúng tôi không đứng sau một cánh cửa khóa chặt.

Chúng tôi đang ở ngay trước mặt thứ sinh vật mang tên The Mimic.

Trong khoảnh khắc ấy, tôi chợt nhận ra một điều đáng sợ.

Suốt thời gian qua, tôi luôn tò mò về kết cục của những người không may rơi vào tay nó. Tôi từng nghĩ đó chỉ là một câu chuyện bịa đặt để hù dọa trẻ con.

Nhưng giờ đây, tôi không còn phải tò mò nữa.

Bởi vì câu trả lời đang ở ngay trước mắt tôi.

Căn phòng chìm trong hỗn loạn. Tiếng la hét vang lên rồi nhanh chóng bị nuốt chửng bởi nỗi kinh hoàng.

Tôi muốn chạy.

Tôi muốn hét lên.

Nhưng cơ thể lại cứng đờ, như thể mọi sức lực đều đã bị rút cạn.

Thứ cuối cùng tôi nhìn thấy là bóng dáng của sinh vật ấy giữa căn phòng, cùng nụ cười méo mó chưa từng thuộc về con người.

Và rồi mọi thứ chìm vào bóng tối.

Tôi cũng là một trong những nạn nhân của nó.

produced by ngHongUyen

“Welcome back Creepsters!” The familiar, nasally din of my favorite podcast co-host pumped through my dusty PC speakers. Casting the outline of a shadow on the office wall behind, my monitor’s glaring glow danced around me. All other corners of the cramped room were devoid of light. A smell of body odor mixed with stale pizza hung like a cloud in the air.

“Boy, have we got something special for you today! So, settle in, grab a snack, and be ready… to get creeped.” Co-host number two chimed in with their own gruff cadence, queuing up a mix of ghostly groans and shrill screams that was their opening theme. A chill of excitement ran down my spine.

The view of Scout with his muppet-like expressions and Elijah in his Russian nesting doll mannerisms was always a welcomed reprieve from the monotonous work in front of me. Greasy palms leaving sweat-prints across my keyboard, I typed on and listened. My ears buzzed pleasantly. Phantom Cast never failed to aid me in locking in.

“Oh boy,” Joints popped and creaked as I squirmed in my seat. Jaws stretched, forming a yawn. I had been at it for some time as the story’s narration continued, rear-end sore from constant sitting. My shoulders slouched forward as I craned my neck towards the blinding screen. My eyes burned as their lids pressed together into a squint. The furrow of my brow was so strong, it was verging on a cramp.

Our hosts were on one of their usual tangents, taking a break from the thrilling story in order to make wise cracks. Something about another rattrap… only real fans would understand. Every fiber of my being screamed in exhaustion, deciding it was my turn to rest as well.

“Time for a well-deserved break.” Vocal chords rasped from lack of use.

Chubby fingers smooshed against my phone screen from bottom to top as I scrolled through the Patreon comments. Switching from resting atop my desk to kicking under myself excitedly, it was the majority of movement my legs would get today. Other than the short walk to the bathroom. I chortled with glee every now and again, the office chair beneath me bounced on squeaking springs. Boy, were my fellow Creepsters hilarious.

Until I noticed it. There under the usual ‘Seven Sisters, check in!’ role call:

HereForHorror532 asrc bnji;

More than likely, the user’s cat had slunk across their keyboard, unfortunately hitting the enter key before they could notice or stop it. So, why did my gut sting like the pang of hammering nails? None of the comments beneath provided any explanation or solace. My shoulders crept towards my ears in a shrug. I figured they must have failed to delete it. In any case, it’s not like I could do much to help them.

Popping my head back up to my day job, these thoughts were interrupted by the echoing ring of a Teams call. I stumbled to put my phone down in a mad hurry, clanging it against my desk, and clicked the blue accept icon—the mechanism of my mouse springing to life.

—

I received the all-too-familiar chime of a fresh Patreon notification. In a blur, the work week at hand had whipped by. Unnoticed.

“Sunday already?” I whined, thrusting thin wire frames up the bridge of my nose. My mouse hovered over the ping momentarily, eyes scanning the now dimmed screen. Unsure if I should jump into the newest episode of Phantom Cast now, or wait until the droning of another work week tomorrow, my body buzzed as if poking a wasp nest. As much as I enjoyed my weekly episode, it was an eerie reminder of the corporate desk slavery ahead.

Taking too long to decide, the team chat erupted. Strangers thrust forth message after message in a mad dash to bully me out of AFK mode. The clock was ticking.

DanTheMan420 Come on man! Get your head in the game!

69_Anim3Luv3r_69 Your mom could play better than this…

My body slumped indignantly. Pudgy fingers oscillated nervously between rubbing the crease in my chin and scraping plaque from my yellowing teeth. I was all too familiar with the punishment I’d incur for leaving the game but, the curiosity rising through sedentary bones overpowered my guilt. The game’s audio stopped abruptly and I exited to the lobby. Reverberations of gun shots mixed with various character one liners were replaced with silence. Silence, and the wheezing cacophony of my own breath.

“Now, where was I…?” In a huff, I returned to my notifications. My knee bounced with anticipation, impatient to hear what our hosts had in store this week. But, not too impatient for a chug break. The can of thick, lukewarm, syrupy liquid crinkled in my clammy hand as I lifted it to my lips, smashing the play button with the other. Both vibrated in caffeine fueled suspense.

“Welcome back to Phantom Cast!” I mouthed along with Scout, copying his quirky mannerisms. Though, in a far more jerky and rehearsed manner. Cringing, my heart dropped at the realization I could never be as charismatic as my favorite hosts. “Erm, don’t quit your day job.” With a smirk, my quip fell on an empty room.

Two more minutes until my AFK penalty would be over. I clenched my maw, fists tightening, knuckles turning white with frustration. Being aware of the consequences for my actions didn’t make them any less irritating. Turning towards a familiar time-sink, I began scrolling the comments; hilarious and entertaining as usual.

Suddenly, a familiar name emerged. As if shining brighter than the rest, it caused my eyes to bulge in a panic. My body froze like a doe in headlights.

HereForHorror532 help

Thin hairs upon my pale skin straightened like needles. There was no explaining it away this time. Scrambling through the replies was of no help to me, or the individual requesting it.

CreepyGal123 It’s right behind you… isn’t it?

1of7sisters The creature gotcha, huh?

In any other circumstance, I’d snort with laughter, maybe even join in myself. However, the familiar pang returned to my gut. Stronger this time. The poster filled walls around me were closing in, chest growing tighter, as my vision tunneled. My bespectacled orbs traced over the comment again and again.

Closing out my game in desperation, I turned to the internet for answers. The light of my RGB keyboard cycled over my sweat glistened brow and the clacking of its keys resounded around me. Hours upon hours were spent scouring old Patreon comment sections, YouTube comment sections, and even the sub-Reddit. Nothing. Not a single hint of HereForHorror532 existed before last week’s upload.

A sound like the grinding of boulders traveled from my mandible to my ears and the taste of copper upon my tongue managed to pull me away. My chair squealed noisily against my weight as I leaned back, dizzy with obsession. The tiny quail heart in my chest could hardly take any more.

“This has to be a joke. A prank.” Reasoning with what my mind could not grapple was the only way I could pull this much attention off of it. I felt like a rat, caught in sticky, unforgiving glue. It was already deep into the night and my body felt far too pulled taught to allow for any shuteye. But I figured I’d have to try, or risk falling asleep at my desk the next day.

Fingers thumbing at the edge of my monitor for the power button, the room fell into near darkness. Nothing but the glimmer of the pale moon peeking through shuttered blinds illuminated the dusty, dank room. My eyes stung as the outline of my body stared back from the blackened screen. The bags underneath them tightened, and I leaned forward once more at the realization of another figure. There, behind me, was the jagged outline of another person. Yet, I lived alone.

The figure bent unnaturally, its contour was sharp, but remained motionless. It wasn’t just my breathing that filled the silence anymore.

“What the f-” A week’s worth of used dishes shattered to the floor as I swiveled around. Below me, the wheels of my chair screamed in protest as if it might collapse, and revealed nothing. No one.

Manic laughter ravaged my weary body and I slumped to the floor like an empty sack. I was letting my mind get away from me. And now, I had a mess to clean before I could attempt some meager semblance of sleep.

—

Sitting in another useless end-of-week one-on-one with my manager, their words were muffled under the ringing in my ears. The sound of flies buzzing in and out of the miasma of long since rotted food, newly piled upon my desk. Just as their droning squirmed in and out of my consciousness. Blankly, my deep-set, grey-ringed eyes bore into the screen, but focused on nothing. Only the words ‘letting you go’ snapped me back to reality.

“I’m sorry… what?” My heart jumped into my throat. I began anxiously picking at the skin of my cuticles until blood was drawn.

“Your performance has degraded significantly over the last week. You’ve been written up twice in the past 5 days for focusing on tasks unrelated to your work. We’re going to have to terminate your employment effective immed-” I closed the call, not caring to participate in this dog-and-pony show anymore.

“Pft. Whatever.” I rolled my bloodshot eyes, painfully hard, and scoffed. “I can just find a new job.”

My past few days were, in fact, spent researching HereForHorror532. Fixating, rather than working. Rather than sleeping, for that matter. The few answers I found, only led me to more questions.

I had gone so far as posting in the Phantom Cast sub-Reddit, but ended up deleting the call to action after all.

Help Finding User HereForHorror532

Calling all fellow Creepsters! I’m trying to find this Patreon user. They seem to be in need of some kind of assistance… If you are part of this sub, or know this person PLEASE dm me. I just want to help!

2 down-votes, no comments. Thanks for nothing, fellow Creepsters.

Now it was Sunday. Sitting in front of my screen, nothing more to research, nothing more to hunt down. I waited. As still and stuffy as the air around me, only breaking to lift the pot of coffee I had been drinking to my lips. I had switched from energy drinks, to cups of coffee, to entire pots in no time at all. An attempt to beat the sleepiness encroaching my nerves.

Ding.

“God damn it!” My head nearly hit the ceiling, sucking a sharp stream of air through my teeth as the scalding black liquid splattered onto my lap. Steam rose and the bitter bean aroma filled my nostrils. Grasping at random papers strewn across my desk, I mopped it up lazily.

I jerked around like a clumsy robot with impatience to view the new episode. It took me two or three rabid clicks to finally open it, ignoring the usual host pleasantries. Frenzied fingers clicked the refresh button over and over, waiting for comments to roll in. Minutes on my digital clock ticked by until minutes turned to hours. My gaze grew heavy, eyelids drooping when finally, HereForHorror532 materialized on the screen.

HereForHorror532 If you’re seeing this, it’s too late.

Pummeling my ribcage, my heart backflipped. The smells of the room surrounded me in a nausea-inducing medley. Heat rushed to my ears as my appendages grew numb.

Suddenly, the click of a latch and rusted hinges screaming overcame me. The closet door beside me slowly opened.

About a week ago my dad decided that he really wanted to start a garden. We had a great backyard that hasn’t been used for much since we tore down my childhood clubhouse. He spent his entire Saturday building planter boxes and germinating seeds. His Sunday was spent hauling bags of soil from the store. 

As the weeks went on our house became lined with rain catching barrels, the fence covered in trellises for hanging cucumbers. And the yard seemed to shrink with every passing day as more and more planter boxes filled the space of the once vast field. Dad stopped eating breakfast with me and mom before work so he could spend the time doing work on his new project. 

Eventually he stopped eating dinner with us too, he would get home from work and immediately rush out the back door in a panic. One night mom tried to stop him but he just snapped at her “goddamnit, Mary. My plants need me. Do you want them to die Mary, do you want my only passion to fucking die?”

After that she was too afraid to try and bother him about it again. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing out there, it can’t be that much work just to have a garden. I get spending a couple hours but shit, this is easily twelve plus hours a day. 

That night I decided to stay up by my window looking out at the yard. My dad was out there tending to his garden like usual. I must’ve stayed up until five in the morning before I finally crashed and had to sleep. When I woke up I couldn’t believe it. He was still out there. Did he not sleep or did he come back out this morning. Either way I’m gonna go out and check on him. 

“Hey, dad. How’s it going out here” I said. He didn’t even look up at me, he just kept his head down facing his tomato plants. “It’s going. Whatcha up to son?” As I looked around, I have to admit that his garden is doing incredible. The plants are taller than the fence by now. “Oh nothing, just wanted to check on you out here. The garden looks great out here”. 

“Well, I’ve put so many man hours into this so I’m glad it doesn’t look like shit” he laughed. “Hey, why don’t you go inside, bud, I really need to focus on my work”. I give him a nod and turn to walk away. I take a few steps toward the house before I lose my footing and land face first into one of the planter boxes. As I’m getting up my dad finally looks up from the garden and turns to me. “Don’t worry I’m fine, I just fell” I said. 

“What the fuck did you do?” He yells at me. “Oh I’m alright, I just fell”. He stands up now towering over me. “My fucking garden, it’s ruined. You piece of shit, get inside now and try not to fuck anything up on the way to the house”. He screams in my face. As I walk towards the door my mom comes out with the phone in her hand. “Honey, your boss is calling. He says you haven’t shown up to the office in well over a week. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him I fuckin quit, I’m too goddamn busy out here to listen to his shit” he responds angrily. My mom sets the phone down on the table and walks over to where he’s working. “What, are you crazy, George? We have to pay our bills and how do you expect us to put groceries on the table without making money?” She asked. 

He lets out a deep sigh before responding. “Don’t worry, Mary. The garden will provide. Why do we need that overpriced slop from the store when we’ve got everything we could ever need right here” He says. “Also, Mary, I think we need a new rule in this house for you and that boy you’re raising to be a pain in my ass. How about if anyone comes back here trying to bother me with anymore of this bullshit they’ll get a shovel to the face?” He says before turning back to try and fix the spot where I landed in the garden. 

That next week was quiet, I thought for sure that my mom would have confronted my dad again, tried to call the cops, heck I thought she might but leave him after that day in the yard. But she didn’t, she cried a lot most days now but she never went back out into the garden. By now we can’t even see what’s happening out there because the plants are so tall and thick that they completely cover all the windows on that side of the house. From what the neighbors have told us it looks like a jungle of plants out there. 

Soon Jenny from next door was calling to tell my mom that the garden had started coming through the fence into her yard. Mom lied and told her that she’d make my dad trim the plants down but the truth is she was too afraid to go outside. As the plants continued to spread the phone kept ringing. It got so bad that we had to unplug the phone at night just to give us some peace. 

Eventually I couldn’t stand staying inside anymore, I needed to see what was going on out there. We couldn’t see out the windows so the only hope I had was to go outside and see for myself. I waited until mom was in the other room and I decided to make my way to the back door before she noticed I was gone. I figured the only chance we had of stopping this was to find my dad and convince him to cut it all down.

I had to use a kitchen knife just to cut a path to get out the front door. It wasn’t effective at all but it was all I could do to get through the dense walls of plants that have taken over the garden. I couldn’t see past our own yard but I can only assume that the rest of the neighborhood looks like this as well. Walking was incredibly time consuming as my legs kept getting stuck on the plants that took over the entire ground and I had to keep cutting them off me. 

If you would’ve told me that I spent over an hour hiking through our backyard a few months ago I would’ve thought you were joking. After a couple more minutes I saw a large mass that almost looked like a man towards the edge of the yard. “Uh, dad?” I called out to it. It walked a couple more feet until I could make it out more clearly and then I stopped dead in my tracks. 

It was my dad, particularly at least. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. He looks thin as a skeleton with thick vines wrapped around his legs all the way up to his torso. His arms were pulled back by even more vines and he was covered head to toe with sweat and dirt. He was mumbling something but I could hardly make out what he was saying with all the vines protruding straight out of his neck and coming out of his mouth. Bugs crawled all over his body as if they were feeding on him slowly. My dad, or what used to be my dad can’t even swat them away anymore. His breathing is labored like he ran a marathon without any training whatsoever. 

He gave me a glance that looked full of sorrow. Truthfully his eyes were the only part of him that were still recognizable as my dad. I knew that soon those would be gone as well as I saw small stems slowly poking their way out of his head through his eye sockets. “K-kiii-k” he tried to get out. “What, what is it dad?” I ask with tears running down my face, I can’t stand seeing him in such agonizing pain. “Kill me” he says. 

That was the last I’d ever seen of my dad, I somehow managed to fight my way back into the house. Soon the military got involved and me, my mom, and all of our neighbors who managed to not be consumed by our garden were evacuated the next day. We watched on the news from our motel room as our entire neighborhood was burned to the ground in a controlled fire. Nothing was left, I guess they couldn’t risk any chance of my dads garden spreading again. 

My dad loved his garden. 

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Above the conference room table, the thin metal hands of the clock wound their way around the white face of it. Curls of steam rose from untouched coffee mugs, soft afternoon light filtered through the white plastic blinds, and cars rumbled by outside with muted chatter. The woodwork of the room was showing its age today, scuffed, chipped, and scratched from countless years of administrative work going to and fro. The scent of coffee, glue, and copy paper hung on the air around the table, but with the door to the conference room shut, it seemed to thin in favor of the dry smell of dust that lingered despite numerous cleanings. That was Jabo’s Fork in a nutshell; an old thing still chugging along like an antique car, refusing to submit to the effects of time in the shadow of the mountains around it. Yet, like so many small towns, it too had its fair share of problems, and it was this that brough us here as the other people around the conference table stared in shock at the sheriff.

“David, come on.” Mayor Jonathan Hilco blinked at him with the half smile of a man who doesn’t want to believe his ears. “You can’t be serious.”

Across the flat expanse of polished oak, Sheriff Kowalski nodded, no humor in his stoney expression. “I am.”

Lisa Renfield, dressed in her usual pinstriped pantsuit, shook her head at Kowalski in amazement, hands shaking as if she were watching the money disintegrate before her very eyes. “That property is worth millions. Just the price on the house alone could fund the town’s administration budget for an entire year. Besides, every day the park stays closed, we lose even more money. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.”

“It’s still a crime scene, Lisa.” The sheriff narrowed his dark eyes at her and jabbed a finger at the louvered blinds covering the courthouse windows. “We’ve got four missing people connected to the Watkins property, three of them local residents. For God’s sake, Cindy Fadro went to school with your niece! Erin Martinelli’s father was on the football team with John in high school! If we sell that place we’ll never get a better chance to find out what happened to those girls, and opening up the park around Smoke Point will guarantee contamination. Every two-bit podcaster this side of the Mississippi will be out there, climbing around with their cameras to look for ghosts, while real evidence might get buried or lost thanks to their tramping.”

Leaning forward so that his prodigious belly mounded against the edge of the conference table, Douglas Finberger tried to calm the situation even as his face reddened with similar levels of disbelief. “Let’s not lose our heads here, yeah? Look, David, we’re all saddened about what happened to Ed Watkins and those two girls, but it’s been several months without a single lead or update. We’ve humored you this long in keeping the park closed, but you can’t seriously expect us to throw away this kind of opportunity based on cold cases. After all, you’ve always said your boys needed more funding; think how much equipment and training we could get from the estate sale.”

That’s going to go over well.

Seated to the left of Sheriff Kowalski, I sucked in a breath and waited for the inevitable eruption to follow the county auditor’s remarks. I’d been a deputy sheriff for years in Jacob’s Fork, and had served under David Kowalski since I was a rookie cop. He was a good man, and a strong leader, but he could get easily fired up when confronted with the bureaucratic red tape of local governance. I had been there when our tiny force went through some really tough cases; the drug ring that came in from Boise six years ago, a Kootenai poaching racket that murdered a hunter four years ago, or last year when a crazed gunman from out of state tried to shoot up an elementary school during Valentine’s Day. Most of the time, being a cop in the forgotten stretches of northern Idaho was easy, but these cases were always fresh in the minds of anyone who stayed on Kowalski’s force. For this reason, he’d been pushing more funding for nearly a decade, and always he got the same excuses about the county budget. To bring it up now, after everything that had happened concerning the Wickenshire House, was tantamount to throwing gasoline on a bonfire.

He swiveled his head to blink at the county commissioner, and I thought for a moment Sheriff Kowalski might explode, his face shading red like an overripe tomato. “Are you kidding me, Doug? We can’t sell that place in good faith, not when this might happen again, and opening up the mountain would be like ringing a damn dinner bell. I’ve got Andy Todd watching the mountain, and there are new markers in the woods as far as the Benson Ranch . . .”

“Oh, good lord, not this again.” Lisa slumped back in her chair, cradling her forehead in one hand with a groan of annoyance. “Andrew Todd is hardly a credible source, especially considering where he was the night of the disappearances.”

“. . . which means our suspect is still at large.” The Sheriff talked right over her words and instead directed his attention to our mayor, who looked more uncomfortable by the minute. “Now I say we seize the property as per eminent domain and seal the mountain off for good. I’ve got some dynamite down at the station from when we collapsed that old copper mine, and it will be enough to make sure the access road is completely demolished.”

“This is insane.” Charles Hubour, head of our local chamber of commerce, looked down his long nose at our badges from the opposite end of the table. “You’re going to mothball a six-million-dollar property and an entire public wilderness recreational area which is fully taxpayer funded because of a few piles of bones? You guys have guns, what are you so afraid of?”

Shifting in my chair, I did my best not to let my temper boil alongside the sheriff’s as the room scrutinized me like a bug on a card. I’d been promoted to detective after I apprehended the Valentine’s Day shooter by ramming his car with my own before the ensuing firefight broke out. Kowalski had overseen the promotion himself, and while he was still as tough on me as the day I joined, I knew he’d been proud. My own father left when I was ten, so to me the sheriff was as much a father figure as I ever had. When he let me take the lead on investigating the Wickenshire vanishings last winter, I gave it my all, only to fall short as none of the clues we found led to anything substantial.

I turned that place upside-down. I know I missed something, I just need more time.

“The markers are a health hazard.” Sheriff Kowalski jerked a thumb over one shoulder toward the distant mountains, though I could see his embarrassment at the words, as he and I both knew the real reason why we never removed them. “And more than that, they’re part of the crime scene. If we want to catch whoever is doing this, we need them intact, and there’s no way we can rely on private owners or nosy hikers to keep them there.”

“Oh please, now you’re just grasping at straws.” With a snort, Lisa crossed her arms and stuck her chin out with a waspish tone to her voice. “Honestly, at this point it looks more like covering up evidence to me. Besides, since when did we authorize you to hold onto explosives?”

Something inside of me snapped, and before I knew what I was doing, my mouth was running. “You know what, maybe next time you stop some maniac from gunning down a room full of kindergartners then you can dictate what we have in our arms locker.”

“Enough!” With a slam of his open palm on the table, Mayor Hilco brought the room to silence once more. “The Smoke Point Mountain is part of the public domain; we cannot keep it closed while the people are paying taxes for it. As it is tied to our administration, I’ll officially sign the paperwork to be reopen it by the end of the week.”

Sheriff Kowalski sighed, and I felt my chest deflate. There it was. Our defeat. Over an hour spent in this stuffy room, and none of them had listened to a word we said.

Un-freaking-beleivable.

Pausing for a moment to straighten his tie, the mayor continued. “As zoning laws are technically gray as to where it lies, the Wickenshire Estate is hereby considered an important local landmark of Jacobs Fork, therefore under my jurisdiction. We are not going to destroy any county infrastructure, not in this economic climate.”

The other officials flashed smug, triumphant smiles at us, but Hilco wasn’t finished.

“Instead,” He angled his head our way, and I could see him and the sheriff exchange a knowing look. “It will be remanded to police custody for an additional month, along with the access road leading to it, after which it will be taken into official holding by the county. If, in that time, the sheriff’s office finds anything substantial to lead to a breakthrough in the missing persons cases, the deadline will be extended by another week. Dismissed.”

Squawks of protest came from the other members of the cabinet, but the sheriff rose to his feet with a grim, yet satisfied look on his haggard face, and I followed suit.

“David.” Mayor Hilco raised a hand to stop us as the others filed from the conference room. “Stay. You too, detective.”

Once the door to the room swung shut behind the last exiting bureaucrat, the mayor sat back in his chair with a sigh, then threw a furtive glance toward the door. From his pockets, he fished out a box of cigarettes, slipping one between his lips. He crossed to the end of the room to push one of the windows open, and from outside the quiet bustle of passing cars and chatting pedestrians flowed in.

“Thought you quit?” Without a hint of judgment, Sheriff Kowalski produced a lighter from his shirt pocket and ran the flame under the mayor’s unlit cigarette tip.

He snorted, and Mayor Hilco pulled in a long drag before exhaling so that little plumes of smoke flowed from his nostrils. “As far as my wife knows, I did. You know, I never had a bad smoke. Bad drinks, bad coffee, bad dates, but a smoke was always a smoke. Damn shame the stuff is so bad for you.”

“Yeah, well, so are the burgers at JoAnne’s Diner.” Leaning against the windowsill beside him, Sheriff Kowalski produced his clay pipe and a small tin from his other shirt pocket, out of which came a small bag of loose black tobacco. “I swear, someday they’re gonna write ‘Bacon’ on my autopsy as cause of death. I’d never make it as a rabbi.”

That brought a tired smile to the mayor’s lined face, and he offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined. I wasn’t a smoker, though I had to admit the smell of Sheriff Kowalski’s cherry pipe tobacco made me want to reconsider. It truly was unfortunate how something so pleasant also caused cancer. Much like the town, it didn’t kill you at first, just crept up on you slow, until one day you realized you were stuck on this path as much as the next person. I wondered in abstract if Cindy or Erin were decomposing on some hidden trail or crevice somewhere on the rocky slopes to our north, trapped forever on their own path that we couldn’t find.

After another few quiet drags, Major Hilco let his shoulders slacken, and tugged at the knot in his tie with a weary groan. “Please tell me you boys can find something up there.”

Sheriff Kowalski glanced out the nearby window, his eyes far away in thought. “We’re doing the best we can, Jon. Anything dead’s gonna be dry bones by now. Anything living . . .”

Silence reigned once more, but after a moment, the mayor lifted his eyes to me. “You both have my support, you know that. The park opening was a necessary concession; I want this solved as much as anyone, but it’s been over six months since the fire. I can’t keep the others at bay for much longer. Find something for me to hold over their heads, or we’ll be forced to move on with the property.”

I straightened up, sensing the wight in how he addressed me first. This was still my task, my investigation to see through to the end. They were both relying on me to find new evidence. I couldn’t let the sheriff, or the mayor down, not when so much was at stake.

The families deserve to know what happened.

“I’ll find something.” I nodded, in a bid to inject more confidence into the statement than I truly felt.

“Good man.” Whether he believed me or not, the mayor bobbed his head in a similar gesture of approval and waved us off with a tired sigh. “I’ll be at a commerce summit in the Moose Lodge for the afternoon. Call my personal number if you need anything.”

With this signaling the impromptu meeting to be over, I followed the sheriff as he put out his pipe, the two of us making for the conference room door.

We slipped through the maze of corridors to the stairwell of the county courthouse and finally emerged onto the town square. It was a sunny day for Idaho, golden rays dancing on the courthouse green as we trudged for the sheriff’s pickup.

“Go ahead, say it.” I shook my head at myself as we rounded to our respective doors on the weather-beaten truck, its green and tan paint chipped from thousands of kicked up pebbles on backroads.

Sheriff Kowalski raised an eyebrow that bore faint traces of gray, settling into the driver’s seat and adjusting his faded gray Stetson with the grunts of an aging man. “Say what?”

Leaning an elbow on my own door, I noticed how worn the dark navy sleeves of my coat were. It hadn’t been more than a year since my promotion, and already it seemed like twenty. “That I should have kept my mouth shut. Renfield’s been gunning for a police budget cut for years; I just gave her enough ammo to make that happen.”

To my surprise, a wry grin slid over my boss’s lips, and he chuckled as we rumbled on down main street, a warm southern breeze flowing into the cab. “She can’t do nothing she couldn’t do yesterday, Derrick. If anything, it’s good she got some return fire for once. Ever since she headed that park commission, Renfield’s had stars in her eyes over running for mayor once Hilco leaves. One of these days all them spoiled uptown fools will vote her in and she’ll try to melt our badges for the silver, but it ain’t right now.”

As the streets of Jacob’s Fork rolled by, I watched the people on the sidewalks and in the windows of local shops, talking and shopping with relative peace. A few even waved as we passed by, noting the sheriff’s emblem on the truck door. One young woman tucked a strand of light blonde hair behind one ear, and I thought back to the missing person’s files, those faces I’d poured over for hours.

Two young women, one old man, one middle-aged hiker. No connections between the hiker and the first three, save for the location and circumstances. No footprints, no scent trail, no bodies.

“You really think we’ll find anything?” I voiced aloud my gloomy reservations and tried not to think about how any one of the people outside my window could be our suspect.

He let out another deep sigh, and the sheriff’s weathered face reflected my own doubts. “After this long? I don’t know. It’s like I told Hilco; if there are any bodies out there, they’ll be in pretty bad shape, but if somehow they are still alive, then we’re looking at some nasty business as far as trafficking is concerned. After this long, those girls could be in Yemen for all we know.”

My stomach knotted at that, and I winced at the sudden realization that I would honestly rather find their corpses than know the victims might still be suffering an unknown fate. “I’ll give the house another once-over this afternoon, to see if I can dig something new up. Did the reservation elders ever come back with any information?”

Steering the pickup around another turn in the sleepy streets of our town, Sheriff Kowalski frowned. We were on decent terms with the local Native American reservation many miles across the county from Jacob’s Fork, helped by the fact that the sheriff himself was a half-blood relative to their tribe. Still, there were tensions between the two communities, primarily around drugs and gambling, which drew both tourists and troublemakers alike. “Nothing useful. They’ve got enough problems of their own with the casinos, alcohol, petty crime, you name it. If one of theirs snatched our people, we’ll never know about it, and wouldn’t have the jurisdiction to go after them even if we did.”

We reached the police station on the opposite end of town and parked in the small lot where the other patrol vehicles waited. Ours was a small department, perhaps a few dozen or so deputies on the force in total, but we did have extra staff for administrative and forensic work that could help pull some of the weight. With an entire county to manage, and the upheaval surrounding the Wickenshire case, many of us had pulled 14-hour shifts for multiple nights in a row when the vanishings first happened. Between increased patrols around Smoke Point Mountain and search teams looking for evidence to pass on to the forensics lab, some of our boys had resorted to sleeping in cots set up in the rec room just to avoid falling asleep at the wheel. As the weeks went by, with nothing to show for it, this titanic effort had been scaled back, until all that was left was a hefty dossier on my desk and bad memories.

“Hey, Sloan.” As we passed through the front lobby and into the offices beyond, Sheriff Kowalski turned to wave at a nearby deputy seated behind another desk. “Drop what you’re doing; you’re on assignment with Junger in the field. Grab your files from evidence and get on it.”

Deputy Clyde Sloan looked up from his paperwork, saw the two of us, and understanding crossed his face in a measured grin. “You got it, boss.”

Turning to throw one last glance at me, the sheriff flicked his eyes toward the station doorway, which lay in the direction of the northern mountains. “Try to be back by dark.”

I said nothing, but we both knew what he meant as the man lumbered away to his office.

Clyde and I had been partners back when we were both cops on the beat, developing a close friendship and working on several cases together. Always the team player, Clyde applauded my promotion to detective, but I felt bad leaving him behind to the regular roadwork. Despite a habit of running his mouth to the irritation of most polite sensibilities, or his enduring love for chewing tobacco that he’d been trying to kick for years, Clyde was a good cop. He’d been with me when I brought down the Valentine’s Day shooter, and the only reason I got credit for the kill was because he went left around the wrecked car while I went right, thus engaging the suspect first. Loyal and headstrong, he deserved a promotion of his own, but the sheriff couldn’t just hand out pay-raises like candy, not when the local bureaucrats wanted to trim the budget every other year. Still, that never stopped him from working like a dog to earn his keep, and in less than fifteen minutes we were rolling along the lonely backroads of northern Idaho, the mountains looming closer as the warm summer breeze flowed through the open windows of my car.

“Still hard to believe it’s August already.” From the passenger seat, Clyde shuffled through the files within the overstuffed binder, paging through weeks of evidence to unearth a property map of the Wickenshire Estate. “At least we won’t be knee-deep in snow this time. Where are we fixin’ to start?”

I leaned over to tap on a section of the map north of the house, a spot marked with multiple little X’s inside of circles. “Boulder fields. That’s where the hunter went missing, and where they found Erin’s phone. We’ll try there while we have light, then the house when it gets late. Power should still be on; I don’t think the county ever bothered to shut anything off up there.”

For a few moments, we sat in silence as the car rumbled along, the mountains drawing closer, green trees flashing by along the roadside.

“Heard they want to sell the place.” Clyde drummed idle fingers on his knee as he stared out the passenger window, the evidence folder lying in his lap. “What kind of fool came up with that idea?”

“Renfield.” I turned onto the final route leading to the mountain road, civilization falling away behind us as the wilderness swallowed us up. “With some help from Hubour and Finberger. They’re going to open the whole park back up in a few days.”

He hissed a curse between his teeth, and Clyde rolled his eyes as he fished in his shirt pocket for a tub of chewing tobacco. “Ain’t never seen someone so money-hungry. Place has four bodies on it, and she wants to turn a dime on their graves. If that snooty pencil-pusher ever gets in as mayor, I’m moving to Florida, I swear to God.”

Despite the grimness of the setting, I couldn’t help but feel a thin smile crawl over my lips at his complaints, reminiscent of older days on the force together. “Still set on being a swamp man when you retire?”

“Yessir.” The twinkle returned to his eye, and Clyde nodded with an amused chuckle at his own vision of paradise. “I’m gonna build a little house by the water, a good fishing boat for the dock, and mix up a nice cold drink while I watch the sun go down on the gulf. Just me, the gators, and my dog. A man could live his whole life anywhere else and never have it that good.”

We laughed, but the looming shadow over us dampened the jovial mood as the trees closed in, the harsh stony tip of the mountain towering upward into the sky. Smoke Point Mountain wasn’t especially grand when compared to other, more notorious places in the US like Denali or Olympia, but it was prominent enough for our little valley that everyone’s eye was drawn to the granite peak every time they looked across the horizon of Jacob’s Fork. Supposedly local miners had used it as a communications point way back in the olden days, sending up smoke signals like the Kootenai did to let their bosses know another train load of iron ore was on its way down from the nearby range that the mountain sat detached from. Eventually telegraph lines came in, and made the smoke signals useless, but the name stuck, and the mountain stood by its lonesome, like an outcast before the other line of tall stone crags, good for hikers, hunters, and not much else. It had been made into a public park in the 1970’s during the environmental push, but the Wickenshire House escaped absorption into government ownership by remaining the one private homestead left on its cold slopes.

Every bump in the gravel road that wound its way up the mountain side brought back memories, dark flashes of countless days and night searching for signs, for hope, for anything to let me know I was close to the truth. So many hours spent combing the forest, pouring over topographically maps, even a few helicopter rides to scout for unseen trails from above. Seemingly endless calls from concerned locals, the numerous emotion-heavy pleas from the families of the missing, the accusations from pot-stirring journalists that wanted to find something juicy for a story that could go viral on social media. They were all disappointed, angry, confused, even fearful when the days dragged on and I continued to discover no further clues. They vented their fury at me, the only one they could point a finger at, despite the sheriff doing his best to vent the backlash away from our department. How could they know how many times I walked the grounds of the estate, paced through the silent halls and corridors, and gazed out the lifeless windows into the wilderness beyond? How could they know how many nights I went without sleep, abused gas-station alertness pills, drank gallons of the worst sort of coffee, beating myself to death over the failure to find anything? All for a dead end.

All for nothing.

And somehow, it was all my fault.

At last, as we pulled up the narrow driveway, the thick rows of evergreen trees fell away, and a spindly shadow or rusted cast iron reared upward into the fading sunshine. The gate was more rusty than last time I’d laid eyes on it, as if whatever oil or paint on it had given up the fight long ago. Around it, the long stone walls of the courtyard stood cracked along the mortar joints, settled with a kind of age that radiated a weary grief I felt in my bones. It was like seeing an old friend slowly choke to death on cancerous lungs, a place that I remembered fondly from better times, when I myself was nothing more than a boy.

“Still burned out.” Clyde spat tobacco juice into a plastic Coke bottle and shook his head in amazed dread at the landscape around us. “Not a single blade of grass, even with all the rain we’ve had. Scorch must’ve gone deep.”

The fire had happened on the night of the first disappearances, burning the entire 100-acre plot of the Wickenshire Estate from the property line inward, right up to the stone wall. There, inexplicably, the flames had stopped, not so much as tarring the stonework, leaving the enormous house and its manicured gardens intact. A strange anomaly of fate, it left a small oasis of greenery in a large field of barren rocks, dead soil, and crumbled remnants of what had once been plant life. Above this towered the house itself, an edifice of a bygone era, once a thing of immaculate beauty, and now . . . now I felt sick at the mere sight of it.

Unlocking the thick steel padlock we’d left to keep random people from accessing the property, I drove us through the gate, right up to the front of the house itself. It was a tall building, two stories high but it seemed much higher, built from local quarry stones over a hundred years ago. Victorian in its design, there was not another house like it in all of Idaho, a strange misfit of architecture among the timber-framed rustic ranch houses and log cabin-themed ski lodges that dotted the land. Wooden shutters lined every window, the sills carved from smooth granite, and the roof bore uniform rows of slate that would likely outlive me. A wide wooden porch covered the front half of the house, the pillars shaped like those of the Greek Pantheon, and beneath the eves of its awning stood the double French doors that had devoured Erin and Cindy whole.

I didn’t have to tell Clyde on what to bring for the trek up the mountainside. He was as experienced as I was and kept up with me as we shouldered our packs, making our way through the ornamental gardens within the courtyard walls to the back gate that led to the burned expanse beyond. Once we traversed this, we finally passed into the forested sections of the mountain slope that hadn’t been touched by the fire.

It was a quiet, morose place. Many people often didn’t understand how silent the mountains could be, especially if they came from a place filled with noise like the city. Tourists would ask us if hunters ‘killed all the animals up there’ or if ‘there wasn’t enough oxygen’ which I found amusing, given the evident lack of awareness in their statement. The truth, as always, was that there were animals in the mountains, they just had to be pickier than their lowland cousins, more cautious of how much energy they expended, and often moved down into the lowlands throughout the seasons. Hunters didn’t kill them all, there certainly wasn’t an oxygen problem for so insignificant of a peak, and it was often the case that the noisy, clumsy, inexperienced urbanites had been right next to a bird or critter that they never saw simply because that animal didn’t want to be seen.

However, this part of the mountain had changed since the vanishings, and even as a local, I noticed the heavy, oppressive silence. No birds sang, not in the distance or around us, and I couldn’t see any movement flitting through the branches overhead. No signs of recent deer or other tracks dotted the sparse portions of earth, and even the stones that clattered under our boots echoed too loudly in the quiet. At one point, we did spot a single, black crow rustling about in a stand of blackberry bushes, and Clyde called out to it with a friendly ‘hello there’, only for the thing bolt off into the treetops as if we’d startled it. Wind whistled and wailed the higher we climbed, mournful and chilly despite the season, the daylight slanting lower in the sky as the evening wore on.

We spent hours looking through the boulder field, a massive plain of rocks and rubble left behind by ancient glaciers. Clyde scanned the area with a set of binoculars, I checked every gap between the stones with my flashlight, and we marked our progress with chalk on the boulders as we inched over the slope yard by yard. We used a metal detector to look for old shoe islets, belt buckles, anything that might indicate where a body could be. I sent up a drone the department had been given during the first search operation in December to scan the area from the sky, circling round and round in hopes of spotting something from a different angle. We combed that placed front and back, until the light got low enough that I couldn’t put it off anymore.

“Let’s go.” I zipped up my backpack and shined my flashlight toward Clyde, who stood not far off down the slope, prodding at another crevice. “We’re out of light, and we still need to search the house. Sheriff’s going to get antsy if we don’t report in soon anyway.”

Clyde turned to respond, but his face hardened into an alarmed frown as he starred past me into the trees, and he slid one hand toward his service pistol. “Junger . . .”

I spun around to spot a strange object hanging amongst the branches of a nearby spruce, swaying to and fro in the cool evening breeze. Even from this far away, I knew we hadn’t missed it on our first walk through, the object dangling right over the path we’d taken into the boulder field, dull and pale in the gleam of our flashlights. It hadn’t been there five minutes ago, I was sure of it.

Together Clyde and I stalked forward, closer and closer until we stood mere feet away from the thing in the tree, stunned into mutual silence.

The thing was held suspended by an odd form of hand-made twine, which looked to be twisted together from roots, vines, or even thorn bushes, until each strand was as thick as my pinky finger. Each strand interconnected with another in a crude net, almost like a spider’s web, the knots tight and strong. These supported a basket of sorts, made from what at first glance looked like branches, circular in shape, with white and yellowed patches showing in the flashlight beam.

Bones.

Dozens of them.

Four broken sections of elk antler were circled together as if an embrace, stripped of any flesh or meat at the base, dried out from endless days in the Western sun. More smaller bones were interwoven with mats of reeds and thorny stems, the gaps pasted shut with a thick, black sludge decorated with a carpet of ebony petals. I’d seen markers like this in searches before, had seen them appearing more and more in the landscape around the house, and knew why the sheriff did his best not to mention them in his reports. They were all like this, odd, eerie things that appeared from nowhere, but they were all on the ground and, save for five pillars built around the house itself, were no bigger than knee-high. We still didn’t know what they meant, or who left them, but we knew it had started around the first vanishing. This one was hanging as if left for us as a gift, and the smell that emanated from it nearly knocked the air out of me, a pungent mixture of wet dirt, wood rot, decayed flesh . . . and roses.

Always roses.

Even then, it was what lay in the middle of the macabre basket that drew me forward, until my hand reached out almost without my beckoning to scoop the tiny item from its place.

With a cracked glass screen and sun-faded purple case, the cellphone looked as though it had lain on the mountain for months, but no sooner was it in my hands and the tormented display lit up.

As soon as my eyes registered the face on the lock screen, I swore under my breath, Clyde doing the same, and rivers of ice flooded my veins.

Cindy Fadro stared back from the phone, smiling in the stillness of the background picture, with pretty features, blonde hair, and sky-blue eyes. We’d never found her phone the night she disappeared, only her friend Erin’s. After so long without a charge, exposed to the elements including Idaho’s vicious winter snows, it shouldn’t have been working. The only way this device could still be functional was if someone had kept it.

Or taken it.

Bzzzz.

The phone vibrated in my hand once, and an icon slid up before my eyes.

New message available.

Heart pounding, I dared to tap the screen, and found no entry code blocking me, the device opening up for us to access Cindy’s message files without complaint. They were old, most of them several months old, missed calls and texts from dozens of people who wanted her to be alive, to be okay, to come home.

According to the phone, she’d never viewed any of them.

One new message glowed at the top of the roster, and as I clicked on it, I tasted metal on the back of my tongue, my ears ringing with a shudder of unease. It was a picture, grainy and blurred by motion as if whoever had taken it was moving while doing so, but the subject was clear enough to make out.

It was us, Clyde and myself, walking through the woods on our way to the boulder field. Our backs were to the camera, leaves from a blackberry bush half-obscuring the unknown watcher, and under the picture, a single line of text appeared while my friend and I blinked at one another in horrified realization.

Hello there.

I'm a neuropharmacologist. For ten years, I chased a treatment for severe phobia and treatment-resistant PTSD. The kind that ruins people. Veterans who can't hear a car backfire without hitting the floor. Survivors who can't sleep with the closet door open.

I wanted to give them their lives back.

The early trials felt like a miracle. Combat vets who spent a decade flinching at shadows sat calm through exposure therapy that used to send them into episodes. Cortisol dropped. Amygdala scans went quiet.

I remember crying in the lab bathroom the first time a man who hadn’t held a lighter in six years lit a match and just watched it burn.

But over the next few weeks, subjects started exhibiting concerning new behavior.

A nurse accidentally dropped a tray of surgical steel behind Subject 09. They didn't turn around. Didn't even flinch. The startle reflex was completely gone. Clinically gone. You could fire a starter pistol next to their heads and their pupils wouldn't even dilate.

Some part of them no longer registered the sound as something that could matter to them.

Week five. Subject 13 climbed onto the roof of the building to "get a better look at the parking lot." A tech found her standing on the ledge. She wasn't scared. Wasn't suicidal either. She just smiled at him, the way you do after coming out of a pleasant dream. She climbed down when he asked.

Week six. Three subjects, unrelated to each other, on three different days, walked into moving traffic without breaking stride. Just crossed the street the way you'd cross an empty hallway.

None survived. I try not to think about the drivers.

I watched the footage more times than I should have. All three wore the same face. Calm. Almost grateful. Like they'd set down something heavy they'd forgotten they were carrying. 

I called in a colleague I trusted from cognitive neuroscience. He said something I haven't been able to shake since.

Most people think fear is an emotion. It's an operating assumption. The brain's baseline belief that it’s a fragile, temporary, killable thing. It runs underneath every decision you make. So quiet you never clock it. You don't feel your fear of death when you glance both ways crossing a street. The fear already did its job.

My subjects didn't feel brave. Bravery still knows the danger is real and moves through it anyway. My subjects had simply stopped being told danger existed at all. Somewhere behind their eyes, the voice that used to whisper you could die here went silent. Without that whisper, self-preservation is an impossibility.

I shut the trial down. Sedated the ones who kept drifting toward windows. Told their families the truth as gently as I could. Nine of them are on watch now, in rooms with no cords, no glass, no ledges.

I keep asking myself what I actually built. I thought I'd found a cure. What I found was a key that unlocks a door most human minds are welded shut behind for good reason. And I handed that key to twenty-two people who trusted me.

I don't sleep much anymore. When I do, I dream of them. Subject 09 unflinching. Subject 13 on that ledge. The calm of three content faces before impact. The drivers. The families.

I can't fix what I did.

But I still have the last unopened vial in the lab freezer. Third shelf. Behind the placebo batch. I've been standing in front of the freezer for three nights straight now.

I want to know what it's like to put this down. The guilt sitting on my chest like a stone I've carried since the very beginning. I think some small ruined part of me wants to feel what my subjects felt.

That terrible peace. 

EDIT: it's been three hours. i don't feel my hands shaking anymore. i dont think im going to post again after this. thank you for reading. im not scared. i want you to know im not scared at all.