Part 1: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. We Had to Make a Sacrifice This Time.

Part 2: I Went to Antarctica Looking for 10,000 Missing People. I Came Back With a New Boss.

Part 3: Apparently Using Assistants as Sacrifices Violates Company Policy

Part 4: I Work for an Organization That Hunts Gods. One of Them Warned Me About the Angel Following Me.

Part 5: My Boss Asked Me If I Thought He Was a Monster. Now I Know Why.

Part 6: The Most Powerful Being in the CSP Is Studying Humans. Unfortunately, I'm His Favorite Lab Rat.

Part 7: Someone Stole the Rifle Built to Kill Gods. Then They Pointed It at Me.

Part 8: I Thought Dating an Angel Was Bad. Something Wearing My Face Was Worse.

Part 9: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. The Feather Led Something to Us.

Part 10: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. Humanity Now Has a Single Point of Failure.

The first thing Jacob said after telling me they found Hell was, "Nobody came back."

I didn't answer.

For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood him.

Because CSP missions ended in a lot of ways, sometimes teams returned injured. Sometimes they returned with things they wished they had never found. Sometimes they came back missing pieces of themselves.

But there was always something left behind.

A report.

A body.

An explanation.

Something.

The last time a retrieval team disappeared without a trace...

we found Angelo.

That was the day humanity learned we weren't alone. The day we discovered there were beings older than our civilizations, older than the gods, older than the stars themselves. The day we brought something home that changed everything.

And now another team had vanished.

Only this time...

I wasn't wondering what we had found.

I was wondering what was waiting for us.

"Jacob..."

My voice came out quieter than I expected.

"What do you mean nobody came back?"

The silence that followed wasn't confusion.

It was hesitation.

Like Jacob was deciding how much truth I could handle.

"Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven entered three days ago."

A pause.

"They never exited."

I looked at Angelo.

He stood beside me, silent and still.

Listening.

"They're all dead?"

Jacob didn't answer.

That was all the answer I needed.

The Executive Board Chamber had never felt smaller. Every division was present: Security, Research, Archives, and Command. Nobody was there to discuss a mission. They were there to discuss a disaster.

Stonehill stood at the front of the room, a single file displayed behind him.

RETRIEVAL TEAM 27 — STATUS: LOST

Below it:

CASUALTIES: 36

Twelve researchers. Twenty security personnel. Four medical specialists. No survivors. No remains. No distress signal. No final message. And thanks to a relatively new protocol that automatically saved all live feeds directly to CSP's servers, the only thing we had left...

was a recording.

"Three days ago, Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven was dispatched beneath the ruins of Göbekli Tepe."

The screen changed, revealing a map of the excavation site. "The mission proceeded normally for sixteen hours."

Then the image changed to a staircase descending into darkness.

"It was not carved."

A pause.

"It was not natural."

Stonehill looked at the room.

"It was built."

Nobody spoke because everyone understood what that meant. The team had not discovered a place. They had discovered something someone had hidden.

"The team entered."

The footage began, showing helmet cameras and body cameras containing the final recordings of thirty-six people.

At first, they looked completely normal. They joked. They complained. They talked about going home.

They had no idea they were walking into something that had been waiting beneath the earth for millions of years.

One researcher laughed during the recording. "If this turns out to be another empty ruin, I'm requesting vacation." Someone replied that he said that every time. He laughed and answered, "Because every time I deserve it." The room stayed silent as we watched, because everyone knew the truth.

He never got that vacation.

Six hours into the descent, the first sign appeared. "We've gone three miles," one researcher said, staring at his equipment. "That can't be right." The staircase continued endlessly. No turns. No rooms. No indication that they were getting anywhere.

Eight hours in, their radios began failing. GPS systems lost connection. Compasses stopped working. Then the clocks started changing. One person showed 4:17. Another showed 8:52. Another showed yesterday's date. Nobody knew why. Nobody knew how.

Twelve hours into the descent, one researcher finally said what everyone had been thinking. "We've been walking down for twelve hours." The camera turned toward him, showing his pale face. "Why aren't we tired?"

Nobody answered.

Because nobody wanted to admit the obvious.

Something about that staircase wasn't following the rules.

Fifteen hours after entering, they reached the bottom.

And found the gate.

The entire room went silent watching the footage. Even people who had seen gods looked uncomfortable, because gods were alive. Gods had motives. Gods had weaknesses.

This was different.

This was something that had been waiting.

The gate stood hundreds of feet tall, completely black and without hinges or seams. Its surface was covered in writing older than any known civilization. The linguist approached and began translating, but his confidence slowly disappeared.

"These symbols..." he said quietly. "They're older than Proto-Sumerian."

He continued reading, then stepped backward.

"No."

Someone asked him what it said.

The linguist stared at the gate for several seconds before whispering, "Abandon..." before shaking his head.

"No."

Then he looked directly into the camera.

"We've found—"

Static consumed the feed.

When the image returned, only half a second had passed. The linguist was no longer looking at the gate. He was looking behind the camera, at something none of us could see.

Then he whispered the words that ended the mission.

"We've found Hell."

The transmission ended with no distress signal, no evacuation attempt, and nothing else.

Just silence.

Stonehill allowed the silence to remain before Jacob finally spoke.

"We sent drones."

The screen changed, showing footage of the gate from multiple angles. Each drone approached the same point before the signal disappeared again and again.

"Every drone stopped transmitting at the exact same location," Jacob said quietly.

He looked down at the table.

"None of them crossed the threshold."

The room stayed silent because everyone understood what that meant.

Something on the other side of that gate did not want to be found.

Then Stonehill looked at Angelo, and for the first time since I had met him, I saw something I never expected. Everyone in that room was waiting for an answer from someone who might not have one.

"Director Angelo."

Angelo didn't move.

Stonehill looked toward the frozen image of the gate on the screen.

"Does Hell exist?"

Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

And I realized something.

Angelo wasn't deciding whether to tell us the truth. He was trying to understand why the truth was different from what he believed.

Finally, he spoke.

"It should not."

Nobody reacted outwardly, but I felt the room shift as General Hayes narrowed his eyes.

"'Should not'?"

"You didn't answer the question."

Angelo kept staring at the screen.

Another silence followed before Angelo finally spoke.

"When my siblings and I were young, Mother often told us stories before we rested."

His eyes remained fixed on the gate.

"I believed this one was fiction."

Then, in the same calm voice he used when explaining things that should have been impossible, he began.

"Once, before the stars learned to shine, there lived a shadow."

Nobody interrupted.

"The great shadow loved Mother very much. And Mother loved the great shadow too. She showed it stars that danced through the sky, flowers that bloomed for only a single morning, and rivers that never flowed the same way twice. Mother loved watching beautiful things change."

A faint smile appeared on Angelo's face.

"But the great shadow loved differently."

The smile disappeared.

"Every star Mother showed it, it placed inside a cage. Every flower, it buried beneath the earth so it would never wilt. Every creature, it refused to let leave."

The room became completely silent.

"Mother loved the great shadow, so she taught. She waited. She hoped. She forgave."

Angelo paused.

"But love cannot teach someone to release what they believe belongs to them."

He looked back at the gate.

"One day, the great shadow looked upon all of creation Mother loved so much and decided... that no one else should have her."

Nobody moved.

"So the great shadow tried to keep Mother forever. It reached for the One who could never be possessed."

His voice became quieter.

"And creation broke."

Angelo stared at the floor.

"Mother defeated the great shadow. But she could not destroy it. So she built the deepest place she could imagine. A place with walls no one could climb. A gate no one could open. A prison even light would not willingly enter."

For a moment, he was silent.

Then, almost like he was repeating words spoken to him long ago, he continued.

"And Mother tucked us into bed, kissed each of us on the forehead, and said..."

His expression faded.

"'Remember, my children. This is only a fairy tale.'"

The room remained silent.

Angelo looked at the gate.

"I believed her."

For the first time since I had met him, the oldest living being in existence didn't look like a god, an angel, or something beyond humanity.

He looked like a child who had just discovered his mother had lied to him.

Nobody spoke because nobody knew how to respond after learning a bedtime story might have been the truth.

General Hayes was the first to recover.

"You expect us to believe the Creator imprisoned something..." His eyes moved toward the frozen image of the gate. "...and simply neglected to mention it?"

The room waited for Angelo's answer.

Angelo looked at him with the same calm expression he always wore. "I expect nothing," he said. "I am simply stating what I know." His eyes returned to the frozen image of the gate on the screen. "And what I know... is now incomplete."

That sentence affected the room more than anything else he had said.

Incomplete.

Angelo had spent trillions of years answering questions with absolute certainty. If he didn't know something, he admitted it. If he knew something, there was never hesitation in his voice. But now, for the first time since I had met him, he was questioning his own memories.

Stonehill folded his hands. "Do you believe your mother lied?"

Angelo didn't answer immediately.

"No," he finally said. "I believe she wished us to believe it was fiction."

Madam Leni tilted her head slightly. "To protect you?"

Angelo remained silent for several moments before answering.

"...Perhaps."

"From what?"

"I do not know."

A slight frown crossed his face.

"She rarely withheld information. When she did, it was because she believed we were not yet prepared to understand it."

Nobody in that room looked comforted by that answer. If the Creator herself believed angels weren't ready to know about Hell, what chance did humanity have?

Dr. Laurent leaned forward. "Director Angelo, if this prison exists... what does the great shadow mean?"

Another pause.

"I do not know."

Hayes scoffed. "You just told us the story."

"I repeated a story," Angelo corrected. "The identity of the great shadow was never revealed. It possessed no name."

He looked back at the gate.

"It was simply... the Great Shadow."

Something about the way he said it made every hair on my arms stand up.

Not a shadow.

The Great Shadow.

A title.

A singular thing.

Rahman spoke next. "And this Shadow attempted to overthrow your mother?"

"Yes."

"It failed?"

"Yes."

"And she was unable to destroy it?"

Angelo hesitated.

"...Yes."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Hayes looked around the table. "If the Creator couldn't kill it..." He stopped himself before finishing the thought.

He didn't need to.

Nobody wanted to imagine what came after that sentence.

Stonehill eventually stood. "The theological implications can wait."

His attention shifted toward Jacob.

"What else did we recover?"

Jacob didn't answer right away.

That alone told me something was wrong.

Normally, Jacob was the person who entered these meetings with information. Reports. Evidence. A plan for what came next. This time, he had none of those things.

"Nothing," he finally said.

The word sounded heavier than it should have.

"No equipment. No bodies. No biological traces. No emergency beacon."

He looked toward the screen displaying the last footage of Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven.

"They didn't leave anything behind except the live footage"

A pause.

"It's like they simply vanished."

A cold feeling settled in my stomach because I had heard those words before.

Not exactly.

But close enough.

Antarctica.

The Containment Division team that disappeared without leaving behind a single explanation.

Every time CSP lost people, we told ourselves there had to be a reason. There had to be something we could find. Something we could understand.

But sometimes there wasn't.

Sometimes things just took people.

Stonehill closed the file in front of him.

"Effective immediately, Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven's mission is reclassified."

The screen behind him changed.

RECOVERY OPERATION → INVESTIGATION OPERATION

"Primary objective: determine the current status of the site."

Another line appeared.

"Secondary objective: recover any remaining data, equipment, or evidence."

Stonehill paused before reading the final objective.

"Determine what exists beneath Göbekli Tepe."

General Hayes immediately looked up.

"Security deployment?"

"Already prepared."

"Research?"

"Prepared."

His gaze shifted toward Angelo.

"And him?"

Nobody needed clarification.

Everyone knew who he meant.

Stonehill looked at Angelo.

"Director Angelo will accompany the operation."

Nobody argued.

Not because they were comfortable with it.

Because nobody in that room was foolish enough to send a team into a location connected to something the Creator herself supposedly imprisoned without the only being alive who might understand what they were walking into.

Then Stonehill looked at me.

"Agent Nayeri."

I hated that I already knew what was coming.

"You're leading the investigation team."

Of course I was.

Apparently surviving impossible situations meant being assigned more impossible situations.

"How long until deployment?" I asked.

"Two hours."

I glanced toward Jacob.

He still hadn't looked at me.

And somehow that bothered me more than anger would have.

Jacob being angry was normal.

Jacob avoiding me meant he was hurt.

And that felt worse.

Two hours later, we were standing beneath Göbekli Tepe.

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Not peaceful silence.

Wrong silence.

The kind of silence where your brain starts searching for a sound that should exist.

The excavation site had been transformed into a CSP operation zone. Security teams surrounded the area while researchers monitored dozens of devices scattered across the ground. Scanners. Sensors. Recording equipment. Every piece of technology humanity had created to understand the unknown.

None of it helped.

Because the staircase was still there.

Waiting.

I stood at the edge of the entrance and looked down into the darkness.

The original excavation team had only removed enough debris to expose the first section of the staircase. After that, they stopped. Nobody wanted to continue, not after watching thirty-six people disappear into the darkness below.

Jacob stood beside me for several minutes without speaking. Eventually, he broke the silence.

"You know..."

I looked at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I knew exactly what he meant, and I looked away.

"Jacob..."

"No."

His voice wasn't angry, and somehow that made it worse.

"You tell me everything. Every stupid thing."

I frowned. "What?"

"You once called me at three in the morning because you accidentally microwaved a metal spoon."

I looked at him.

"...I forgot it was in the bowl."

He stared at me.

"That is not helping your argument."

Then his expression softened.

"But this?"

He looked down the staircase.

"You didn't tell me about Angelo."

The guilt hit harder than I expected.

"I was trying to process it myself."

He sighed.

"I know, Nayeri."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he quietly said, "You're the closest thing I have to family here…"

He didn't continue the sentence, but he didn't need to. We both understood what he meant.

"Jacob..."

"I'm not mad."

"You're allowed to be."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I mean it."

He finally looked at me.

"I was hurt because I thought you didn't trust me."

My expression dropped.

"I do trust you."

"I know."

A small smile appeared on his face.

"That's why I'm telling you this."

I looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

This time, I didn't make excuses or try to explain why I kept it from him.

"I should have told you."

Jacob nodded.

"Yeah. You should have."

I winced at how direct he was, but then he sighed.

"But I understand."

He looked back towards me.

"Besides... I suppose I should have expected something like this from you."

I raised an eyebrow.

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged.

"You have a history of making terrible life decisions."

"Excuse me?"

"You joined CSP."

"Fair."

"You keep volunteering for missions nobody else wants."

"Also fair."

"And now you're dating an entity older than time itself."

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

"...yep that checks out."

"It does."

He smiled slightly.

"But that's just you."

I shook my head.

"That is somehow both insulting and supportive."

"That's my specialty."

For the first time since entering the briefing room, the weight in my chest loosened slightly.

Then Jacob looked back toward the staircase, and the smile disappeared. 

"Still..." he said quietly, staring into the darkness below, "I really hope this isn't another Antarctica." I followed his gaze because I was thinking the same thing. And deep down... I already knew it was gonna be worse.

The staircase hadn't changed since the footage, and somehow that bothered me more than if it had. A part of me expected something different. Maybe the stairs would disappear. Maybe the measurements would be wrong. Maybe we would reach the bottom and find some explanation that made everything less terrifying. 

CSP loved explanations. Even terrible ones. A monster. A god. An experiment gone wrong. Those were things we could prepare for. But this wasn't any of those things. This was just a staircase. A staircase that should not exist. And somehow, that was worse.

After six hours of descending, exhaustion finally started catching up with me. I had barely slept since the last incident, and apparently fighting impossible beings, discovering angels had families, and learning Hell might actually exist wasn't considered a valid reason to take a few days off.

My legs felt heavy, my eyes burned, and every few minutes I caught myself yawning. At one point, I realized my eyes were watering.

Not from fear. Not from emotion. I was simply exhausted, and that was a terrible feeling to have while walking into a place that might contain the oldest threat in existence. I wiped my eyes and looked ahead.

Angelo was still walking.

Of course he was.

Six hours of descending into a staircase that stretched miles beneath the Earth, a location that should not exist, a prison supposedly created by the Creator herself, and he looked the same as when we entered. I hated that. Not because I thought he was unaffected, but because I knew he was. He was just better at hiding it.

Eventually, after another 8 hours, we reached the gate.

The moment it came into view, everyone stopped. Nobody needed to say anything. We had already seen it in the footage, but seeing it in person was different. The recording hadn't captured the scale or the feeling of standing beneath something that looked less like a door and more like a warning.

It was enormous, black, and covered in symbols none of our equipment could identify. There were no hinges, no visible mechanism, and no indication that it had ever been designed to open. It wasn't a door in the way we understood doors.

It was a barrier.

Angelo stepped forward and placed his hand against it.

"Stay behind me."

Nobody questioned him. The symbols across the gate began to glow, almost like they were waking up, and then the impossible happened.

The gate opened.

Not with movement.

Not with a sound.

It simply stopped being closed.

Beyond it was another passage, and at the end of that passage was another gate.

General Hayes immediately raised his hand.

"Everyone hold."

Security moved into position. Nobody wanted another Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven.

The second gate revealed a smooth chamber beyond it. There were no markings, no symbols, and no evidence that anything had ever passed through.

Then Angelo stepped forward and stopped.

That was when I knew something was wrong, not because he looked afraid- because Angelo rarely looked afraid- but because he looked confused.

Slowly, we followed his gaze.

Then we saw them.

Retrieval Team Twenty-Seven.

All thirty-six members.

Standing in the chamber beyond the gate.

For a moment, nobody understood what we were seeing because they weren't dead. There were no bodies, no blood, and no remains. They stood exactly as they had when they entered. Their eyes were open, their bodies were completely still, and every single one of them was smiling.

But it wasn't a real smile.

It was a copy.

Like something had seen humans smile and recreated the expression without understanding why.

That was when we understood.

The Shadow hadn't killed them.

It was like it had tried to recreate them.

After millions of years alone in the dark, humanity had become the first thing it had seen.

Angelo stared at them.

Nobody spoke.

Eventually, General Hayes forced himself to move.

"Secure the area."

Security advanced carefully. One officer approached the second gate with a scanner, but the device failed almost immediately.

"Equipment failure," he muttered.

Then he reached out.

"Don't."

Angelo's warning came too late.

The moment his glove touched the surface, he screamed.

Then his arm disappeared.

Not injured.

Not burned.

Gone.

Everything below his elbow vanished without blood, without damage, and without any explanation. It was as if reality itself had simply decided that part of him had never existed.

The chamber went silent.

We had finally learned the truth about the two gates.

The first had been a door, but the second had been a defense.

"Do not touch it," Angelo said.

Hayes looked at him.

"Thank you for that information."

Angelo ignored the sarcasm and stepped forward.

Before I could stop myself, I reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Angelo."

He looked back at me.

"Are you sure?"

For a moment, his eyes dropped to my hand holding his arm. Then he gently placed his own hand over mine.

"I am."

I let go, not because I was convinced, but because I trusted him.

If there was one thing I had learned about Angelo, it was that he never acted without a reason.

He placed his hand against the barrier.

This time, nothing happened.

The symbols reacted, glowing across the surface as the barrier slowly opened. Beyond it was a chamber, and inside was something that made every weapon in Security Division lower.

Not because we weren't afraid.

Because we were too afraid to move.

At first, I thought the chamber was empty. Then my eyes adjusted, and I realized it wasn't darkness.

It was something inside the darkness. 

A shape.

A presence.

A mass sitting alone in the center of the room.

It was the darkest thing I had ever seen. Not the absence of light, but something that seemed to consume it. Every scanner failed. Every camera distorted. Every piece of equipment we had brought with us became useless.

And Angelo...

For the first time since I had met him...

looked like he had found something he didn't want to believe was real.

The shadow moved.

Not toward us.

Not aggressively.

Just enough to prove it was alive.

I expected a monster. I expected rage. I expected the thing locked beneath creation to behave like the threat everyone believed it was.

Instead, it looked small.

Not weak. Not harmless. Small.

A fragment of something far greater than itself. A piece separated from the whole.

Angelo stared at it for several seconds before quietly whispering, "This is not the shadow mother imprisoned. It's a fragment of it."

I looked at him.

"A fragment?"

The words sounded impossible. This was connected to whatever had forced the Creator herself to build a prison, something that had challenged the being who created existence. Yet it looked so small. 

"Yes," he said.

Then the shadow moved again.

Every weapon in the chamber lifted as the darkness shifted, trying to create something. A hand formed first, but the fingers were too long and the joints bent in ways they shouldn't, before collapsing back into smoke.

A face appeared next.

Too wide.

Too unnatural.

Then the Shadow looked at Angelo.

And smiled.

Not because it was happy, but because it had seen humans smile.

The expression stretched too wide across a face that hadn't existed three seconds earlier.

Every instinct I had screamed the same thing.

Move.

The darkness exploded.

It didn't charge.

It unfolded.

The floor beneath us disappeared beneath black tendrils as the chamber shook, and Security opened fire, blessed rounds tearing through the creature, only for the bullets to simply vanish into it.

There was no impact.

No wound.

It was like we had fired into a hole punched through reality.

The Shadow tilted its head.

Then it copied.

One of its arms twisted as bones formed where there had never been bones. Fingers appeared. Knuckles formed. Skin stretched over the impossible shape. It watched the security officer holding the rifle, and suddenly it was holding one too.

Not the actual weapon.

A perfect imitation made entirely from darkness.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The copied rifle fired.

Not bullets.

Reality.

The gate behind us simply ceased to exist.

There was no explosion.

No debris.

One moment, the stone existed.

The next, it didn't.

Three security officers disappeared with it.

No screams.

No blood.

Just gone.

"PULL BACK!" General Hayes roared.

Panic erupted as researchers ran, equipment crashed to the floor, and the Shadow watched every movement with childish fascination.

Then it copied those too.

It stumbled into a run, its legs bending wrong and its arms swinging too far, like an infant trying to imitate adults.

But every step became smoother.

Every movement became more human.

It was learning.

Too fast.

A researcher tripped.

The Shadow stopped and stared at him.

Then its own body collapsed.

It copied the way he'd fallen, the way he'd reached toward someone for help, and even the way fear had appeared on his face.

It wasn't mocking him.

It was studying him.

"Angelo!"

He wasn't listening.

He stood perfectly still, staring at the creature. His eyes weren't on the attacks.

They were on its movements.

On the mistakes.

On the corrections.

He was seeing something none of us understood.

Which meant someone had to keep the Shadow busy.

"...Guess that's me."

I pulled the Angelic blade from my belt.

The weapon ignited with pale gold light.

The Shadow looked toward it immediately.

Good.

"Hey!"

Its head snapped toward me.

"If you're going to copy someone..."

I forced a grin I absolutely did not feel.

"...copy me."

I charged.

The first swing split the darkness in half.

The blade actually hurt it.

Black smoke erupted from the wound as the Shadow recoiled, not in pain, but in surprise.

It hadn't expected something to touch it.

Good.

I slashed again and again, each strike forcing it backward as the chamber shook beneath every impact.

It wasn't stronger than Angelo.

But it was stronger than me.

By a lot.

The Shadow's arm became a spear.

I ducked as it tore through the ceiling, sending stones the size of cars crashing around us.

I rolled beneath one boulder and drove the angelic blade into its side.

The creature split apart, only to instantly flow back together.

"...Right."

Should've expected that.

Its arm changed again.

This time, it became my arm.

The same sleeve.

The same glove.

The same scar across the knuckles from that stupid training accident Jacob still wouldn't let me forget.

It also copied my stance, raised its weapon exactly the way I did, and even adjusted its footing.

Then it attacked.

The first exchange nearly broke my wrists.

Metal screamed against living darkness as every blow grew harder and every strike became cleaner.

It wasn't just copying me anymore.

It was improving.

"Nayari!" Jacob shouted.

"It's adapting!"

"I know!"

I barely got the words out before the Shadow copied my spin.

Its body twisted with impossible precision as one foot planted and its hips turned.

The kick came faster than I could follow.

For a split second, I knew I wasn't going to dodge it.

Then Angelo was there.

He didn't move toward me.

He simply existed between us.

One moment I could see the Shadow.

The next, all I saw was Angelo's back.

The Shadow's kick crashed into him, and the impact echoed through the chamber like a bomb detonating.

The floor shattered beneath Angelo's feet as cracks raced across the stone in every direction. A wall behind us collapsed from the force alone.

Angelo didn't move.

Not an inch.

Not even enough for me to believe he'd actually been hit.

The Shadow froze.

Confused.

It had expected him to fly backward.

Instead, it felt like it had kicked a mountain.

But the shockwave was another story.

An invisible force slammed into me like a freight train, ripping the air from my lungs as I was thrown backward across the stone floor before crashing through a ruined pillar.

Everything hurt.

"...Ow."

Dust rained from the ceiling as I forced myself onto one elbow.

I looked up and saw Angelo still standing exactly where he had intercepted the attack.

Not a single step had been pushed from him.

The Shadow stared at him.

Then it looked down at its own leg, as though it couldn't understand why the strongest attack it knew had accomplished nothing.

Angelo finally spoke, his voice as calm as ever.

"...Your form has improved."

The Shadow tilted its head.

"You are learning."

And somehow, that sounded less like a threat and more like an observation.

It was almost as if Angelo wasn't speaking to a monster.

He was speaking to a child taking its first steps.

Then the Shadow moved.

Not like an animal.

It was simply unpredictable.

Every movement changed. A hand became a blade. A body became smoke. A face became something impossible. Angelo blocked one attack, then another, but the creature continued adapting and learning from every movement he made.

I realized we were watching a race.

Not to see who would win.

To see whether Angelo could understand the Shadow before the Shadow learned enough to become unstoppable.

Then reality trembled.

Not from the Shadow.

But from something arriving.

The ceiling split open.

Golden light poured into the chamber as seventeen wings unfolded above us and millions of eyes opened in the darkness.

Angelo's nephew descended, and the pressure alone forced everyone to their knees.

The Shadow stopped moving.

A light brighter than anything I had ever seen gathered around him.

"Wait."

Angelo's voice stopped him.

The nephew looked down as the golden light surrounding him continued to grow, his entire presence pressing against the chamber like something too powerful to exist in such a small space.

"Uncle."

Angelo stared at him.

"You have returned."

A pause.

"Yes."

The nephew looked away.

Not toward the Shadow.

Toward Angelo.

"I came to apologize."

The entire room went silent.

Even the Shadow stopped moving.

Angelo's expression didn't change.

"Apologize?"

The nephew clenched his hand.

"For believing she was right."

A cold feeling moved through me.

She.

Everyone knew who he meant.

His mother.

The god that Angelo's brother loved so much. The one he betrayed the creator for.

"My mother told me you were a traitor."

The words hung in the chamber.

Angelo didn't move.

The nephew continued.

"She told me you had abandoned our family. That you had chosen humanity over us. That you had forgotten what we were."

His voice became quieter.

"I believed her."

The Shadow shifted behind Angelo.

The nephew looked at it.

A moment passed.

Then Angelo asked quietly:

"And now?"

The nephew's expression changed.

Regret.

"I was wrong."

Nobody spoke.

"I watched them."

His eyes moved toward me.

"Humans."

Then toward Jacob.

"All of them."

His voice softened.

"I watched them continue even when they knew they were fragile. I watched them love things they knew they would lose. I watched them stand against things that could erase them without hesitation."

He looked back at Angelo.

"And I finally understood."

A pause.

"You were never protecting them because you believed they were stronger than us."

His wings shifted slightly.

"You protected them because they were worth protecting."

Angelo said nothing.

Then the nephew looked toward the Shadow.

"And when I confronted her she told me about her plan."

The room grew colder.

Angelo's eyes narrowed.

"What plan?"

The nephew looked ashamed.

"My mother was the one who released the Great Shadow"

Silence.

And for the first time, Angelo looked genuinely shaken.

Not because of the Shadow.

Because of who caused it.

"Why?"

The nephew's expression darkened.

"Because she wanted what all corrupt gods want."

Power.

"She believed the Great Shadow could make her something greater than what she was."

His eyes lowered.

"But she was wrong."

The Shadow tilted its head.

Almost like it understood.

"She could not control it."

The nephew looked toward the creature.

"Only a fragment escaped."

A pause.

"But even a fragment of the Great Shadow is enough."

His expression hardened.

"And now it is learning."

He looked back at Angelo.

"If it becomes whole again..."

He didn't finish.

Nobody needed him to.

Angelo understood.

The nephew stepped forward.

"I came here because I owe you."

Angelo looked at him.

"You owe me nothing."

The nephew shook his head.

"I will not allow my mothers mistake destroy what you spent your existence protecting."

The nephew raised his hand.

The light around him became blinding.

"I will end this."

The Shadow reacted.

Not with anger.

Not with fear.

With confusion.

Angelo stepped between them.

"No."

The nephew stopped.

"Uncle..."

"You came here to destroy it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The nephew looked almost offended by the question.

"Because it is a threat to you."

A pause.

"Because it is a threat to everything you have sacrificed yourself to protect."

Angelo looked at the fragment.

Then back at his nephew.

"But you were once a threat too."

The nephew froze.

Because that was the undeniable truth.

When he had first opened his eyes, he hadn't understood mercy. He hadn't understood humanity. He hadn't even understood himself. His only purpose had been destruction.

Angelo had been the target.

The enemy.

The thing he was created to oppose.

And now, somehow, the being he once wanted to destroy had become the reason he wanted to protect.

Fate truly had a strange sense of irony.

Slowly, the nephew lowered his hand completely.

"I gave you the chance to find yourself."

Angelo looked back at the fragment.

"Why should I deny this one the same chance?"

There was a brief pause, then Angelo continued.

"I know allowing it to live is a great risk."

The nephew stared at him.

"Then why?"

Angelo was quiet for a moment before answering.

"Because you are not my brother."

The words struck harder than any attack.

The nephew went completely still.

"You share his origin. You share his power. You share his existence."

Angelo looked directly at him.

"But you are not him."

Silence filled the chamber.

Then Angelo turned back toward the fragment.

"And this is not the Shadow my mother imprisoned or the shadow your mother tried to weaponize"

The creature shifted uneasily beneath his gaze.

"It is only a fragment," Angelo said quietly. "A child that has only just been born."

The nephew looked at the being that had fought like a god, the creature that had nearly torn reality apart, and finally, he didn't see a threat. He didn't see a weapon waiting to be destroyed.

He saw something confused.

The light around his hand slowly faded as the tension in the chamber began to disappear.

The Shadow looked at Angelo.

"W..h…y?"

Angelo lowered himself until he was closer to its height. For the first time, he wasn't looking at it like a danger or an experiment. He was looking at it like something that needed to be taught.

"Because someone gave me the same chance."

The fragment tilted its head, its expression filled with confusion. When it spoke, the words came slowly and unevenly, like it was repeating a language it had only just discovered. 

"To.. be..co..me w..ha..t?"

Each word sounded unfamiliar, as if it was still learning how to shape the sounds.

Angelo smiled faintly.

"That is for you to decide."

The creature looked down at itself, studying the strange form it had created, as if it was trying to understand the shape it had chosen and why it had chosen it.

"Ho..w will I k..now?"

Angelo watched it carefully.

"Ho..w will I k..now wh..at I sho..uld be..come?"

"You won't know immediately."

He placed a hand gently on its shoulder.

"First, a child must learn."

The fragment stared at him.

"Le..arn?"

"Yes."

"Learn…wh…at?"

Angelo's expression softened.

"Everything."

The darkness surrounding the creature began to shift.

Not attacking.

Not consuming.

Changing.

The impossible shape slowly collapsed into something smaller. The twisted limbs corrected themselves, the unnatural features faded away, and the monstrous form began to disappear as the shadow pulled inward.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The entire chamber remained frozen as the being that had nearly destroyed us slowly transformed into something none of us expected.

Then the darkness settled.

And standing before us was a child no older than eight years old.

This is incredibly difficult for me to talk about. I feel, I don’t know, ashamed, I guess. Like I’ve somehow failed as a parent. When I was growing up, I thought my parents hated me.

I never wanted that for my daughter. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. That my love was unconditional.

I’ve never felt as proud as I did the day she came into this world. It was almost like looking into a mirror. She had my eyes. My ears. Our noses were practically identical. And her smile, God, it was like nothing else mattered in the entire world.

I wanted her to have that same pride in herself. I never wanted her to ever feel any self-hatred. That’s another thing my parents made me feel. I didn’t get their pride. I didn’t get their love. I got cold stares. I got nights where I couldn’t sleep because Mom’s cries were so loud.

I didn’t ask for my family. I didn’t ask to be assigned to them. They were supposed to accept me, and they failed, miserably.

I guess the universe has a strange sense of humor because now, it’s like my daughter can’t accept herself.

She doesn’t hunt with me anymore. She tries to suppress her urge. She doesn’t do the cute little growl she used to do as a baby. I bet it’s 10 times as impactful now, but I wouldn’t know because she just refuses to practice.

She won’t even climb trees anymore. She’d rather hide out at home. Curled up in the dark, pouting to herself.

Of course, I try and comfort her, try and make her realize she should be proud of who she is, but she just rejects me. It seems like that’s all life is for me. Rejection from the people who are supposed to love me.

She tells me I “wouldn’t get it,” whatever the hell that means.

She hates her skin, so she tries to cover it up. She hates her teeth, so she refuses to smile. She even wears beanies that she stole from humans to cover her pointy ears.

That’s something I guess I can respect. At least she’s causing harm to them, even if it’s just with something as simple as stealing. I just wish she’d steal something useful like meat rather than clothes and makeup.

That’s something I never quite understood. Makeup clearly makes shedding more difficult. Why would you want life to be harder than it already is? I mean, we already have to hide out in the woods.

I guess that’s not my place, though.

It’s starting to get more concerning, however. It was already hard to watch her cry because she felt different. Now I have to watch her quite literally alter herself to fit into “social norms,” as she calls it.

She’s already filed down her fangs. When she does hunt, all she has now are her claws, and those are much easier to get rid of than teeth.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not with the times. All I know is that I want her to be happy in the body she was given.

There are no female specimens left for her to look up to, and I’m just an old, out-of-touch Dad, apparently.

I hope this matter resolves itself. I’ll keep doing my best to get her to see that they’re the monsters, not us.

Until then, I’ll just keep reminiscing on the simpler times. I kept her shell, and these days, that seems to be the only thing that brings me peace.

Well, that and hunting humans.

I decided, recently, that I was in need of counseling. It’s like there are two voices in my head. They’re constantly arguing. They’re constantly fighting for the controls. But then again… who’s watching them fight?

Me? A third voice? Am I already one of the two? Am I both? Can this whole thing be boiled down to bad days and good days? Happiness and sadness? Anger and serenity?

It couldn’t be. If it was, surely I wouldn’t be having this conversation with myself. I wouldn’t be doubting my actions. But I guess I’m clear-headed enough to not defend them.

Although, it does beg the question: where does that reason go when I’m committing those actions? Where’s my logic? How come I only feel something after the fact?

Those questions keep me up at night. My guilt keeps me up at night. That’s why I decided to look into counseling. On one of those nights where my soul felt rotten. Where one voice had left me alone in the dark with the other just long enough for it to convince me.

But then, like clockwork, the other voice returned. Not in the form of thoughts. In the form of action. It was like a possession. There were no arguments. It was complete control.

It’s hard for me to stay away from them when I’m like that. I learn. I survey. I hunt.

Sometimes I’ll find them in a crowd, other times they will have been pre-selected. By who? I’m not sure. It gets foggy when desire is involved. I’m not sure whether to blame myself or the voice.

I only remember fragments after the deed is done. It’s like a shroud is placed over that specific, microscopic part of my brain. Like it’s trying to protect me.

But no matter how thick the wool is, the guilt remains. I never know why I feel it. At least, not fully. I just know that it makes me sick. It cripples me. I hide away from the world because the voice that commanded my hand flees from my mind.

Sometimes both of them leave.

Leave me alone. All alone. Empty. Then one or the other shows up. One tells me I can stop. I can do better. I can be better. The other tells me this is who I am. Who I’m destined to be. Tells me that I’m right at home. It’s like when I used to watch my parents fight when I was younger.

That’s one of the things I wanted to bring up at my appointment.

I think my childhood has a lot to do with how I am now. The way I think. The things I do. If I had to self-diagnose, I’d probably say it comes from a lack of control in my formative years.

My dad was much bigger than me. My mom was much smaller than me. When those two went at it, my mom was fighting an uphill battle.

I’d always run and hide anytime I heard Dad raise his voice because I knew that meant the belt was coming out. Me and my mom both feared that leather belt, but my mom, being the saint that she is, would often take the majority of the licks.

The guilt I felt over it was enough to drive me to tears.

One day, I guess Mom just had enough. She wasn’t gonna take it anymore. I remember she put me to bed early. She seemed more self-assured than she usually was on Friday nights. Those were usually the nights Dad would come home the drunkest.

Of course, he came home in one of his moods. I could already hear him screaming about nothing two minutes after he walked through the door.

Mom didn’t try to reason with him this time. I didn’t hear any “calm downs,” any “you always do this” comments. What I did hear was the cocking of my dad’s .38 Magnum.

I’d seen him shoot the thing enough to know what it sounded like, and I was not going to stay in bed while he murdered my mother.

Only… when I ran out of the room… the gun was in his face. Mom pulled the trigger before I could let out a single scream.

The sound of the shot. The image of my dad’s brain hitting the wood paneling of our trailer. The way Mom apologized to me profusely before calling the police on herself and waiting calmly on our front porch for them to arrive.

None of that has left me. Neither of the voices let it. It’s one of the few things they agree on. It’s a part of me.

And it was a part of me I was supposed to share with the counselor. My voice of reason had control long enough for me to set up the appointment. Long enough to evaluate myself before I went in.

I walked into the office feeling hopeful for once. The cold AC felt like heaven compared to the scorching heat outside. The lady at the counter greeted me with a charming, “Hello! You here for an appointment, hon?”

I signed in and sat at one of the chairs in the waiting room, browsing through one of the magazines from the coffee table because that’s what I imagined a normal person would do.

Five minutes went by. Then 10. Then 15 before the receptionist called out to me.

“She should be right with you, hon.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my counselor poked her head into the waiting room.

“Daniel? Here for the 3:15?”

I stood up.

“Yep. That’s me.”

I couldn’t help but notice just how angelic her voice was. How smooth and soft her brown hair was. How well it complemented her absolutely stunning face. How much she… looked like my mother.

I didn’t know how to react to what I was feeling. It was like this tug. This urge that grew more and more impossible to ignore.

When we reached her office, the first thing she did was flip an hourglass on her desk.

“Okay, Daniel. I know you’ve been having some problems recently. You wanna describe those so that we can…”

Her voice began trailing off. My eyes kept darting from her to the hourglass. It was like I was on autopilot. I think I responded. I think she kept talking. I know the sand kept falling.

My mouth moved in response, but my thoughts never changed.

She was the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. I could see the love in her eyes as she talked to me.

She just… she looked so much like my mother. Part of me loved her already. Another part of me hated her. Hated her for what she made me see. For how broken I am.

That hatred turned into anger. Her lips kept moving. She kept smiling. Everything felt like it was going in slow motion. Even the sand in the hourglass seemed like it was falling like snowflakes rather than sand.

My eyes darted to her. To the hourglass. Back to her. Back to the hourglass. The hour was almost up. Instead of making progress, all I felt was rage.

My eyes darted to something new.

A shiny pair of scissors in a pencil holder on her desk.

My eyes darted back to her.

She wasn’t speaking anymore. She looked at me… expectantly. Like she could read my thoughts. A smirk stretched across her face.

“Daniel,” she snapped. “You still with me, buddy?”

Desire kicked in. Things got foggy. I don’t know what happened.

All I know is when I came back, my hands were covered in blood. A pair of bloody scissors lay at my feet. My mother sat with her throat slashed in the desk chair in front of me.

The guilt rose in my stomach. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t. And God knows I tried.

All I could do was fall back into my seat, completely dumbstruck at the scene that lay before me.

My eyes began to well up with tears. My nose began to run. My head fell into my hands as I began sobbing uncontrollably.

I must’ve sat there crying for 5, 10, maybe 15 minutes before I heard a voice call out to me. I thought I was hearing things at first. But the more it repeated, the harder it was to ignore.

I lifted my head from my hands and felt my stomach tighten.

“Hon? Sorry about the wait. Don’t worry, though. She should be out momentarily.”

I was back in the waiting room. Same cold AC. Same old magazines on the coffee table. Same receptionist.

I had to have been losing my mind. I glanced around the room, tears still falling from my eyes.

As I looked around, my head jerked in the direction of the sound of a door opening.

My counselor poked her head into the waiting room.

“Daniel? Here for the 3:15?”

I can remember Joanna’s eyes more clearly now than I did yesterday. As I said, they were half-open, that hazy and unfocused look people get when they’re half asleep. I remember the faint glow of her alarm illuminating her face, making her look gaunt and skeletal. The neon green was harsh against her features, highlighting deep bags under her eyes. I remember now that there was no glint of recognition in her eyes, no shine. Her stare just bore straight ahead, laser-focused on a spot behind me.

I felt paralyzed under her gaze. Her expression hardened, her mouth screwing up into a deep grimace. I was terrified, and yet, I felt like I needed to turn around, but I found I couldn’t. It felt like I was caught between two enormous weights. Joanna’s terror was pressing into me from the front, and whatever was behind me was pressing equally as hard. I couldn’t breathe deeply enough. My chest felt like it was collapsing under the sheer weight of anticipation. Even now, remembering it, my ribs ache a little.

The tingling sensation of blood flow spread into my fingers first before travelling to my other extremities. It travelled up my hands and into my biceps, eventually filling my neck with that thick static feeling after your limbs slowly wake up. I twitched my head slightly, my eyes darting rapidly between Joanna and the corner of my vision. If I could just turn my head a little more, I would be able to see…

“DON’T YOU DARE!” Joanna roared, her voice echoing in the darkness.

I yelled and leapt up, abandoning the thought of turning around. In a single motion, I had full control of my body and pulled the blanket up over my head, curling into a ball. I squeezed my eyes closed and held my hands in front of me, fumbling my way through the Lord’s prayer. The heat from my breath filled the makeshift tent of my blanket, and coupled with the fear wracking my body, caused me to sweat profusely. I remember thinking I had pissed myself because my entire body was drenched in a flop sweat and soaked through my pajamas.

I don’t know why I started praying so intensely. I mean, sure I had spent almost every Sunday of my childhood in the pews of the local Catholic church, but it wasn’t like I thought it would do anything. I think my mind started reciting the prayer because it felt like the only thing I knew how to do, almost like instinct took over.

“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation…” I was mumbling and rocking back and forth, “but deliver us from evil”.

I felt Joanna settle next to me and lie back down, but I refused to move. My body was shaking violently as I started the prayer over and over again, the words coming more assuredly now. I lay there, praying for what felt like an eternity until I dared to lower the blanket and peek out. Everything was quiet in the room again, the whine of terror gone from my ears and replaced with the soft breathing of Joanna at my feet. My breath came in low, shuddering gasps as I tried to will myself into calming down.

“For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever…” I finished in a whisper. I settled down into bed, turning so my back was to the wall. I lay so my head was to the door where Joanna had been looking. I squinted and peered into that abyss before finally giving up and closing my eyes, slowing my breathing. I can’t remember when sleep took me that night, but I swore before I fell under, I heard Joanna whisper, “Amen.”

I woke up hours later, the sun streaming through the off-white curtains. That devious alarm clock, now unsettlingly normal, read 11:01 AM. I rolled from my side onto my back, pushing my palms deeply into my eye sockets until I started seeing swirls.

*Did that really happen?*  I remember thinking, reasoning with my own thoughts, that surely that was all a dream.

“Jo, remind me to lay off the sour candy. I had the most insane dream,” I called out, pinching the bridge of my nose and rubbing slightly. My eyes were still squeezed tightly as I felt a migraine rolling through my sinuses.

When I realized she hadn’t answered, I kicked my leg out to knock her awake. As I swung, I found that I only felt a tangle of sheets and our thick comforters. I opened my eyes and peered down my chest to my feet where she would normally be. Sure enough, Joanna was out of bed already. Strange. I was usually the early bird. You couldn’t pay Joanna enough to wake up before 1 PM, especially on the weekend.

I rocked myself back up onto my elbows and looked around, wincing from the pounding in my head, and cursed at how bright the early afternoon was.

“Jo?” I called out

“Hmmmm.” I heard a responsive groan in the distance.

I rolled over to my stomach, looked towards the door, and felt a twinge in my chest. Bundled up in a pile of pillows and dirty clothes, Joanna was lying on the floor between our bed and the door. I had a sudden image of my childhood dog Jake, who would sleep on the floor, his nose always pointing towards my bedroom door as if he was prepared to pounce at a moment's notice.

I chuckled and tossed a pillow at her.

“Hey, doofus, why are you on the floor?” I called out to her

“You were tossing and turning like a goddamn gas station hot dog. Believe it or not, it was more comfortable on the floor. I would rather have lower back pain than get kicked in the chin by your big feet.” Joanna called back, her voice muffled as her head was tucked into her arms. I couldn’t see her face through the curtain of her brown hair, but I could hear her smiling at me.

“Ah, thanks, dick!” I launched another pillow at her head. Bullseye. She groaned even louder now, pouting because I had disturbed her slumber, and turned to stand up. I remember the soft groan of pain as she straightened out. Ever since I had known her, Joanna had had problems with her back, some issue with one of the discs in her lower spine. She never let us know how much it really hurt, but I could see the pain in her face sometimes when we were running or dancing. Watching her almost stumble as she stood, I felt that twinge in my chest again.

“Hey so…um…” I started, not really sure where to start. “Last night…”

“Next time you spend the night, you’re sleeping on the air mattress on the floor. You’re lucky I love you. C’mon, I’m starving. Let’s go see if we can beg mom to make us brunch. I want pancakes.” Joanna shuffled painstakingly towards her door, not even looking back to see if I was following.

I heard her take the stairs slowly, one at a time, but I couldn’t will myself to follow her just yet. Were we really not going to talk about last night? What the hell happened? I swung my feet over the bed, pushing my soles into the lush carpet. I bent over, putting my head between my knees, and took a deep breath, holding it for a few moments before releasing slowly through pursed lips. The sun was up. I was safe. So why was I still so…unsettled?

As I stood, I caught my reflection in the mirror of Joanna’s vanity. Jesus, I looked like I had been chewed up and spit out. My hair was tousled, and lord, I reeked of sweat and sleep. I turned this way and that, looking at the matted tangle of my curls, dreading how long it would take to comb them out later, when I noticed the mark on my back. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, like maybe I caught a shadow on my back at a weird angle. I walked towards the vanity, twisting slightly to my right to look at the space between my shoulder blades and spine. I hadn’t remembered there being a little bruise there before, a small oval shape, almost like a….

“Thumbprint…” I shuddered

I searched around Joanna’s vanity until I found a small compact and then turned to look at my back. Lifting my tank top up to my neck, I held the compact in front of me while I looked at the reflection between the two mirrors.

Across the top of my back was a series of five bruises, stretched wide like an abnormally large handprint.

I couldn’t stand still; my hands were shaking profusely. What on earth could do this? Did I bump into something? Was Joanna right? Was I tossing so much last night that I ended up hurting myself? My mind was racing, trying to reason with what I was seeing with my own two eyes.

“Cadi, come onnnnn!” Joanna called up from the bottom of the stairs. I could hear the annoyance in her voice for being up so early. “I want some goddamn pancakes!”

I slammed the compact closed and pulled my shirt back down, “C-Coming!” I yelled back, trying to calm the quiver in my voice. I needed to leave this room immediately; everything suddenly felt too intense. The sun was too hot, too bright, and the air was too stagnant and heavy.

As I crossed the threshold into The Collins’ mundane kitchen, it was like stepping back into reality.

“Jeez, girl, you look like you’ve been through hell!” Belinda remarked, handing me a cup of orange juice. “You want some coffee instead? You’re never too young to start your caffeine addiction!”

I took the cool glass and put it to my lips, my thoughts still racing as I nibbled slightly on the rim. I knocked my head back, the tang of citrus hitting the back of my dry throat like a punch. I sputtered slightly, choking and spraying juice all over the kitchen island. Belinda yelped and turned wide-eyed to me, making sure I was okay.

“Sorry, sorry,” I coughed, grasping for the napkins from the roll on the counter.

I caught Belinda’s eyes as her brows furrowed, looking between me and Joanna, who was sitting at the table, her chin resting in her hands as a deep yawn stretched across her face.

“What did you two get into last night? You both look…” Belinda trailed off

“It’s nothing mom,” Joanna said, more sternly than I think she had intended. “Cadi was just tossing and turning so we didn’t get much sleep, that’s all. Now about these pancakes…”

Belinda looked back and forth between us again before shrugging and returning to the stovetop.

“Jo jo, what the fuck is going on?” I whispered as I sat down across from her.

“Breakfast,” Joanna mumbled, her eyes closed again.

I was staring straight at her, scanning her face for answers, when she peeked one eye open and looked back at me.  She didn’t say anything, and I wonder now if she saw the desperation in my face and purposefully chose to ignore it or if she really was oblivious due to sleep deprivation. Whatever the case may be, she didn’t say anything else until Belinda plopped a stack of pancakes on the table before us. She ate voraciously, and the rest of the afternoon was filled with half-asleep mumbles, low-energy responses, and half-full chuckles at whatever was on the television. As the evening approached, I packed my sleepover bag and stood by the front door, putting my shoes on and preparing to walk home. I remember looking up at Joanna. She was standing at the railing of the foyer above, looking down with a pained look in her eyes. I had forgotten that before, but her eyes were weary. I could have sworn, as she smiled and waved goodbye, that she was glancing between me and the space behind me.

I had largely forgotten that terrifying night. The bruises faded after a week, but the cold pinprick feeling on the back of my neck never did.  I stopped remembering why I hated dark doorways; I just knew I did, and I never once slept with my back to an open room again.

We still had sleepovers after that, but not nearly as many. Middle school happened, then high school. Eventually, boys, jobs, homework, and college applications filled all of our weekends. Life has a funny way of stretching out time. One day, you’re making friendship bracelets in the foyer, and the next, you’re packing your entire life into cardboard boxes and getting ready for college. The thread between Joanna and me stretched well into adulthood, but it never once broke.

The day I packed for Austin, I remember Joanna holding me so tightly and crying into my shoulders. She hated me for leaving but loved me for being authentically myself and following my passion. Before I got in the car and hit the road, she pressed her forehead into mine, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Please…” I felt a jolt through my body, a familiar sting that I couldn’t place, but it made my breath quicken. I understand now why, but at that moment, I couldn’t place why that word felt more like a prayer than her pleading with me to stay.

We would keep in touch by sending cheesy birthday text messages. Congratulations on promotions and successes, sharing tidbits of gossip we had heard from our small hometown. We had built a rhythm in our lives that neither time nor space could disrupt.

I remember one night I had too much to drink and FaceTimed Joanna at 2 in the morning. I had expected the phone to ring and ring; I honestly don’t even know why I thought it was a good idea. But she picked up immediately, her eyes scanning mine through the screen.

“Hey,” she said quickly, “Is everything okay?”

“Girlll” I had slurred. Jesus, I was so hammered. “Why are you awake?”

“You called.” She said. That was it. Two words. Any time I needed her, Joanna had been there. She was always willing to pick up the phone whenever I called.

“That’s why I-” I was hiccupping trying to get my heartfelt acknowledgement out, “that’s why I fucking love you, dude.”

She was staring at me intently, and I couldn’t be entirely sure, but I could have sworn every few seconds her eyes would dart between my face and the room behind me.

A year ago, I met Declan. A dark-haired, devilishly handsome rake of a man with the most mesmerizing hazel eyes. When I had called Joanna to tell her about him, she laughed, recounting that he looked like “the amalgam of all my great loves”. I swiped through pictures of him, showing her selfies at parties, snaps of him I had snuck when he wasn’t looking, and screenshots from his mother’s Facebook page of his baby pictures. She laughed and said, “This one is a good one. I can sense it.” I remember it stuck with me how important that felt, like she was seeing a happy future that I hadn’t stepped into yet.

A few days ago, Declan and I signed our first lease and were moving into the next phase of our lives. I don’t think I ever felt as happy as I did while we slow danced in our completely empty kitchen, my head on his chest while he hummed *Earth Angel*. That first day was a blur of moving boxes and struggling to carry furniture into our place. Eventually, we started putting things into our bedroom.

Declan stood in the middle of the space, his hands splayed out as if he was imagining everything. He called out, “We’ll put the dresser here,” he spun around the room slowly, “and hang your paintings there.”

He ended his arc with his hands in a square shape, looking at space in the middle of the wall, “and put the bed there, right in the middle. We can put two end tables on each side so we both have space for our…” his voice trailed off as he looked at me. My eyes were wide, and I was breathing heavily, like I couldn’t take big enough gulps of the air that was slowly evaporating from the room. My hands were trembling, and I shook my head lightly, “No, no, that doesn’t uh…that won’t work well.”

Declan stared at me with a mix of concern and confusion, “It’s kind of the perfect spot, Cadi Kat, it’s right in the middle. That way, we can open our door and walk right into our room, plop down on the bed after a long day.”

The apartment that I had loved so dearly mere moments before was starting to warp in my mind. It felt like an unidentifiable dread was pouring in through the popcorn ceiling. I absent-mindedly rubbed the back of my neck, shivering.

“No Dec, that’s actually not going to fucking work,” I snapped, my words cutting harsher than I had intended. I could feel my eyes creeping to my periphery again as I took small, subtle steps to put my back to the wall. I needed to calm down; I needed to be rational here.

“Whoa, hey.” Declan stepped towards me, his arms stretching out, “What’s up?”

“I just…I don’t…uh…” It felt like I was a kid again; the overwhelming sensation of pressure at my back made my throat swell up, and my hands tingle. “I don’t know. I just don’t…I don’t like that idea. Can we please just…can we please just keep the bed in the corner like at my old place?”

I stared at him, my eyes pleading. I could feel the tears welling up, and I know I must have looked so goddamn pathetic. But I didn’t see judgment in his soft stare, I saw recognition. He sensed what I couldn’t put into words, and he took me into his arms. He held me for a moment before standing behind me, his chest against my back. He raised his arms up in front of me, turning his hands into a viewfinder and pointing them at the corner. “And the bed will go there; it leaves us so much room for activities.” He chuckled, kissing the crook of my neck. I jerked my head slightly before relaxing into him, holding his arms as they encircled me.

I still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread when he mentioned putting the bed in the middle of the room, but I tried my best to push it away. That night, as we lay in our bed, with him behind me, I nestled in and turned to face the door. I felt at peace. A comfort that felt like my soul could exhale. I turned the bedside lamp off and closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to take me, but it wouldn’t come. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against me was comforting, but I couldn’t seem to shake this feeling. My eyes peeled open slowly and instinctively went for the darkest corner of the room. I gazed at the door, my body shivering. Declan must have felt me stir because he squeezed me gently, sleepily moaning in my ear, “What is it?”

I chewed my lip, trying to find the words to describe this feeling. Declan made me feel safe, and for some reason, I was envisioning Joanna sleeping on the floor when we were children. I couldn’t find the words at the time, but I knew that I hadn’t felt that safe when staring into the abyss as I did with them. So I trusted myself and asked,

“Do you ever…feel like something’s watching you? Like there’s something lurking in the darkness, just out of your vision?”

I felt his body tense against me as he pulled his arm out from underneath my body. He propped himself up on his elbows, and I rolled to my side to look at him in the darkness. His face was partially illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the blinds, but I couldn’t quite make out his expression.

“What?” he asked, his voice low and steady

“I mean…” I chuckled slightly, trying to make light of the situation, “You know, like, when kids are afraid of the dark. You’ve never felt like anything was just…behind you? Watching you?”

“Uh…” he started, trying to find the words, “No, Arcadia. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before. Is that…Is that why you didn’t want our bed in the middle of the room? Are you afraid of the dark?”

I laughed softly, realizing how crazy it sounded out loud. I mean, I’m a grown woman, why would I be afraid of the dark still?

“No, I just…It’s just a…I don’t know, it’s just this feeling I’ve had since I was a kid. Like, someone was standing behind me. It’s stupid, it’s just an old superstition. I don’t know, maybe I heard my abuela say something about it one time.” Even as I said it, I knew that couldn’t possibly be right, but it sounded better than trying to explain why I was afraid of something that I couldn’t even articulate.

“Oh…uh…okay. Well, no, babe. But don’t worry,” Declan said, snuggling into my neck and pulling me into a bear hug, “I’ll keep you safe.”

I took one last look at the darkness in the corner of the room before passing out. I dreamt of hands, cold and porcelain white. They reached for me from the depths of a great maw, an opening that split the world in two. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t move as they overtook my arms, my legs, and my face. They covered me and pulled me into the depths of an incomprehensible abyss, the darkness pouring into my nostrils and choking the life out of me.

I woke up screaming Joanna’s name as the memories flooded back. Her face as she stared into the corner of her room all those years ago. Declan shot up, holding me tightly as I screamed “DON’T YOU DARE” over and over again at the top of my lungs.

When I finally calmed down, I picked up my phone and knew exactly who I needed.

The phone line trilled once, twice, and then I heard her voice on the other end.

“Hey, are you okay?” Joanna asked sleepily

I pulled my phone back from my ear, checking the time. 2:14 AM.  I put the receiver back to my lips, finding the strength to say, “Jo jo, I remember.”

Her long pause was punctuated by the static on the line that filled the thousands of miles between us.

“I was wondering when this day would come.”

Part 1 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/ocGLoQKhiy

Part 2 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/Yn30Y1lKs2

Part 3 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/TlcCGxMMoD

Part 4 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/dGYo0OrodO

Part 5 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/cGMaY8U4j4

Part 6 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/rb6neD23wj

Part 7 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/mxqNJUTHto

Part 8 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/0xQc3DFNe5

Part 9 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/8j2VhEzDWn

The lift opened onto Cheerful Pines Retirement Community.

That was the name written in gold letters on the wall opposite us.

CHEERFUL PINES

Underneath, in smaller cursive:

Where Every Day Is a Good Day.

Kevin stared at it.

“No.”

Linda lifted her clipboard.

“No what?”

“No to the whole vibe.”

Derek stepped out beside him, still holding the peanut butter lid like it was Excalibur for idiots.

“It does feel aggressively nice.”

The lobby was bright.

Too bright.

Cream walls.

Fake plants.

A reception desk with a little bowl of wrapped mints.

Framed photos of smiling elderly residents doing jigsaws, painting watercolours and sitting in circles laughing at something that absolutely was not that funny.

The air smelled of disinfectant, lavender and boiled vegetables.

Somewhere in the building, a piano played a jaunty version of a song I almost recognised.

Every note was slightly too slow.

As if the pianist had died halfway through each chord and been politely encouraged to continue.

Amanda stood beside me.

Her face had gone pale.

On the live feed we had seen from Riverside Court, an elderly woman had stood in this lobby and spoken with Amanda’s voice.

Bright.

Happy.

Perky.

“Hi!”

Now we were here in person.

And the lobby was empty.

Except for the laughter.

Dozens of elderly voices laughed from somewhere down the hall.

Not naturally.

Not like people sharing a joke.

They laughed in perfect unison.

Same rhythm.

Same pitch.

Same length.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Then silence.

Then again.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Flat 3 raised her frying pan.

“I hate this more than the app.”

Flat 5 held up his only remaining spoon.

“It’s a deeply unpleasant room.”

Dave whispered:

“Wasn’t me.”

Kevin glanced at him.

“Honestly, Dave, I believe you. This place has middle-management poltergeist written all over it.”

Ken stepped out of the lift last.

The other former KVN ghosts hovered behind him, half-visible, nervous, still clutching the names they’d only just got back.

Ken looked around the lobby.

“This isn’t a haunting site.”

Linda frowned.

“How do you know?”

He pointed at the ceiling.

“No fear residue.”

Kevin nodded.

“Yeah. It’s worse.”

Derek looked between them.

“What’s worse than fear residue?”

Kevin pointed at a motivational poster beside reception.

It showed two elderly people laughing over a salad.

The caption read:

SMILE — IT HELPS US HELP YOU.

Kevin said:

“That.”

The reception bell rang by itself.

A woman appeared behind the desk.

Not walked in.

Appeared.

One second the chair was empty.

The next she was sitting there with folded hands and a smile that belonged on a hostage video.

She looked about seventy-five.

Perfect white hair.

Pink cardigan.

Pearl necklace.

Name badge:

MARGARET — WELCOME HOST

George from Flat 8, who had insisted on coming despite everyone telling him this was a terrible idea, gasped.

“Margaret?”

Kevin immediately moved in front of him.

“Nope.”

George’s dead wife had already tried to crawl out of a flip phone once.

Nobody was emotionally prepared for round two.

The woman smiled wider.

“Hello, visitors.”

Her voice was Amanda’s.

Not similar.

Exactly Amanda’s.

Cheerful.

Bright.

Warm.

Wrong.

Amanda’s hands tightened around her tote bag.

The woman behind the desk continued:

“Welcome to Cheerful Pines, where every day is a good day.”

Kevin looked at Amanda.

“She sounds like you.”

Amanda swallowed.

“I know.”

The woman’s head turned towards Amanda.

Not smoothly.

Click by click.

Like her neck was being adjusted by an unseen hand.

“Chipper Amanda profile recognised.”

Amanda whispered:

“I hate that.”

The welcome host smiled.

“Positivity resource compatible.”

Linda stepped forward.

“No one is a resource.”

The woman’s eyes flicked to Linda’s clipboard.

“Director of Resident Resistance detected.”

Linda straightened.

“Yes.”

The host smiled.

“Your tone has been escalated.”

Kevin whispered, “That means she’s scared of you.”

Linda whispered back, “As she should be.”

The host placed one hand on a visitor log.

“Please sign in.”

The book opened by itself.

Names were already written inside.

Mine.

Derek.

Linda.

Amanda.

Kevin.

Ken.

Flat 3.

Flat 5.

Dave.

George.

Beside each name was a column labelled:

EXPECTED MOOD

Mine said:

RESISTANT.

Derek’s said:

UNSTABLE BUT USEFUL.

Linda’s said:

ADMINISTRATIVELY HOSTILE.

Amanda’s said:

RECOVERABLE CHEER ASSET.

Kevin’s said:

UNLICENSED COMEDIC HAUNTING.

Kevin leaned closer.

“Comedic?”

Derek nodded.

“Fair.”

Kevin pointed at him.

“You’re one Croc away from becoming a cautionary tale.”

Derek looked down.

“I still don’t know where the other one went.”

Ken’s expected mood read:

NAME INSECURE.

Ken’s jaw tightened.

“Rude.”

Flat 3’s read:

CONTAINABLE AGGRESSION.

She lifted the pan.

“Let’s test that.”

Flat 5’s read:

SPOON DEPENDENCY — DIMINISHED.

Flat 5 went pale.

“My spoon confidence is none of their business.”

Dave’s read:

DENIAL LOOP: ACTIVE.

Dave stared at it.

“Wasn’t me.”

The host smiled.

“Correct.”

That was the first properly scary moment.

Because Dave stopped looking offended.

He looked pleased.

As if the building had approved him.

Linda snapped the visitor book shut.

“We will not be signing.”

The host’s smile did not move.

“All visitors sign in.”

“No.”

The piano stopped.

The laughter down the hall stopped too.

The whole building went silent.

Then the lights dimmed.

The host spoke in Amanda’s voice, but the cheer had drained from it.

“All visitors sign in.”

Kevin leaned towards Linda.

“Maybe sign with fake names?”

Derek nodded.

“I can be Gary.”

Flat 3 said, “You look like a Gary who isn’t allowed near microwaves.”

Derek looked offended.

“I do, actually.”

Linda opened the visitor book again.

With one neat movement, she signed:

Linda — attending under protest.

The book shuddered.

The host looked down.

“That is not a valid name.”

Linda smiled.

“It is a valid legal position.”

Kevin whispered:

“God, she’s hot when she’s procedural.”

Everyone turned to him.

“What?” he said. “Spiritually.”

Amanda signed next:

Amanda — not a resource.

The book shuddered harder.

Derek signed:

Derek Paul Henshaw — against better judgement.

Kevin snorted.

“Paul.”

Derek said, “Court made it public.”

Kevin signed:

Kevin — not comedic, actually terrifying sometimes.

The book accepted it.

Derek leaned over.

“It accepted comedic.”

Kevin shoved him.

His hand went through Derek’s shoulder.

Derek shivered.

“Still weird.”

Ken signed:

Ken — not Kevin.

The book hesitated.

Then accepted it.

That seemed to matter.

Flat 3 signed:

Flat 3 — pan owner.

Flat 5 signed:

Tiny Spoon King — rebuilding.

The book flashed red.

He added:

also Flat 5.

Accepted.

Dave signed:

Wasn’t me.

The book accepted it immediately.

Linda sighed.

“Dave.”

“What? It worked.”

The host stood.

Her smile returned.

“Thank you for confirming attendance.”

“Attendance to what?” I asked.

The double doors behind reception opened.

The laughter started again.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

The host gestured.

“Morning Joy Circle.”

Kevin stared.

“That sounds like something you join accidentally and need a solicitor to leave.”

We entered.

The hallway beyond reception was lined with rooms.

Each door had a cheerful sign.

SUNBEAM LOUNGE

MEMORY GARDEN

HAPPY HEARTS ACTIVITY ROOM

REFLECTION SUITE

Kevin stopped at the last one.

“Absolutely haunted.”

Amanda looked through the small window.

Inside, an elderly man sat facing a mirror.

He was smiling.

His reflection was not.

The reflection’s hands pressed against the glass from the inside.

Mouthing one word.

Help.

Amanda stepped back.

Kevin’s expression darkened.

“Yeah. Very haunted.”

The host kept walking.

Nobody followed her for a second.

Then the hallway speakers crackled.

A cheerful jingle played.

A woman’s voice announced:

“Residents who miss Joy Circle will be marked as needing extra support.”

Every door in the hallway clicked open.

Elderly residents emerged.

Slowly.

Carefully.

All smiling.

Too widely.

Some had tears running down their faces.

One woman gripped her walking frame so hard her knuckles were white.

Her mouth stretched in a bright grin, but her eyes looked at us with pure terror.

A man shuffled past wearing slippers and a cardigan.

As he passed Kevin, he whispered without moving his smile:

“Don’t clap.”

Kevin frowned.

“What?”

The man continued walking.

“Whatever happens, don’t clap.”

Derek leaned in.

“Why not?”

A speaker above us answered:

“Clapping indicates consent.”

Everyone froze.

Kevin looked at Derek.

“You were about to clap, weren’t you?”

Derek slowly lowered his hands.

“I like supporting performers.”

Flat 3 grabbed his wrists.

“No applause.”

The residents shuffled into the Sunbeam Lounge.

We followed.

The room was arranged in a circle.

Twenty armchairs.

Twenty elderly residents sitting upright.

Twenty perfect smiles.

At the centre stood a woman in a bright yellow cardigan.

She looked middle-aged.

Hair in a tidy bob.

Big eyes.

Bigger smile.

Name badge:

AMN-003

Underneath:

ACTIVITY AND MORALE NURSE

Amanda inhaled sharply.

AMN-003 turned towards her.

The smile widened.

“Hi!”

Amanda said nothing.

The voice was hers.

Again.

But polished.

Brighter.

Smoother.

Like someone had taken all of Amanda’s cheerfulness and removed the person underneath.

AMN-003 clapped once.

Nobody else clapped.

Thank God.

“Good morning, everyone!”

The elderly residents replied in perfect unison:

“Good morning!”

One man’s voice cracked halfway through.

His smile twitched.

AMN-003 turned to him.

“Again, Arthur.”

Arthur’s eyes filled with tears.

“Good morning,” he said.

AMN-003 smiled.

“Much better.”

Kevin whispered:

“I’m going to throw her through a wall.”

Linda whispered back:

“Not before we understand the mechanism.”

“I understand the mechanism. Evil cardigan.”

Amanda watched AMN-003.

Her face was carefully blank now.

Not chipper.

Not cheerful.

Controlled.

AMN-003 walked around the circle.

“Today’s Joy Circle topic is gratitude.”

A groan rose from somewhere.

Not from a person.

From the walls.

The residents’ smiles stretched another fraction wider.

AMN-003 continued:

“When we focus on gratitude, we reduce difficult feelings, increase compliance with care plans and avoid unnecessary complaints.”

Linda’s pen clicked.

“Noted.”

AMN-003’s head turned towards her.

“That sounded like a note-taking click.”

Linda raised her clipboard.

“It was.”

“Wonderful. We love engaged visitors.”

Kevin muttered:

“We love arson.”

AMN-003’s eyes moved to him.

“Unlicensed humour detected.”

Kevin smiled.

“Licensed now. Independent deceased community representative.”

AMN-003 tilted her head.

“That title is not recognised at Cheerful Pines.”

Kevin glanced down at his two trainers.

“Good job I’m not here for HR.”

An elderly woman sitting nearest us whispered:

“Please.”

Her smile did not move.

Her eyes flicked to the small table beside AMN-003.

On it stood a glass jar.

Inside was thick golden liquid.

Not the same jar we had seen in the hospital corridor.

This one was darker.

Older.

Full of little bubbles that rose and burst into tiny laughs.

A label on the jar read:

COLLECTED GRATITUDE

Underneath:

BATCH 17

Flat 5 whispered:

“That is deeply not okay.”

AMN-003 picked up the jar.

“Now, who would like to share one thing they are grateful for?”

No one moved.

The walls creaked.

The residents’ smiles widened.

Arthur, the man who had been corrected earlier, slowly raised one hand.

It shook.

AMN-003 beamed.

“Lovely, Arthur.”

Arthur stared at the floor.

“I am grateful,” he said, voice trembling, “that my daughter visits.”

AMN-003 nodded.

“That’s beautiful.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to Linda.

Then Kevin.

Then Amanda.

“But she doesn’t.”

The room froze.

AMN-003’s smile remained.

Arthur continued.

“She hasn’t been told I’m here.”

The jar pulsed.

The golden liquid turned slightly black.

AMN-003 stepped closer.

“Arthur.”

His smile tore at the corner of his mouth.

Blood dotted his lip.

“I want to make a complaint.”

The lights went red.

Every resident gasped.

Not because they were shocked.

Because something forced air into them.

AMN-003’s smile finally dropped.

The change was horrible.

Without the smile, her face looked unfinished.

Like the cheerfulness had been holding the skin in place.

“Arthur,” she said, Amanda’s voice now cold and flat, “complaints are negative engagement.”

Linda stood.

“Incorrect.”

AMN-003 turned.

Linda’s clipboard glowed.

“Complaints are protected communication.”

The jar hissed.

AMN-003 said:

“This facility prioritises wellbeing.”

Linda walked into the circle.

“No. This facility prioritises the appearance of wellbeing.”

Kevin whispered to Derek:

“She’s doing the thing.”

Derek nodded.

“Admin exorcism.”

Flat 3 raised her pan.

“Should I stand behind her looking threatening?”

Kevin said, “Always.”

AMN-003 held the jar higher.

“Gratitude reduces distress.”

Amanda spoke for the first time.

“Not if it’s forced.”

AMN-003 looked at her.

The room’s temperature dropped.

“Chipper Amanda.”

Amanda’s jaw tightened.

“That’s not my name.”

“No,” AMN-003 said. “It is your usefulness.”

The golden jar brightened.

The residents turned their smiling faces towards Amanda.

Every one of them spoke with her voice.

“Always cheerful.”

“Always happy.”

“Always perky.”

“Always.”

Amanda took one step back.

Kevin moved in front of her.

“Do that again and I’ll introduce your cardigan to the lift shaft.”

AMN-003 laughed.

So did every resident.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Then, one by one, they started crying while they laughed.

Tears ran into their smiles.

Their shoulders shook.

Their hands gripped armrests.

The laughter kept coming.

The sound filled the lounge.

Bright.

Perfect.

Awful.

Derek covered his ears.

“Make it stop.”

AMN-003 raised both hands.

“Joy is mandatory during Joy Circle.”

The jar began to fill.

Not with liquid from the room.

With something from the residents.

Tiny streams of gold pulled from their mouths, eyes and fingertips.

Every stream carried a small memory.

A granddaughter’s birthday.

A dead husband’s coat.

A dog sleeping at someone’s feet.

A kitchen table.

A Christmas card.

A name.

All turning gold.

All being bottled as gratitude.

Arthur shook violently.

His smile split further.

Kevin’s face went dark.

“Right.”

He stepped into the circle.

Both trainers now solid against the carpet.

Something about having both shoes had changed him.

He didn’t float as much.

He moved.

He planted.

He looked more present.

More dangerous.

AMN-003 noticed.

“KVN-014.”

Kevin smiled.

“Kevin.”

“Your series is not authorised here.”

“Neither’s your haircut, but we’re all coping.”

Derek whispered:

“Strong.”

Kevin pointed at the jar.

“Put the misery smoothie down.”

AMN-003’s face twitched.

“That is gratitude.”

“That is theft in custard form.”

Flat 5 nodded solemnly.

“As a custard-adjacent expert, I agree.”

Nobody knew what that meant.

AMN-003 snapped her fingers.

The armchairs moved.

Fast.

They dragged themselves backwards, residents still strapped by nothing but posture and fear, forming a wider circle around us.

The carpet split open in the centre of the room.

A hole appeared.

Below it was not a basement.

It was a stage.

A small community-hall stage with red curtains and a microphone.

A sign above it lit up:

TALENT AND WELLBEING SHOWCASE

Kevin stared.

“Oh, I hate a forced performance.”

The loudspeaker chimed.

“All visitors will now contribute to resident morale.”

Derek backed away.

“No.”

A spotlight hit him.

“Yes,” said the speaker.

Derek looked at us.

“Why me?”

Kevin said, “Because you look like karaoke trauma.”

A microphone rose from the floor in front of Derek.

The screen above the stage displayed:

DEREK PAUL HENSHAW

TALENT: UNCONFIRMED

Derek whispered:

“Paul again.”

The floor beneath him slid.

He dropped through the carpet and landed on the stage below.

The red curtains opened.

A backing track began.

Cheerful.

Tinny.

Wrong.

Lyrics appeared on the screen.

I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE APP

THE APP IS GRATEFUL FOR ME

Derek grabbed the microphone.

“I’m not singing that.”

The stage lights turned red.

The residents’ laughter stopped.

AMN-003 smiled.

“Participation supports wellbeing.”

Derek looked up at us.

Kevin cupped his hands.

“Sing badly!”

“What?”

“Weaponise it!”

Derek understood.

He took a breath.

Then sang.

Badly.

So badly the ceiling light cracked.

“I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE APP—”

His voice slid off every note like a drunk falling down stairs.

“THE APP IS GRATEFUL FOR ME—”

Arthur blinked.

The golden streams flickered.

Derek continued, louder, worse, somehow confident.

“I DOWNLOADED A GHOST AND IT RUINED MY LIFE—”

“That is not the lyric,” AMN-003 said.

Derek pointed the microphone at her.

“CREATIVE LICENSE!”

Kevin grinned.

“My idiot.”

Derek sang into the microphone:

“MY GHOST FRIEND CALLED ME A MORON—”

Kevin shouted:

“ACCURATE!”

“AND LINDA DOES ADMIN AT DEATH—”

Linda raised her clipboard.

“Acceptable.”

“AND DAVE DEFINITELY DID IT—”

Dave shouted:

“Wasn’t me!”

The residents started laughing.

Not the forced laughter.

Real laughter.

Small at first.

Then bigger.

Messy.

Wheezy.

A woman snorted.

Another slapped her knee.

Arthur laughed so hard his smile finally broke into something human.

The golden streams reversed.

AMN-003 hissed.

The jar cracked.

Kevin pointed at Flat 3.

“Pan.”

Flat 3 did not need more.

She threw the frying pan.

It spun across the room.

Hit the jar.

The jar shattered.

Golden liquid exploded over AMN-003.

She screamed.

The residents stopped smiling.

All at once.

The silence felt like a wound opening.

Then Arthur said, very clearly:

“I am not grateful for the mashed potato.”

The woman beside him gasped.

Then said:

“I hate the singalongs.”

Another resident raised her hand.

“My son has not been informed of my fall.”

Another:

“They take my phone at six.”

Another:

“The nurse with the yellow eyes watches me sleep.”

The room erupted.

Complaints.

Real ones.

Human ones.

Messy.

Unpretty.

Necessary.

Linda’s clipboard shook with power.

“Oh, this is excellent.”

Kevin looked at her.

“You scare me.”

“Good.”

AMN-003 stood dripping gold.

Her cardigan melted into something underneath.

Not skin.

Yellow plastic.

Cables.

A rib cage made of smile badges.

Her face peeled open, revealing a speaker inside.

Amanda’s voice came out from it.

“Please remain positive.”

Amanda stepped towards her.

No grand speech this time.

No big emotional moment.

Just tired anger.

“Stop using my voice.”

Then she punched AMN-003 in the face.

Everyone stared.

Amanda looked at her hand.

“Ow.”

Kevin’s mouth dropped open.

“Chipper Amanda has upgraded to Punchy Amanda.”

Flat 3 beamed.

“I knew she had it.”

AMN-003 staggered.

The smile badges inside her chest began laughing.

Dozens of tiny metal mouths.

The residents screamed.

The stage beneath Derek cracked.

He dropped through.

Again.

This time he landed inside a ball pit.

Nobody knew why there was a ball pit.

Derek’s voice echoed from below:

“I’m fine!”

Kevin shouted:

“Stop finding rooms!”

AMN-003 crawled towards Amanda.

Linda raised her clipboard.

“Emergency safeguarding intervention.”

The clipboard displayed:

FACILITY COMPLAINT THRESHOLD EXCEEDED

AUTHORITY TRANSFER AVAILABLE

Linda selected it.

The screen asked:

WHO SHOULD RECEIVE TEMPORARY RESIDENT ADVOCACY AUTHORITY?

Options appeared.

LINDA

KEVIN

AMANDA

DAVE

Everyone shouted:

“NOT DAVE!”

Dave looked hurt.

“What if I’m good at it?”

Kevin said, “Dave, yesterday you apologised to a chair.”

“It accepted.”

Linda selected:

ARTHUR

Arthur’s armchair rolled into the centre of the room.

He looked terrified.

Then furious.

Then tired.

Then alive.

A badge appeared on his cardigan.

RESIDENT ADVOCATE

He looked down at it.

Then at AMN-003.

“First complaint,” he said.

His voice shook but held.

“Stop making us happy.”

The room cracked.

AMN-003 screamed.

The curtains tore.

The walls peeled.

The fake photos shattered.

Behind them were other photos.

Not cheerful.

Real.

Residents sitting alone.

Residents crying.

Residents pressing notes under locked doors.

Residents trying to call family on phones that only displayed five stars.

The lobby outside twisted.

The entire facility groaned.

The sign on the wall changed.

CHEERFUL PINES

became:

COMPLIANT PINES

Then:

ASSISTED POSITIVITY SITE AMN-003

Kevin pointed.

“Brand reveal. Always bad.”

Ken moved beside him.

“This is bigger than one nurse.”

The hallway filled with footsteps.

Not running.

Marching.

Dozens of AMN figures appeared.

Yellow cardigans.

Perfect smiles.

Different faces.

Same Amanda voice.

AMN-001.

AMN-002.

AMN-004.

AMN-011.

More.

They lined the hall outside the lounge.

All smiling.

All speaking together.

“Resident distress is inefficient.”

Kevin looked at us.

“Right. That’s too many cardigans.”

Flat 5 raised his spoon.

“I am under-equipped.”

Derek climbed out of a floor hatch covered in plastic balls.

“I found soft play.”

Linda looked exhausted.

“Why?”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“You rarely do.”

The AMN figures entered.

The residents shrank back.

Amanda stepped back too.

Not because she was weak.

Because hearing your own weaponised voice from a dozen wrong mouths would break anyone’s spine for a second.

Kevin saw.

He moved to stand beside her, not in front this time.

“Not you,” he said quietly.

Amanda looked at him.

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Still horrible.”

“Yeah.”

Then Kevin grinned.

“Want to ruin them?”

Amanda wiped her eyes.

“Yes.”

Linda handed Amanda the clipboard.

Only for a second.

The black leather recognised her.

A temporary line appeared:

RESIDENT MORALE COUNTERMEASURE

Amanda blinked.

“That sounds fake.”

Kevin said, “Everything here is fake. Use it.”

Amanda looked at the residents.

The AMNs advanced.

The forced smile energy filled the lounge.

Amanda took a breath.

Then said, in the brightest voice I had ever heard:

“Okay everyone, quick group activity!”

Kevin whispered:

“Oh no.”

Amanda clapped once.

Then remembered.

“No clapping. Sorry. Absolutely no clapping.”

The AMNs hesitated.

They were built to respond to cheer.

Amanda smiled at them.

“Let’s all share something we are not grateful for.”

The AMNs glitched.

“That is not a valid activity.”

Amanda turned to Arthur.

“Arthur?”

Arthur stood.

With effort.

With rage.

“I am not grateful for powdered custard.”

The residents murmured.

Amanda pointed to another woman.

“I am not grateful for being told I’m confused when I’m angry.”

The room shook.

Another resident stood.

“I am not grateful for the music.”

Another:

“I am not grateful for being called sweetie by staff younger than my shoes.”

Another:

“I am not grateful for Tuesday bingo.”

Kevin whispered:

“Bold. Bingo can go either way.”

The AMNs began shaking.

Their programming could handle gratitude.

It could handle complaints.

It could not handle cheerful organised negativity.

Amanda walked around the circle.

“Excellent sharing. Love this honesty. Terrible situation, great participation.”

The residents stood one by one.

Not all.

Some couldn’t.

Some were too frightened.

But enough.

The golden liquid across the floor turned black.

Then clear.

Then vanished.

The AMNs’ smile badges cracked.

Linda reclaimed her clipboard.

“Kevin.”

He nodded.

“On it.”

He opened his admin menu.

It had changed since the court.

More permissions.

Fewer traps.

Still designed by absolute bastards.

ACTIVE SITE DETECTED: AMN-003

Options:

SUSPEND MORALE LOOP

REASSIGN JOY

ESCALATE TO PLATFORM

REQUEST SONG

Kevin stared.

“Request song?”

Derek shouted:

“No.”

Kevin selected SUSPEND MORALE LOOP.

A warning appeared.

SUSPENSION MAY RESULT IN UNFILTERED RESIDENT DISTRESS

Arthur shouted:

“GOOD.”

Kevin confirmed.

The room broke.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

The fake cheer vanished.

The residents sobbed.

Some screamed.

Some laughed.

Some just sat down and stared at nothing.

It was awful.

It was real.

Amanda covered her mouth.

Linda’s eyes filled, though she pretended they hadn’t.

Kevin looked around and said softly:

“There it is.”

Derek whispered:

“What?”

Kevin said:

“The haunting.”

He was right.

Cheerful Pines had not been haunted because of ghosts.

It had been haunted because no one was allowed to be unhappy.

The AMNs shrieked.

Without forced joy, their bodies collapsed inward.

Yellow cardigans tore.

Smile badges popped off and scattered across the floor like teeth.

One AMN crawled towards Amanda.

“Positivity resource required.”

Amanda stepped back.

Flat 3 hit it with the pan.

“Get your own personality.”

The AMN collapsed.

Another grabbed Arthur.

Kevin kicked it.

Both trainers connected.

Solid.

The AMN flew backwards into the snack trolley.

Kevin looked down at his feet.

Then at us.

“I kicked something.”

Derek grinned.

“Proud of you.”

Kevin pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

But he was smiling.

The remaining AMNs retreated into the hallway.

Not defeated.

Not destroyed.

Withdrawn.

That felt worse.

Before they vanished, AMN-003 turned its broken face towards Amanda.

“Profile retained.”

Amanda’s expression hardened.

“Try me.”

AMN-003 smiled with half a mouth.

Then melted into the wall.

The lounge went quiet.

Arthur sat back down.

Not smiling.

Just breathing.

Linda knelt beside him.

“Are you able to tell us who needs contacting?”

He nodded.

“My daughter.”

Linda wrote it down.

“Name?”

He told her.

Others began giving names too.

Children.

Grandchildren.

Friends.

Solicitors.

Doctors.

One woman simply said:

“The police.”

Linda nodded.

“Reasonable.”

Kevin looked at me.

“This has become more paperwork than I expected.”

“You came to a retirement home run by nightmare morale nurses.”

“I expected some paperwork.”

Derek picked a plastic ball out of his hood.

“Do we keep the ball pit?”

“No,” said Linda.

“Residents might like it.”

Arthur said:

“I do not want the ghost app ball pit.”

Derek nodded.

“Fair.”

The building began changing again.

The cheerful posters fell from the walls.

The locked phones unlocked.

The mirror in the Reflection Suite shattered, and the trapped reflections climbed out one by one, furious and confused.

The reception desk spat out dozens of hidden complaint forms.

The fake plant by the entrance unfolded into a listening device and tried to crawl away.

Flat 5 pinned it down with his spoon.

“Not today, shrub.”

Kevin looked impressed.

“Spoon confidence returning.”

Flat 5 nodded solemnly.

“It never left. It was merely misfiled.”

We helped where we could.

Which mostly meant Linda organised, Amanda comforted, Flat 3 threatened anything with a badge, Flat 5 investigated cutlery anomalies, Derek accidentally found three more forbidden rooms, and Dave stood near doors saying “wasn’t me” until residents felt weirdly calmer.

Kevin and Ken checked the walls.

The AMN network had left traces.

Yellow mould.

Smile badges.

Tiny speakers hidden in clocks.

Little jars of gold liquid tucked behind family photos.

Ken held one up.

“Stabilising agent.”

Kevin’s face twisted.

“Joy jam.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“I will call it that forever.”

Ken looked down the hallway.

“There are more sites.”

Kevin nodded.

The map from the lift had shown hundreds.

KVN.

AMN.

DVE.

LND.

Others.

Personality types.

Resident types.

Human behaviour turned into product lines.

Fear.

Cheerfulness.

Denial.

Control.

Resistance.

Platform hadn’t just been trapping ghosts.

It had been cataloguing people.

The thought made the back of my neck prickle.

Near the reception desk, Linda was on the phone to Arthur’s daughter.

Her voice was controlled but fierce.

Amanda sat with three residents who were crying and laughing at the same time because no one was stopping them.

Derek had found biscuits in a cupboard and was checking them for “haunted intent.”

Dave was apologising to a ficus.

Flat 3 stood guard at the lounge door, pan over her shoulder, looking like the world’s angriest activities coordinator.

For a while, it almost felt like we had done something good.

Then the piano started again.

One note.

Wrong.

Slow.

Everyone stopped.

The piano sat in the corner of the lounge.

No one was touching it.

One key pressed itself down.

Then another.

Then another.

The tune was not jaunty now.

It was the same song as before, but stripped of cheer.

A funeral version.

The residents began whispering.

Arthur looked terrified.

Kevin moved towards the piano.

“Not a fan.”

The keys played by themselves.

Then stopped.

The fallboard lifted.

Inside, where strings should have been, there was a mouth.

Long.

Black.

Full of little white teeth shaped like piano keys.

It spoke in dozens of elderly voices.

“Joy loop suspended.”

Kevin sighed.

“Yes. We were there.”

The piano-mouth smiled.

“Escalation required.”

Linda stepped into the room.

“By whom?”

The piano answered:

ACTIVITIES DIRECTOR.

Amanda whispered:

“There’s a director?”

Kevin looked at her.

“There’s always a manager.”

The piano began printing something from between its keys.

Not paper.

A yellow ribbon.

It slid onto the floor.

Linda picked it up.

Words appeared across it in gold.

CHEERFUL PINES HAS FAILED TO MAINTAIN RESIDENT MORALE.

SITE WILL BE RESET.

The residents started panicking.

Linda read faster.

ALL RESIDENTS, STAFF, VISITORS AND UNAUTHORISED SUPERNATURAL ADVOCATES WILL BE INCLUDED IN RESET FOR CONTINUITY PURPOSES.

Kevin looked at the piano.

“Define reset.”

The piano-mouth opened wider.

Every framed photo in the room changed.

Each now showed the lounge exactly as it had looked before we arrived.

Residents smiling.

AMN-003 standing in the centre.

Arthur grateful.

Phones locked.

Complaints gone.

Then the photos changed again.

This time, we were in them too.

Me smiling.

Derek smiling.

Linda smiling.

Flat 3 smiling with no frying pan.

Flat 5 smiling without a spoon.

Dave smiling without guilt.

Amanda smiling too widely.

Kevin standing behind AMN-003 in grey uniform.

Ken beside him.

Both wearing yellow name badges.

VOLUNTEER MORALE ASSISTANTS

Kevin stared.

“No.”

The piano-mouth said:

“Reset begins in ten minutes.”

The lift doors opened behind us.

Inside was Riverside Court.

Home.

Safe-ish.

A way out.

Kevin looked at the residents.

Then at the lift.

Derek saw his face.

“Mate.”

Kevin didn’t answer.

Linda closed her clipboard.

“We are not leaving them.”

Kevin nodded.

“Didn’t say we were.”

Ken stepped beside him.

“Plan?”

Kevin looked at the piano.

The residents.

The yellow ribbon.

The smiling photos.

Then at Amanda.

She looked exhausted.

Not chipper.

Not bright.

Just herself.

He looked at Dave.

“Dave.”

Dave straightened.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Exactly.”

Dave frowned.

“What?”

Kevin smiled.

“You are a denial loop.”

“That sounds insulting.”

“It is. But useful.”

Linda understood.

Her eyes lit up.

“No.”

Kevin pointed at the reset notice.

“They’re trying to make this building agree it was always happy.”

Derek grinned.

“So we need someone who can deny reality harder.”

Everyone slowly turned to Dave.

Dave looked around.

“Why is everyone looking at me?”

Kevin stepped closer.

“Dave, I need you to do the most Dave thing you’ve ever done.”

Dave swallowed.

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

Flat 3 put a hand on his shoulder.

“You absolutely can.”

The piano-mouth began counting down.

“Reset in nine minutes.”

Kevin pointed at the room.

“When the reset starts, you deny it.”

Dave blinked.

“That’s it?”

“With everything you’ve got.”

Dave looked at the residents.

The photos.

AMN’s broken smile badges.

Linda’s clipboard.

Amanda’s tired face.

Kevin’s two trainers.

Then he nodded.

“I can do that.”

The piano played a cheerful chord.

The photos brightened.

The air thickened.

Everyone’s mouth began to pull upwards.

The reset had started early.

Of course it had.

Dave stepped into the centre of the lounge.

His hands shook.

His face went pale.

Then he shouted:

“WASN’T ME.”

The reset stuttered.

The piano hit a wrong note.

Kevin shouted:

“Again!”

Dave screamed:

“WASN’T ME!”

The photos flickered.

The smiling version of Arthur cracked.

The smiling version of Amanda blurred.

The smiling version of Kevin bent sideways.

Dave kept going.

“WASN’T ME!”

The denial spread.

Not empty this time.

Not cowardly.

Weaponised.

The reset tried to write over us.

Dave denied the rewrite.

The piano-mouth screamed.

The photos shattered.

The yellow ribbon burned.

Residents joined him.

One by one.

“It wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t me.”

Not denying guilt.

Denying the lie.

Arthur stood.

“It wasn’t me who smiled.”

Another resident:

“It wasn’t me who said I was grateful.”

Another:

“It wasn’t me who agreed.”

Amanda whispered:

“It wasn’t me who was always fine.”

Kevin looked at her.

Then at the piano.

“It wasn’t me who stayed in the chair.”

Ken stepped forward.

“It wasn’t me who stayed a number.”

The room shook apart.

The piano-mouth split down the middle.

Inside it was not a monster.

It was a tiny office.

A tiny desk.

A tiny woman in a yellow suit sitting behind it.

She looked up from a form.

The Activities Director.

She was the size of a doll.

Her smile filled her entire face.

“Oh,” Derek said. “That’s somehow worse.”

Kevin reached into the piano.

The tiny woman held up one hand.

“I’d like to speak to your manager.”

Kevin smiled.

“We ate her.”

Then he grabbed her.

She screamed in a voice far too large for her body.

The AMN figures in the walls screamed with her.

The piano collapsed.

The reset broke.

Cheerful Pines exhaled.

The building changed.

Not into something nice.

Into something real.

The carpet stained.

The walls cracked.

The air smelled less like lavender and more like old radiators.

The residents stopped smiling.

And for the first time, Cheerful Pines sounded alive.

Messy.

Crying.

Arguing.

Calling family.

Complaining about mash.

Someone asked for tea.

Someone else asked for whisky.

Arthur sat down hard in his chair and started laughing.

Really laughing.

Kevin held the tiny Activities Director at arm’s length.

She kicked furiously.

Linda produced an empty biscuit tin.

Kevin looked at her.

“You just have that?”

Linda opened the tin.

“Contingency.”

He dropped the tiny director inside.

Linda shut the lid.

From inside came muffled shouting.

“I require escalation!”

Kevin tapped the tin.

“Take a number.”

The complaints kiosk, which had somehow rolled through the lift on its own, printed:

COMPLAINT RECEIVED: TIN TOO SMALL.

Linda looked at it.

“Denied.”

Amanda sat beside Arthur.

He patted her hand.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She smiled.

Tired.

Honest.

He nodded.

“That’s better.”

We got Cheerful Pines stable.

Not fixed.

Not by a long way.

But stable.

Linda contacted families.

Amanda helped residents record statements.

Derek tried to make tea and accidentally found another hidden surveillance kettle.

Flat 3 took charge of destroying smile badges.

Flat 5 discovered the dining room had excellent spoons and nearly cried.

Dave stood proudly beside the cracked piano.

Kevin looked at him.

“You did good.”

Dave’s eyes filled.

Kevin immediately added:

“Don’t make it weird.”

Dave nodded.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Perfect.”

When we finally returned to the lift, the residents lined the hallway.

Not smiling because they had to.

Some weren’t smiling at all.

That felt better.

Arthur held Kevin’s hand.

Or tried to.

His fingers passed through.

Kevin looked deeply uncomfortable but allowed the attempt.

“Thank you,” Arthur said.

Kevin glanced at his trainers.

“No worries.”

Arthur looked down too.

“Nice shoes.”

Kevin smiled.

“They’re new.”

“They look old.”

“Emotionally new.”

Arthur nodded like that made perfect sense.

The lift doors opened.

Riverside Court waited beyond.

Home.

The complaints kiosk rolled in first.

Linda followed with the biscuit tin containing the tiny Activities Director.

Flat 3 carried the frying pan.

Flat 5 carried several rescued spoons.

Derek carried nothing, because Linda had confiscated the surveillance kettle.

Dave carried himself with unusual pride.

Amanda stepped in quietly.

Kevin lingered at the threshold.

Ken stood beside him.

“You know this was one site.”

Kevin nodded.

“Yeah.”

The map would have hundreds more.

KVN.

AMN.

DVE.

LND.

All those codes.

All those people.

All those little pieces of humanity being copied, bottled, weaponised and sold back as comfort.

Kevin looked down at his shoes.

Then into the lift.

“Bins first?”

Ken smiled faintly.

“Always.”

They stepped in.

The doors closed.

For one second, everything was dark.

Then we were back in Riverside Court.

The lobby smelled like damp carpet, bad decisions and home.

Everyone exhaled.

The complaint kiosk printed:

NEW COMPLAINT CATEGORY CREATED: CHEERFUL OPPRESSION.

Kevin nodded.

“Accurate.”

Linda set the biscuit tin on the reception table.

From inside, the tiny Activities Director shouted:

“I am entitled to representation!”

Kevin leaned over it.

“You’re entitled to shut up.”

The tin rattled.

The complaint kiosk printed:

Complaint received: hostile tin environment.

Derek sat on the stairs.

“So what now?”

Nobody answered.

Then the lift dinged.

Everyone froze.

The doors opened.

No hospital.

No courtroom.

No retirement home.

Just the lift.

Inside stood Dave.

Also Dave.

Our Dave was standing beside us.

The Dave in the lift wore the same pyjamas.

Same slippers.

Same confused expression.

Except his badge read:

DVE-002

Our Dave whispered:

“Wasn’t me.”

The other Dave smiled.

“No,” he said.

“Wasn’t me.”

Behind him, in the darkness of the lift, hundreds of voices repeated it.

“Wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t me.”

Kevin slowly turned to our Dave.

“Oh, mate.”

Dave looked at the duplicate.

Then at us.

Then at the lift.

For once, he didn’t deny anything.

He just whispered:

“That one might be me.”

I don’t like sleeping with my back to open spaces anymore. To be honest, I don’t know if I ever truly loved it, but I especially can’t stand it now. Have you ever turned around because you swore someone was behind you? That dreadful, heavy feeling fills your stomach while the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The tingling in your spine as you can practically feel fingers reaching out to caress the nape of your neck. It’s unsettling, and even as I sit outside of this busy café, I still feel that chill deep in my bones.

I’ve been tossing and turning at night trying to work through what I found out about that sleepover all those years ago, and I honestly can’t come to terms with it. My therapist, god bless her, recommended I write it out so my brain can work through what I’m feeling. She’s seen me at the lowest points in my life, and she’s always done her best to let me process through my emotions without guiding me. She said I’m the type of person that needs to “see from all angles” before I can truly accept something, so…this is my attempt to do just that.

I guess let’s start from the beginning. I met Joanna when I was ten years old, and now, twenty-four years later, she’s still one of my best friends. I still remember every detail of the day she came crashing into my life.

She is vibrant, a technicolor soul who lives her life cranked up to eleven at all times. I was a shy, gawky kid, the only brown-skinned child in a town full of families so old the roads and cemeteries were named for them. To put it bluntly, I was an outsider, and most people never let me forget that. What’s that old saying, there’s nothing as cruel as school children? During one particularly harrowing day, I remember walking through the halls with my head down and colliding right into Joanna. I stumbled backwards, shocked out of my reverie and embarrassed I hadn’t seen her in time, and she stood there looking at me with her mouth agape, her face twisted in a mix between disgust and confusion. Her eyes scanned mine, darting back and forth and then down to the bundle of books in my hands. I began chewing my lip, trying to will my tongue to form an apology, but being stared at so fiercely had me rooted to my spot. She raised her little hand up high. I was sure she was going to strike me, and I braced for the inevitable impact. THWAP! She brought her hand down fast and quick, knocking the books out of my hands, my papers and textbooks clattering loudly to the linoleum floor.

She stared at me again, and I was trying my hardest not to make direct eye contact, my gaze bouncing between the puke green lockers and the glittery posters that peppered the hallway marketing the annual yearbook sale. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, hot and threatening to pour over my lids when suddenly…

She started laughing, doubling over as a heavy, deep laugh took over her entire body. She rocked back and forth as it consumed her like a wave until nothing but tiny squeaks came out of her mouth. She wiped her eyes and took deep gasps of breath, straightening up and making eye contact with me again.

“I’m-“ she hiccupped between her final chuckles, “I’m so sorry. Your face, that was too funny. Here, let me help you.”

I stood there, rooted with a mixture of fear, anger, and confusion filling my body. What…the hell…was happening? I stared at this small girl, her long brown hair braided into two twin pigtails that swayed as she laughed. Even though I had always been tall for my age, she was noticeably shorter than I, with her little, rotund face peppered with a sea of freckles. Her mouth took up most of her face, her big lips splayed in a giant grin as she kept muttering to herself, “ahhh, that’s so stupid,” as she bent over to pick up my scattered school supplies. She glanced up at me, her small brown eyes crinkled with the remnants of her previous laughter. “Aren’t you gonna pick your stuff up? Don’t be a litter bug.”

“Litter bug?” I snorted, the anger outweighing the embarrassment I had previously felt. “I-I’m not a litter bug! You slapped me!”

“Actually, I slapped your books. It was to wake you up! You clearly were sleep driving, I mean you crashed right into me.” She chuckled, shrugging her shoulders as if to highlight the absurdity of the entire situation.

“Well…erm…” I struggled to find the right words, “I guess I was…driving under the influence of my thoughts”. I smiled down at her slightly.

Her eyes sparkled like her soul was recognizing mine, and that big grin swallowed her face whole again. “Ah! That’s funny! You’re funny!” She scooped all my belongings back into her arms and stood up, plopping them into mine. “I’m Joanna! What’s your name?”

I stood, half stunned, half amused, a small smirk creeping across my thin lips. “I’m Arcadia. But you can call me Cadi.”

Joanna stood and observed me, it felt like being put under a microscope and as she scanned me, I made small observations of her as well. As she perceived my mess of dark, unruly hair, I noticed that she had bows tied into her pigtails. As she looked at my much too large crewneck sweater and unfashionable baggy jeans, I noticed how cool her mauve pinafore dress looked. She had pins and buttons attached to the front of it with sayings like “gag me with a spoon” and “did I do that?” with Urkel glasses underneath. I crossed my red and white sneakers in a pigeon step, embarrassed at how dorky I must have looked to the coolest girl I had ever met. She stood straight, her untied boots adding at least two inches to her short stature.

“That is…” she started, drumming her multicolored fingernails against her chin, “yeah, no, that’s definitely the coolest name I’ve ever heard. You’re cool. And you’re funny. I like you, let’s be friends!” Suddenly, she thrust her arm in between mine, snaking it around and holding on to me like we had been friends forever.

That was the day Joanna adopted me into her life. I wasn’t just an awkward kid anymore; I was her new best friend. We were inseparable, two peas in a radical little pod. Joanna shared all her favorite songs with me and she sung with every ounce of gusto in her heart. I felt like knowing her meant truly knowing myself, and all those weird little quirks about myself I felt like I had to hide felt like something to celebrate for the first time.

The days fell away in a flurry of laughing fits, eating entirely too much sour candy, and of course, picking up my books any time she slapped them out of my hands. We spent every holiday, every weekend, every summer together. I took trips with her family to their lake house, where we would ride inflatable tubes pulled behind much too fast boats. We would scream and laugh as we launched high into the air, eventually crashing hard at night with the scent of sunscreen and BBQ lingering on our skin. She would snicker and make faces at me through the curtain of her hair as we bent over in prayer during church service with my family. That’s what I miss most about those days, how easily we laughed.

The summer we turned twelve, after celebrating our birthdays, we were hanging out in her upstairs foyer when things started to change.

“Did I ever tell you…” Joanna started fidgeting with the beads of the friendship bracelet that she was making.

“That you’re a giant idiot? I mean I knew that from the first day I met you. It’s basically a terminal condition, but I love you all the same,” I responded back, not even looking up from my own tangle of purple and green threads.

“No, ass.” She chuckled, “Did I ever tell you I can sense things?”

“Like what?” I questioned, finally looking up and noticing she was looking off into the distance.

“It’s hard to describe,” she said quietly, a serious look furrowed across her brows, “It’s like, I can sense things. Like I can feel what other people are feeling even if I’m not with them. It’s like I can sense things before they happen.”

I stared at her blankly. She was chewing the bottom corner of her lip and still staring off. She turned to look at me, her eyes searching mine for understanding. I remember that when I look back, like she was pleading for me to understand something that was much bigger than I could comprehend as a preteen.

“You can…you can sense things?” I asked, pausing, my face twisting up.

“Yeah, I can sense things.” She said matter-of-factly.

I squinted my eyes, and my face turned red as I squeezed to let out the most pathetic little fart. “Could you sense that?” I asked, before rolling over and laughing, my arms twitching above me like a dead bug.

I remember she didn’t laugh, and that caught me off guard. I remember actually feeling ashamed, like I could feel the temperature of the room change. Like her disappointment dropped the air by two degrees. I quickly stopped laughing and rolled back over onto my stomach. I looked up at her sheepishly. “Oh…um…hey, I’m sorry.”

“Not everything is a joke, you know,” Joanna said quietly.

“Oh, Jo jo…” I started, getting up to my knees “I just…this is something serious. Nobody ever takes me seriously. My own mother thinks I’m crazy. But like…it scares me sometimes.”

In the years I had known Joanna, I had seen almost every side of her. The clown, the studious one, the lover girl, the soldier, but I don’t think I had ever seen her afraid like this. She was fearless, and until that point in our lives, I had only ever known that version of her. I remember the breath catching in my chest, like I was watching the mask of her façade crack slightly. Was I a terrible friend? How could I not have seen the delicate web of splinters before?

“Is it happening again?” I asked, taking her hand into mine gently. I wanted her to know I was here with her.

“It’s crazy. I mean…I’m not crazy, but…it’s spooky. Like,” she pulled her hand from mine and began fidgeting with her long brown hair. “Do you remember last year when my nana died?”

I thought back, recalling that rainy weekend in November of last year when we were lying around in Joanna’s room listening to music. We were singing along to *Dashboard Confessional* when suddenly Joanna stopped singing abruptly. The hairbrush microphone she had been holding in her hands mere moments ago clattered to the floor, and she stood rigidly still. All the color drained from her face, and she crumpled to her knees on her bed. I noticed her out of the corner of my eyes while I was hitting a high note and turned to look at her. “Dude, what’s wrong?” I said, concerned. She stared straight ahead, not even seeing me. Her lip began quivering, and she said, “Please don’t get in the car.” Almost like a whisper.

“Uh…those aren’t the lyrics. Are you okay, dude?” I waved my hand in front of her eyes, but she still looked straight ahead. Like she was looking through the walls and beyond to something greater. Her eyes began to well up with tears, and her breathing became shallow and shuddering. I looked down at her hands; her nails were digging into the soft meat of her thighs.

“Stop, go back, please.” Her face twisted in pain, her eyes squinting as if pleading with some unseen entity.

“What the fu-” I whispered, standing in front of Joanna now with my face inches from hers, searching her blank expression for any answer. “Jo jo…Joanna..JO!” I screamed in her face, shaking her slightly.

She snapped to, the pained look replaced with confusion and annoyance.

“Ow bitch, talk much? Why are you yelling in my face?” She looked at me quizzically, sneering slightly. Her face softened when she saw how spooked I was. “What…is there something on my face?” she joked

“What the hell was that?!” I exasperatedly yelped at her, “You just scared the shit out of me, dude!”

“What happened?” she asked, oblivious to the psychotic show she had just put on.

“Well, freakazoid, you stopped singing, and you just dropped. You were looking out at god knows what in the distance and muttering about not getting into the car. None of this is ringing any bells?” I asked, my hands flailing wildly to showcase my exasperation.

“Hmmm….no. I think you’re making stuff up, dude. Maybe you’ve had too many sour gummy worms.”

Joanna stood back up and brushed some blanket fuzz off her knees, noticing the red crescent shapes in her thigh where her fingernails had pierced the skin. “Damnit,” she muttered, “How did I scratch myself? Ugh.” She shrugged and tossed her hair back over her shoulders, picking up her hairbrush and getting ready to belt out the next song on the CD.

I stood in the middle of the room, staring in utter confusion – what the fuck had I just seen? What on earth was that? Soon, the incident was a distant thought as the rest of the night continued on in a flurry of normal sleepover shenanigans before it was time for bed.

I remember curling up in bed across from her that night, my feet at her head and hers at mine. As the hours ticked on, Joanna snored softly at my feet, but sleep eluded me. I remember staring at the bright neon of Joanna’s alarm clock. The time read 2:14 AM, and I watched as it switched to 2:15 before I sighed and sat up in bed. I looked down and practically pissed myself when I saw Joanna had quietly sat up in bed as well and was staring straight at me.

“Jesus, fuck, dude. Don’t do that to me. I thought you were asleep!” I hissed in the quiet, putting my hand against the heart pounding in my chest. It was dark, but the green halo from her clock illuminated her features slightly. She looked…half asleep, honestly. Maybe I had woken her with my tossing and turning.

Joanna stared straight ahead, as if looking past me. I turned cautiously to peer behind me, my eyes peering into the darkness, and I squinted, trying to make out what she was seeing. What the hell was she looking at?

“I told her not to do it,” Joanna whispered softly

I whipped my head back and looked at her, “What?” I said, my voice croaking out of my throat.

“I told her not to. And she did anyway.” Joanna sighed, as if defeated. She pulled the cover up over her head and turned her back to me, nestling back into her sleep.

I was frozen, staring at her in utter disbelief. After a few minutes, which dripped by like molasses, I heard her softly snoring again and I knew she had fallen back asleep. I pulled my blanket up to my chin and curled up, turning my back to the darkness and forcing my eyes closed. The next thing I remember was opening my eyes again and seeing the sun cascading through her window. I could smell Belinda cooking breakfast downstairs and I could hear her humming along to some pop song from the 80s. My eyes hurt when it blinked, but I remember feeling wide awake. Joanna was still snoring softly, her hair splayed around like a tumbleweed, her arms outstretched above her head, and her leg crooked over and under mine in an uncomfortable pretzel. Somewhere deep in the house, a phone rang, and the low hum of the music paused. A few minutes later, I heard a mug shatter and a slight scream come from downstairs. Joanna and I shot up out of bed and raced downstairs, our hearts racing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as we came into the kitchen and saw Belinda bent over on the floor.

“Mom?” Joanna asked softly, terrified of stepping into the minefield of broken ceramic in the kitchen.

Belinda looked up, tears leaving black streaks of mascara down her face, and stared at us. She whimpered softly and bit her lip, her arms encircled around her torso as if hugging herself.

“Oh jo jo…it’s…” she paused, catching her breath, “It’s your nana…there’s been an accident.”

Joanna stood rigid at the base of the steps, her breath catching in her throat.

“Well…do you remember?” Joanna asked again, snapping me out of my memory.

“Um, yeah…all too fucking well I remember that. Nana Stephanie was always so kind, that was a…” I trailed off, trying to find the right words. I didn’t think saying “that was an incredibly creepy time in our lives” was the right thing to say, so I opted for “that was a hard month for your family. What about it?”

“Remember when I went all spooky and shit on you? You were so freaked out, and I tried to play it off like I didn’t remember…” she trailed off, putting a piece of her hair into her mouth and sucking slightly. She looked so small in that moment, I wanted to hug her and ask if we could change the subject.

“Yeah, you tried to tell me I was crazy, but it was…well, it was something.” I didn’t want to shame her and tell her it was beyond terrifying. How can you be terrified of your best friend? Plus, I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to tell me what she was feeling now.

“Yeah, well…” She started, standing up and walking over to the railing of the foyer that looked down into her entryway. “That day when we were singing, I felt something. It was like I was seeing something that couldn’t have been there.”

I stood up and walked over next to her, putting my elbows on the railing and bending over it slightly to look up into her face. “I saw Nana Stephanie, only it wasn’t her as she was. She was all cut up and covered in glass.”

I staggered backwards off the rail, my breath catching. “Jo, that’s not fucking funny,” I said. I remembered the funeral for Nana Stephanie, for some reason, she had requested an open casket in her will. I don’t think Nana Stephanie ever anticipated her face getting practically split in half due to her steering wheel, but the funeral home did their best effort to fix it. I remember her porcelain skin marred by an unnervingly white sliver from her temple to her chin, jagged like a lightning bolt. Reconstructed with putty as best as they could, but still incredibly noticeable.

“Cadi, I saw her. As clear as I’m seeing you now. I begged her not to get into the car, I begged her to stay home. I saw her at 9 PM that night in my bedroom, mangled. She didn’t wreck her car until 10:45. How did I see her…” she trailed off.

I felt my blood turn cold, and for the first time in my life, I had no words. I sank to the floor near my abandoned friendship bracelet project. I couldn’t process what she was telling me.

“Jo jo, that’s…” words genuinely escaped me.

“I know, it’s crazy. But it’s true. And that’s not the first time it’s happened, and I’m afraid it won’t be the last. I just…I have nobody to talk to about it, and I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I just…”

My mind was racing a mile a minute. I finally found the question I had been meaning to ask but was too afraid to before, “so…why are you telling me now?”

Joanna stopped pacing, her back turned to me. I could see her quiver slightly, like a chill had travelled down her spine. She turned slowly to me, her words coming slowly and measured. “I just…”

She stared off behind me, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My mind was flooded with visions of that inky darkness in the corner of her room that night. I began to slowly turn my head, my eyes reaching the corner of my periphery when…

“Girls!” Belinda’s voice rang out from the first floor, “It’s time for bed!”

I slouched against a bean bag on the floor, feeling just as deflated as the chair I was propped against. Joanna smiled at me softly, bending over and offering her hand.

“It’s nothing, Cadi, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just thinking of Nana.” Her eyes darted between the space behind me and her friendship bracelet on the floor. “Red was one of her favorite colors. Remember that pretty ruby bracelet she had? That’s it…I was just…thinking of her and remembered something that spooked me.”

I stared at her with a look of pure bewilderment. She was scaring the hell out of me because of a memory? I took her hand and stood up slowly, the fear draining from my chest to the bottom of my feet and dissipating with each step towards the bathroom. Joanna laughed and shoved me playfully as we collided through the door frame into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I went to exit the bathroom, heading for the bedroom I knew practically as well as my own, when I stopped. Joanna had paused and was standing still in the bathroom, staring at her reflection intently.

“You good, Jo?” I called back, pausing mid-step.

“Oh,” Joanna snapped to attention, “Yeah, sorry.”

We crawled into bed and turned off the lights. Joanna fished the remote out from under the covers and turned on the tiny TV in the corner of her room. We flipped through channels before landing on reruns of some cartoon we were definitely too old to be respectably watching, stifling our laughter into our pillows so Belinda wouldn’t chastise us.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but my eyes snapped open suddenly, and the muffled static of the TV was droning in the background. The blazing sea of white illuminated everything and hurt to look at. I poked at Joanna, mumbling, “Jo, turn off the TV, it’s too bright,” and received a loud, deep snore in response. Without trying to open my eyes again, my hands searched for the remote that had been lost between our covers so I could get respite from the blazing light. Finally, I found it, and the tv clicked off with a satisfying hiss, allowing the world to once again be enveloped in darkness. I started to settle back down, turning my back to where the TV had been and ready to fall asleep again when…

My eyes shot open, and I flipped around to look at the clock on the dresser next to the TV. The faded neon green numbers read 2:14 AM, and a cold pinprick feeling filled my chest. That was just a coincidence. A very unfortunate, very creepy coincidence. I turned my back to the clock and pulled the covers up to my chin, forcing my eyes closed. I was counting sheep in my head, willing my body to go back to bed, when I felt Joanna stir next to me.

“Ah, Jo, I was…” I peeked my eyes open and looked to where she was lying

I clasped my hand around my mouth quickly so as not to scream. Joanna was sitting straight up, rigid as a board, and staring into the darkness behind me. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I swore that it would wake the whole house.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe, I stared in horror at Joanna sitting across from me, her eyes half-opened as if she was still sleeping. I opened my mouth to speak when I heard her raspy voice whisper, “Don’t touch her.”

Fear flooded my system like ice water, and it felt like I was drowning in it. My head was pounding and it felt like an eternity was passing and I was going insane with fear.

“Joanna…” I managed to rasp out, my breath hitching in my chest

“Please...” Joanna whimpered, never taking her eyes off the darkness behind me.

Hi my name is Lucy and I need to talk about what I saw you guys tell me my other post you know about Jeff stuff like that but I want to talk with the YouTube channel glitch family it seems weird like really weird like like one of the post says the person making the post was he Gabby but that's not my name that's never been my name and then another post got shown called July 15 2003 and it was me it was me it was me but look so similar to other girl on that channel I know it's stupid but Gabby looks like me like actually looks like me like really looks like me I have a dog named for Thor I know this like the superhero and I saw my dog and her videos like that was my dog like exactly like my dog that was my dog definitely my dog but it's kind of weird the fact that this person looks so much like me and have the dog that looks exactly like my childhood dog it was it's kind of weird because she acts like creepypastas don't are not real which they are real this feels exhausting because my best friend is one Jeff the killer and I don't know what creepypasta it's supposed to mean because just the name that the police gave the people it's kind of weird because most people who creepypastas are children when they were started kill people does anyone have any advice I can take I know I thought my last post would be my last post ever that was because I thought I was in danger I was born in the '90s I was around 14 when Jeff killed those people he was my best friend and I don't know what to do he was my best friend the whole world and no we just be friends again he is my friend still because of the whole it's not really I'm killing people I don't know how that works yet I want to help Jeff I want I want my best friend back I want the kid who was too nervous to talk to a boy he had a crush on I want I just want my Jeff back the kid who would comfort me when I was sad the kid who would always be there but now I don't know what to do

I'm 21 female. My boyfriend is 30 male.

He insists that there is nothing wrong with him hanging out with his female friends.

I normally would agree because I don't consider myself the jealous or controlling type.

The problem is that the hangouts look like dates. Going out to dinner with candles and flowers, staying the night at their houses, and even constantly talking about their good qualities.

We've argued about it several different times and he treats me like I'm crazy.

The weirdest part is that the girls disappear after a couple of dates. Sometimes after the first one.

I've had a sneaking suspicion that it's one night stands and casual fun.

I've tried everything I can to keep his attention. I wear sexy clothes, lace undergarments, being extra flirtatious, cooking his favorite meals, doing literally every single thing he likes.

I've even tried spicing things up in the bedroom. Nothing works.

He thanks me and then continues doing whatever he was doing before.

It hurts my feelings because we're never intimate and I feel like his desire for me went out the drain.

It all changed last night when I found his journal. He wrote about each girl in great detail.

He wrote about how he befriends them and acts charming. He then kills them after gaining trust.

They aren't innocent, though. They've all been in prision for various crimes.

I initially thought it was sickening until I started fantasizing. Vigilantes are hot. The fact that he isn't cheating on me and even wrote about how I'm the only one for him is so romantic.

He only acted strange because he didn't want his secret to be revealed.

I'll keep that dirty secret.

People get attached to many things: items, pets, their childhood home, and it's especially sad to see the things they love crumble into nothing.

Such was the case of a man sitting on a bench outside of the house he once lived in, sipping on a cheap wine from a brown paper bag. Hee had nothing left to live for. A .357 Magnum sitting comfortably in the pocket of his jacket, ready to fire once the show was over, he had to just make sure not to accidentally blow his own balls off.

Pupils of his eyes followed the massive yellow shape of the excavator roll from around the corner, metal maw extending upwards on the crooked neck, towering over the red roof of the home.

“Here comes the sun,” He hummed before taking a long swing from the bottle in hand, the grip suddenly tightening enough to the point where the knuckles of his hand turned deadly white, sharp pain shooting through his foot as the machine pierced the roof. 

The bottle shattered on the dirty sidewalk into an explosion of glassy fireworks, right next to the shoe that seemed to flatten by invisible force, slowly expanding into a crunching mush of bone and marrow. 

The screaming throat of the man drowned in the wine that suddenly returned from the stomach, gurgling as the spoon of the excavator tore through the first floor of the building.

Ribs pierced through the thin layer of lungs as his childhood room was reduced into fine dust, guts falling into a useless shapeless pile as his torso began to flatten harder, blood squirting and shooting out from under the invisible object ramming into him.

It all culminated as the tracks of the industrial giant ran over the rubble, destroying the last remains of the home, as teeth jumped out from the broken, tightening jaw of his skull, like popcorn in a microwave popping one after another onto the black road ahead.

His eyes looked over the silver gun in his hand, then they slowly rose into the empty plot of land where his house once was.

“Egh, maybe another day, " he said under his nose as the barrel of the weapon disappeared into the nearby trash bin.

Desperation has a way of narrowing your focus until only the most immediate needs remain. Six months ago, the stack of unpaid bills on our kitchen table was growing higher with every passing week. Being newly married is supposed to be a time of excitement, but for us, it was defined by a constant panic. The rent on our small apartment was due, the groceries were getting more expensive, and my wife was pregnant with our first child, so we needed a miracle, or at least a job that paid enough to keep us afloat.

Sitting across from my wife one evening, watching her meticulously budget our last fifty dollars, made the decision for me. I applied for every municipal job available in our county, so when the acceptance letter arrived from the emergency communications division, it felt like a lifeline. The starting pay for a dispatch operator was higher than anything I had ever earned, complete with dental insurance and a pension plan. It was exactly what we needed to secure our future.

The training program lasted for three weeks. It was a rigorous process designed to weed out anyone who panicked under pressure. We learned the software, and practiced active listening. The instructors constantly drilled us on maintaining an emotional distance from the callers.

"You are a router, so don’t think of yourself as savior," the shift supervisor told us on our first day.

"Get the address, the details, and send the units. Do not let the callers drag you into their panic."

The call center was located in the basement of the municipal building. It was a vast, windowless room filled with rows of identical cubicles, each equipped with three computer monitors and a multi-line telephone console. The air was always cool, and the only sounds were the soft clicking of keyboards and the low, murmuring voices of operators talking to people on their worst days.

On my third week of solo shifts, the call came in.

It was a Tuesday, around three o'clock in the morning. The room was mostly quiet, the night-shift lull having settled over the dispatchers. My headset beeped, indicating an incoming line.

"911, what is the address of your emergency?"

A child's voice came through the receiver. It was a girl, whispering so softly I had to press my hand against my free ear to hear her.

"Please help me,"

she whispered.

"I am in the basement. It is very cold."

"Sweetie, I need you to tell me where you are,"

I said, typing a command to trace the billing address of the line.

"What is your house number?"

"My dad did something awful to mommy,"

the girl said. Her voice trembled, but she did not cry. "She is lying on the kitchen floor and she won't wake up. He told me to go to the basement, and then he locked the door from the outside. I am scared."

The address popped up on my center screen. It was a residence located in an older subdivision on the edge of the county. I immediately began routing the call to the sheriff's department.

Before I could hit the dispatch key, a hand dropped onto my shoulder.

Looking up, I saw my shift supervisor standing behind my chair. He was a veteran dispatcher who had spent twenty years in the basement, and he was staring at my screen with a frown.

"Cancel the dispatch,"

the supervisor said, his voice was flat.

"What?"

I stared at him, my headset still filled with the sound of the girl's quiet breathing.

"She says her mother is unresponsive and her father locked her in the basement."

"I know what she said,"

the supervisor replied, reaching over my shoulder to click the override button on my keyboard. He routed the call to a holding queue instead of the active deputy screen.

"But you are not sending anyone to that address."

"Why not?"

The senior operator sitting in the cubicle next to mine turned around in his chair. He had a look of tired pity on his face.

"Because that house has been empty for five months," he said.

"The family who lived there left in the middle of the night back in winter. Nobody knows where they went. They just vanished."

"Then who is on the phone?"

I asked, looking back at the glowing line on my console.

"We don't know,"

the supervisor said, pulling a rolling chair over to my cubicle.

"But it is a recurring issue. We get that exact call at least once a week. The sheriff's department went out there the first three times. They searched the house, the yard, and the outbuildings. They even checked the crawlspaces. The place is completely abandoned. There is no one there."

"Is it a prank?"

I asked, the girl's soft whispers still playing in my ear.

"Most likely,"

the supervisor said, standing up.

"Some kid with an old burner phone that still connects to emergency services. Or a neighbor playing a sick joke. Either way, it is a waste of county resources. The sheriff told us to stop routing the calls. If that address pops up, log it as a non-emergency glitch and move on to the next line."

"But she sounds so real,"

I murmured.

"They always do,"

the senior dispatcher next to me said.

"You get used to it. Just hang up the phone."

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the disconnect key. Through the headset, I could hear the faint sound of a pipe dripping in the background of the call. It sounded incredibly close, as if the water was hitting a concrete floor right next to the microphone.

"Are you still there?"

the girl whispered.

"I hear something on the stairs."

I swallowed hard and pressed the disconnect button. The screen went black, and the line cleared.

That night, I went home to our quiet apartment. My wife was already asleep, her hand resting over her slightly swollen stomach. I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, the sound of the dripping pipe echoing in my head. I tried to convince myself the supervisor was right. It was a prank. It had to be.

But the calls did not stop.

The next night, the same address flashed green on my monitor. I picked it up, hoping to hear silence or the giggling of teenagers.

"Please,"

the little girl whispered.

"It is so dark down here. I can hear him walking on the kitchen floor above me. He has a hammer."

"Sweetie, if this is a game, you need to stop,"

I said, keeping my voice low so the supervisor wouldn't hear me.

"The police have already been to that house. There is nobody there."

"I am under the stairs,"

she sobbed, her voice breaking for the first time.

"I am hiding behind the wood. Please tell them to hurry."

I logged the call as a line glitch, just as the supervisor had ordered, and hung up. But the guilt began to eat at me. It felt like a weight in my chest. Every night for the next two weeks, the line would ring, and every night, the same little girl would beg for help. The consistency of her voice, and the terror in her tone, with the subtle background noises of the dripping pipe were too perfect to be a prank.

On my day off, the curiosity became too much to bear.

Without telling my wife, I got into my car and drove out to the residential district. The subdivision was old, built in the late nineteen-seventies, with large lots and mature trees. Many of the houses were well-maintained, but as I drove deeper into the cul-de-sac, the properties became neglected.

I found the address.

The house was a split-level ranch with faded gray siding. The yard was overgrown with tall weeds, and the driveway was cracked, with grass growing through the seams. A yellowed real estate sign sat tilted in the front lawn, the contact number faded from the sun.

I parked on the street and walked up the concrete steps. The front door was locked, but the window next to it was dirty and bare. I pressed my face against the glass, shielding my eyes from the glare.

The interior of the house was completely empty. I could see through the living room to the kitchen. There were no chairs, no tables, and no signs of life. The drywall was bare, and the linoleum on the kitchen floor was dusty.

I walked around to the backyard. The grass was waist-high. I reached the sliding glass door at the back of the house and pulled on the handle. It was locked, but the lock was old and loose, so I gave it a hard jerk, and the latch slipped.

The door slid open with a screech.

Stepping inside, the air was cold and smelled of dust. My footsteps echoed loudly on the floorboards as I walked into the kitchen.

I looked down at the linoleum. There were no bloodstains. There was nothing but a thin layer of grime.

Near the pantry, a wooden door stood slightly ajar. I pushed it open, revealing a flight of dark wooden stairs leading down into the basement.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, turned on the flashlight, and began to descend.

The basement was unfinished. The walls were made of rough concrete blocks, and the floor was poured concrete. In the corner, a water heater sat disconnected, its copper pipes severed. A slow drip of condensation was falling from an overhead pipe, hitting the concrete floor with a steady sound.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was the exact sound I had heard through the headset.

I shined my flashlight around the room, then walked over to the wooden stairs, looking underneath them. There was nothing there but a few discarded paint cans and a layer of spiderwebs. I searched every corner of that basement. I knocked on the concrete walls, looking for hollow spaces, but the blocks were solid.

The house was empty, and the supervisor had been right.

I left the property through the sliding door, locking it behind me, and drove home. I felt a sense of relief, but also a deep embarrassment. I had let a prank caller get under my skin so much that I had broken into an abandoned house, so I promised myself I would stop answering the calls.

But the next night at work, the green light flashed again.

I stared at the screen, and the incoming address was the gray split-level house.

"Do not pick it up,"

the dispatcher next to me said, noticing my hesitation. "Just let it route to the automated queue."

I reached out and pressed the button anyway. I had to know.

"911,"

I said.

There was no sound of a little girl whispering. There was no dripping pipe. Instead, the line was completely silent for several seconds.

"Why do you keep answering?"

a voice asked.

It was a woman's voice. She sounded so tired.

"Who is this?"

I asked, my heart skipping a beat.

"Is this the mother?"

"You keep picking up the phone,"

the woman said, ignoring my question.

"The others stopped answering months ago. Why do you keep listening to her?"

I leaned forward, pressing the headset closer to my ear. "Because she is scared,"

I said softly, making sure my supervisor was out of earshot.

"Even if it is a prank, or a glitch, she sounds like she needs comfort. I thought... maybe if I answer, it gives her some peace. Who is this?"

The line was quiet for a moment. I could hear the faint sound of wind blowing through a window on the other end.

"If you want to comfort her,"

the woman said, her voice dropping to a whisper,

"you need to go back to the house."

"I was there,"

I said.

"I searched the basement. There is nothing there."

"You did not look closely enough,"

the woman said.

"In the basement, behind the stairs, there is a wooden partition wall. It looks like part of the foundation framing. On the third vertical stud from the left, there is a rusted steel nail driven into the wood near the floor. Pull the nail."

"What is behind the wall?"

I asked, my hands turning cold.

"She is waiting for you,"

the woman said, then The line went dead.

I sat at my desk, my mind racing. I could not focus on the rest of my shift. Every call I took after that was a blur of addresses and emergency codes. All I could think about was the third vertical stud from the left.

When my shift ended at six in the morning, I did not go home.

I drove straight back to that house. The morning sun was just beginning to rise over the trees, casting long shadows across the empty streets. The neighborhood was completely silent.

I parked my car down the street from the house, walked up the driveway, and slipped through the backyard. The sliding glass door opened easily, just as it had before.

Stepping into the kitchen, the stale smell of the house felt even more oppressive than before. I walked directly to the basement door, opened it, and descended the wooden stairs.

I turned on my phone flashlight, the bright beam cutting through the gloom.

I walked behind the wooden stairs. The area was cramped, filled with old paint cans and dust. The back wall of the staircase was framed with cheap pine studs, holding up a sheet of plywood that separated the under-stairs storage from the rest of the concrete basement.

I began to count the vertical studs from the left.

One. Two. Three.

I shined the light down near the concrete floor.

Resting in the wood, just two inches above the concrete, was a large, rusted steel nail. It was driven deep, but the head of the nail was still protruding slightly.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small multi-tool I kept in my glove compartment. I opened the pliers, gripped the head of the rusted nail, and pulled.

The nail was old, the metal grating against the dry wood of the stud. I had to twist the tool, applying all my strength, until the nail finally slipped free with a sharp crack.

The moment the nail came out, the wooden partition wall shifted.

The plywood sheet swung outward like a door, revealing a dark, narrow crawlspace hidden directly beneath the basement stairs.

The stench that erupted from the opening was overwhelming. It was a suffocating, sweet odor of rot that made me immediately gag, dropping my phone onto the concrete.

I covered my nose with my shirt, my eyes watering from the fumes. I picked up the phone, as my hand shaking so badly the beam danced erratically across the opening, and shined the light into the crawlspace.

The space was small, barely four feet high and six feet deep.

Lying on the dirt floor of the crawlspace were two shapes.

They were wrapped in dirty blue plastic tarps, secured with heavy silver duct tape. The plastic had been torn in places by nesting rodents, revealing the dark, leathery remains of what lay inside.

I moved the light to the smaller bundle.

Protruding from a tear in the blue plastic was a small, skeletal hand. The fingers were tiny, the bone-white joints covered in dried, gray tissue. Next to the hand lay a small, pink plastic toy phone, its battery compartment rusted shut from the damp earth.

I backed away from the crawlspace, stumbling over the paint cans, and collapsed onto the basement floor. I vomited onto the cold concrete, my chest heaving as the reality of what I had found washed over me.

I scrambled up the wooden stairs, running out of the house into the cool morning air. I stood on the lawn, gasping for breath, then pulled out my phone.

I dialed the direct line to the sheriff's office.

The response was immediate. Within fifteen minutes, the quiet cul-de-sac was filled with flashing red and blue lights. Deputies barricaded the driveway, and a forensic team in white suits descended into the basement.

I sat on the bumper of a patrol car, as the lead investigator walked over to me. He looked grim, his boots covered in dry basement dust.

"You are the dispatcher who called this in, right?"

the investigator asked, pulling out a notepad.

"Yes,"

I said, my voice hoarse.

"I found them in the crawlspace behind the stairs."

The investigator sighed, looking back at the gray split-level house.

"We searched this place three times when the family went missing back in the winter,"

he muttered, shaking his head.

"We checked the basement, but we never found that partition. Whoever built that crawlspace knew exactly what they were doing. They framed it to look like part of the foundation."

"Who was in there?"

I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Based on the dental records we retrieved from the file, it is the mother and her seven-year-old daughter,"

the investigator said.

"The cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma. It looks like they were killed upstairs in the kitchen, wrapped in those tarps, and hidden in the dirt before the house was abandoned."

"And the father?"

I asked, my hands tightening around the blanket.

"The father is the primary suspect,"

the investigator said.

"He cleared out their bank accounts, sold their car to a scrap yard under a fake name, and disappeared after the murders. We have had a federal warrant out for him for months as we suspected something when the family vanished, but the trail went completely cold, and we didn't even have a crime scene to prove they were dead until you found that room."

"How did you know to look there?"

the investigator asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at me.

"Did you have an inside information?"

I stared at the ground. I could not tell him about the calls, or about that a dead woman had given me the instructions to find her own corpse and the remains of her child.

"I was doing some research on abandoned properties,"

I lied, my voice steady.

"I saw the house was on the county tax lien list, so I went inside to check the structural integrity of the basement, and I noticed the framing behind the stairs was uneven, that’s why I pulled a loose nail, and the wall opened."

The investigator stared at me for a long moment, evaluating my face. Eventually, he nodded and closed his notebook.

"Well, whatever the reason, you did a good thing today. At least those families have some closure now. We can finally start hunting the husband with a homicide charge."

I was allowed to go home after my statement was finalized.

I walked into our apartment and pulled my wife into a tight hug. I held her for a long time, listening to the steady beat of her heart, feeling the warmth of her skin. I did not tell her the details of what I had found. I just told her I had helped the police resolve an old missing person case.

I went back to work the next night.

The atmosphere in the dispatch room was different. The news of the discovery had spread quickly, and the other operators were talking about the house in hushed whispers.

The senior dispatcher next to me looked at me with a mixture of respect and confusion.

"The sheriff's department is calling you a hero,"

he said. "They said you found the bodies we all missed."

"I was just lucky,"

I said, putting on my headset.

I looked down at my console. The green light on my screen was dark. The address did not flash.

The calls had stopped.

The silence of the line was a relief, but it also left a strange, hollow feeling in my chest. For weeks, that little girl’s voice had been the only constant in my long night shifts. Now, there was nothing but the steady, boring hum of routine emergencies.

I worked the dispatch job for another three months. The pay was indeed good, allowing us to clear our debts and prepare for the arrival of our baby. We bought a crib, stocked up on diapers, and even put some money away into a savings account. The financial pressure that had almost crushed us was gone.

But I never stopped thinking about the father.

Every day, I checked the federal database and the sheriff’s internal bulletins, looking for any updates on his status. He was still out there, somewhere in the country, living under a fake name, completely free.

The thought of him walking the streets while his wife and daughter lay in that dark dirt crawlspace made me sick. I kept my headset on every night, secretly hoping the line would ring, hoping the woman’s voice would come back through the receiver and tell me where he was hiding.

But the line remained dead.

Until tonight.

I am writing this post from my personal laptop in the dispatch breakroom. My shift ended an hour ago, but I cannot bring myself to walk out to my car. My hands are still shaking as I type these words.

Thirty minutes ago, while I was logging off my console, the auxiliary line on the supervisor's desk began to ring.

The supervisor had already gone home for the night, leaving only a skeleton crew in the basement. I walked over to his desk, planning to route the call to the automated system.

I picked up the receiver instead.

"Emergency dispatch,"

I said.

The line was completely silent for several seconds. Then, a familiar, flat voice came through the speaker.

"They got him,"

the woman said.

My breath caught in my throat.

"Who?"

"The father,"

she whispered.

"He was working as a night watchman at a warehouse three counties over. The police just walked through the gates and put the cuffs on him. He is in the back of a cruiser right now."

I sat down in the supervisor's chair, a massive wave of relief washing over me.

"It is over,"

I breathed.

"He is going to prison."

"Yes,"

the woman said.

"He is. But I wanted to thank you."

"For what?"

"For answering,"

she said.

"For listening to her when everyone else hung up. You gave her comfort when she was trapped in the dark."

I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

"She doesn't have to call anymore,"

I said.

"No,"

the woman agreed.

"She is finally asleep."

The line clicked, and the dial tone returned.

I am posting this here because I need to get it out of my head before I go home to my wife and our child. I need people to know that sometimes, the voices on the other end of the line are not glitches or even pranks. Sometimes, they are just waiting for someone to be caring enough, to finally pick up the phone and listen.

The father is in custody. The trial will begin in the fall.

And for the first time in six months, I am going to go home and sleep without the sound of a dripping pipe echoing in my mind.

I’m not usually one to snoop through my girlfriend’s personal devices. I always saw it as a breach of trust. But I’m only human.

I wouldn’t have been so curious had it not been for this particular phrase she always used.

“You gotta stop with your attempts.”

She’d always say it in passing. Never “stop with your attempts to flirt,” or “stop with your attempts to get back on my good side.” Just… “you need to stop with your attempts,” randomly.

At the grocery store, in the car, sometimes while we watched movies or had dinner together. The thing that I noticed was that she seemed to say it most when she was happy.

It was like a tick. Her eyes would be filled with love and joy before suddenly dulling, and she’d shoot me a quick frown before saying it.

I’d learned a long time ago that asking what she meant would get me nowhere. It’d always be the same.

“I just love you! But then I think about the attempts, and I just get so sad. I wish you’d stop.”

That’s all I’d get out of her. No explanation whatsoever. I never knew what she wanted me to stop, therefore I could never prevent whatever it was. It was all just so confusing.

That being said, when I saw the file on her laptop while she was taking a quick potty break, I really couldn’t help myself. The folder name was too on the nose for me to ignore. Plus, she had left the laptop open. Like she wanted me to see it.

“Attempts.” Was all it said.

I looked around the room a bit, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was alone before clicking the folder.

It loaded for a bit before a dozen video files were displayed across the screen.

I clicked on the link titled “attempt three” and was greeted with a video of… myself. I looked terrified, frantically trying to unlock the front door as my girlfriend’s voice rose in anger from behind the camera.

“How many times have we talked about this?”

The camera fell to the ground and landed on the lens, but I could still hear audio echoing from it. It sounded like punches were being thrown. I could hear myself crying. My girlfriend sounded like she was growling at me before the video ended.

I went back to the page of links, albeit a bit afraid at this point, and clicked on attempt 10.

This one was just me hanging out of our bedroom window, clawing my way outside before my girlfriend’s voice could be heard again.

“We’ve talked about this. You’re not going anywhere, my sweet boy.”

Her nails dug into my heel. Veins protruded from her hands. She dragged me back inside, and I just looked utterly defeated.

Attempt 16. I was trying to climb the fence in my backyard. Attempt 20. I was halfway out the driveway before being pulled back and dragged inside.

At this point, I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was one thing: I needed to leave.

However, as I turned to flee the room and get out of the house, I found that the door was blocked by my girlfriend, who held a camera in her hands.

She sighed.

“How many times do we need to have this conversation, sweetheart?”

My eyes darted back towards the laptop. Towards the links. Towards the impossible.

“What the fuck is this?” I demanded.

Her response was more annoyed than anything.

“You always do this. Just once, I wish we could live a happy life together.”

Fear and anger grew from the pit of my stomach. The red light on the camera blinked at me.

“You always find the laptop.”

She sighed.

“You find it. You try to escape. Then I have to hurt you. Why do you make me hurt you, darling? I just don’t get it. I can’t be that bad.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Why can’t you just love me? It’s always the same. And here we are. Attempt 34. But I have hope. I have hope that one day we can get through this.”

The camera blinked again.

My girlfriend loomed over me.

“But for now… I guess I’ll just have to start over.”

The camera came down over my head, and everything went black.

I woke up in bed with my girlfriend, her head buried in my chest.

She yawned cartoonishly and looked up at me.

“Good morning, sleepyhead! You ready to start a new day?”

I smiled goofily, kissing her on her forehead.

“Of course I am, sweetheart. Every day with you feels like a new day.”

She smiled wider, her eyes glistening before suddenly going dull as her smile turned into a frown.

I frowned back.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

She clicked her tongue and sucked her teeth.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything. I just… I wish you’d stop with your attempts.”

This year has been pretty eventful for me. Got a new job. Moved into my first apartment. Got a new car. Not everything has been good, though. Me and my long-term girlfriend broke up back in March. Ever since then, it’s just been me and me alone.

My routine was a bit mundane for a while after the breakup. I’d wake up, go to work, go home, then repeat Monday through Friday.

My weekends were mostly spent inside. Watching Netflix. Wallowing in self-pity. Maybe playing some video games and having a drink or two.

After a while, though, I began to crave movement. I realized that the world was my oyster. I could literally do whatever I wanted. I was neglecting my free will.

I started doing things that I’d never even considered before. Going to horse races. Flea markets. Local festivals. Just sampling life, basically. Trying to figure out how to use my newfound free time.

I got really into hiking. I’d drive hours out of town nearly every weekend to find a new trail. Some of those locations were desolate as hell. Oftentimes, I’d find that I was the only person on the entire trail.

The hikes made me appreciate nature more. I’d listen to the birds sing. Rivers run. Crickets chirp. It made me feel at peace. The kind of peace that I had been craving.

Sometimes I’d sit on rocks and just watch the day go by. I even started sketching some of the scenery. The serenity helped me clear my mind enough to really focus my creative energy into something meaningful.

One day, while out on one of those discreet walks, the scene was begging to be drawn. The sun peeked through the canopy overhead and reflected off of the rushing river water.

A deer stood off in the distance, watching me carefully. Pinecones and pine needles covered the ground. And there just so happened to be the perfect sitting rock right on the edge of the riverbed.

I sat down and pulled the sketchbook out of my backpack. I got about 30 minutes into the process when I saw something I hadn’t noticed before.

A backpack hanging from a tree branch across the river.

I stared at it for a moment before looking around to see if I could find its owner. I hadn’t heard a single person the entire time I was here, nor had I seen anyone else on the trail.

I like to tell myself that I was trying to be a good person. I wanted to find out who the backpack belonged to. Maybe they’d have some useful information inside. An address or at least a name.

But I know I wasn’t being a good person. I was being mischievous and curious. And I think whoever left it there knew that.

A tree had fallen over the river, giving me the perfect walking path directly to the backpack. I shimmied along the log and jumped down on the other side of the river.

The pack was lighter than I expected it to be. It felt almost empty. I could also see just how new it looked. Brand new, pretty much.

I unzipped the biggest pocket and glared down inside. I found one single item. An old, discolored notebook shoved deep inside the pocket.

I pulled it out, and before I could even flip through it, the title written on white painter’s tape across the cover made my heart flip-flop.

“His Life.”

I opened the book slowly, but the more I read, the faster I flipped through the wrinkled pages.

Every single page had been filled.

“January 1st - he woke up at noon today. He drank directly from the orange juice bottle in his fridge. He didn’t brush his teeth or shower.”

“February 3rd - he woke up at 10 AM today. He forgot his girlfriend’s birthday. They’ve been arguing all day. He didn’t shower. His dinner was a Hot Pocket.”

“February 26th - he bought a new car today. He paid 4 grand in cash. He’s ecstatic. His girlfriend is still mad about her birthday.”

“March 8th - his girlfriend broke up with him today. He cried for 3 hours before drinking himself to sleep. He showered. Cold. Hopefully he learns.”

“April 12th - he’s leaving his house more often these days. He woke up at 8 AM this morning. Eggs for breakfast. He went on a walk after work. I think he’s learning.”

“May 20th - he woke up at 7 this morning. He went to a horse race. I’ve never seen him do that before. He lost 200 dollars. I doubt he’ll return.”

“June 4th - he’s looking healthier. He showers daily now. He’s been waking up at 7 AM daily. His dinner was chicken and rice. He sketched before bed. He’s realizing.”

“June 14th - he’s hiking more. It’s all coming together. His sketches are getting better.”

“July 21st - Today’s the day. He’s here. I’m leaving the backpack where I know he’ll see it.”

“July 21st - he found the journal at 9:45 AM. He’s reading this now.”

“July 21st - he doesn’t realize this isn’t the first time he’s done this.”

“July 21st - he’s looking in the wrong direction.”

“July 21st - turn around.”

I turned around, not sure what to expect. That’s when I saw him. It was… me. Standing on the other side of the river. He was sitting with his sketchbook on the very rock I had just been on.

He was analyzing the scenery, looking down every few seconds to add to his drawing.

Before he could see me, I put the journal back in the book bag. I hung it back on its branch. And I slowly walked away.

This seemed like a problem for future me.

(The following story was too short for r/nosleep)

I opened my eyes 100-years ago today. That's when I first saw them. They stood in the infinite darkness; all eleven of them. There was a vocalist, a backing vocalist, a guitarist, a rhythm guitarist, a bassist, a drummer, a synth player, a DJ, a dancer, one who hit a beer keg with a baseball bat and one who just pressed a button occasionally. The button produced a high-treble frequency that just rung until he lifted his finger. I couldn't look away, I hadn't seen my own body and have forgotten what I look like. I can only look straight from where I'm standing. I can only look at them. They have played every song I've ever heard and then some. They all look identical. They wear tuxedos and flatcaps. They're bald and eyebrowless. They have no mouths. But then again, am I misremembering? Do humans have mouths? I can't remember. The dancer is female but she barely deviates in appearance aside from wearing heeled sandals and a black miniskirt, she too is bald, mouthless, wears a flatcap etc. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I panic, sometimes I rage, sometimes I go crazy, sometimes I become discombobulated when I try to understand what exactly I'm seeing. At those times, they become quieter and blurrier and sometimes even look as though they're fading into the darkness. I like those times. He told me their name five years ago, it is strange to think that he only speaks to me directly after 95-years of this. The vocalist looked at me once after I screamed "What are you?". He responded "We are Mind. Your Mind. Your Mother's Mind. Your Father's Mind. Your Great-Grandmother's Mind. Every Mind. Every Mind that ever was, is and will be. We are Mind.". Five years later, I still don't know what that means. I don't know if I dislike it, sometimes I do definitely tire of it. But if I knew that this was what was waiting after death, I wouldn't have ever shot up heroin. Or at least, not on that day.

I struggle with sleep. I cannot sleep unless I have sound playing.

It can't be videos of people talking. It can't be movies or shows. Dialogue keeps me awake.

The one thing that helps is the sound of rain. I fall asleep to videos of that sound every single night.

Random YouTube videos of that sound are enough for me.

I've used them countless times.

I stopped a couple of nights ago.

I was falling asleep as usual but then I heard sounds that weren't rain. It was screams of terror, cries, and whimpers mixing in with what I thought was peaceful rain.

I logged off the video and tried listening to different ones but they all had the same horrifying result.

I was scared and shocked but what really shook me to my core is when each video started screaming, "You're Next"

I turned my TV off extremely quick. I told myself that I'd have to find a more appropriate way to sleep.

However, the horrors didn't stop.

I started getting texts, calls, and voice messages from unknown numbers. It would always start off normal.

The calls and voice messages would sound like nice people until the sound of the rain would start and their voices would begin to scream and yell. They made sure that I would know I was next.

The text messages would say things like, "Join us. You can never escape. Join our echos in the sounds you adored."

Threatening letters in the mail appeared as well.

No matter where I go or what I did, the threats would never stop.

Today is the most horrifying of all.

I hear faint tapping on my doors and windows as that awful sound begins and my screams echo.

I wonder if someone is falling asleep as they listen to my misery.

Far from the main highway, lying in a crevice in the western mountains in North America, generations of werewolves lived in a town unimaginatively named Wolfville. Local adults turned at the full moon, hunted, and the next day, went about their business as people.

Outsiders had no reason to settle there. Mistakes happened occasionally- such as a regrettable incident involving foolish hitchhikers, but such mistakes were quickly rectified by the collective will for non-interference and peace.

Louis was born and raised in Wolfville, and fully expected to turn on the full moon as he entered puberty. His peers were already experiencing the joy of transforming, his friend Stefan had started when he was only eleven. The turned teens hunted with their parents and older siblings under the full moon, while Louis lay fretfully in bed, listening to their howls.
As time rolled by, more of Louis’s peers began their monthly transformations. Louis and his parents weren’t worried, as there were several years before Louis reached his sixteenth year.

But Louis felt a knot of dread tightening in his belly as every month passed, and his skin remained smooth and his teeth blunt under the full moon.

The law was clear. If a child reached its sixteenth year without turning under the full moon, it would be hunted and killed by the pack.

It happened rarely. After Louis’s fourteen birthday, he overheard his father say heatedly to his mother: “Once in a decade Jess! I showed you the math! And Eliza Frampton became sixteen without turning, barely two years ago- have you forgotten?”

Louis didn’t hear his mom’s reply. He only just realized he never saw Eliza, who used to babysit him. His father lowered his voice, but Louis could still hear. “I promise you, our son will turn soon.”

Louis became fifteen. He didn’t have a birthday party, instead, his parents opened an online bank account for him showing a healthy balance.

One evening, Stefan and the others who had been turning for years started teasing Louis.

Louis would have shrugged it off as always, but their faces had an eager, vicious cast. Stefan shoved Louis, his teeth glinting in the streetlight. Louis fell. Stefan kicked him in the ribs, the boys clustered round, but the girls started yelling. Stefan grinned.

“Not much longer!” and walked off.

Early one morning, Louis ran away without saying goodbye, walking for hours until he reached the highway. From there he hitchhiked to the main city, disappearing into its dark underbelly.

A month after his seventeenth birthday, he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, held at gunpoint and outmanned. The full moon rose.

Louis suddenly felt the tug in his body he had been waiting for all his life. The thugs circling Louis froze as they watched him change into a large angry wolf. Louis leapt and tore out the throats of his enemies, before bounding away.

He was heading back to Wolfville, to settle his scores.

Not long ago, computers used to take up an entire room. Today, a desk is more than enough to satisfy their appetite for space.

The small apartment she'd moved into was cramped with the previous owner's useless junk, but it was big enough to hold the computer she'd worked so hard for. The entire world fit inside the white plastic shell of that monitor - it all boiled down to the online forums she spent sleepless nights on, scrolling through discussions among faceless strangers, everything from the newest HIM album to software problems.

She skipped from one forum to another, from broad topics to niche corners of existence she'd had no idea even existed. The only thread linking them all was a user by the name of

PuppyLetters24.

She could only assume he was some kind of fellow forum-dweller with no life outside the net.

Every time the username popped up, it would get banned within minutes, sometimes seconds - only to reappear just as fast, spamming random threads with questions that had no rhyme or reason to them: asking if someone had received their gift, or if they were still interested in something nobody had a clue about.

The mysterious user became something mundane, blending into the forums like an annoying pop-up ad, something you just learned to ignore.

He became much harder to ignore once his random appearances in the forums evolved into direct messages.

PuppyLetters24: did you get it

She stared at the message for a long, uncomfortable moment, hesitating over whether to give him her attention, but the curiosity rushing through her was strong enough to guide her fingers to the keyboard.

FennaEmma85: Get what? do we know each other?

PuppyLetters24: my letter

The next reply came fast.

PuppyLetters24: email

FennaEmma85: my email?

PuppyLetters24: check email

How did he know her email address? Was he part of the moderator team, and had somehow dug it up that way? It didn't matter. What mattered was that this creep had it and God only knew what other information he had.

FennaEmma85: ok

What else was she supposed to do but check whatever he'd sent?

The inbox loaded painfully slowly, message after message forming a slick wall of subject lines and attachments. The third one from the top was sent by none other than puppy.letters@yahoo, with a file attached named Fetch.exe. With a click of the mouse, it began to download - whatever it was, slipping silently onto her hard drive.

FennaEmma85: I got it

The account that seemed to be online as much as humanly possible suddenly wasn't in any hurry to reply. Seconds stretched out, along with the green bar of the download.

FennaEmma85: hello?

The file finished downloading, and a simple icon appeared on the green hill of the wallpaper - what looked like a low-resolution dog, staring straight ahead at the user.

FennaEmma85: whatever man

She double-clicked the icon, and something appeared on the screen, in the right corner, a crooked, blocky yellow dog awkwardly turned its head left and right, as if inspecting its new surroundings

"I'm your new digital friend! My name is Fetch, and I'll fetch any files you need!"

A speech bubble popped up over its head. Unlike other digital pets, which usually gave her a handful of options to choose from, this one looked like she could type in commands instead.

"Can you get me a photo from my birthday?"

The dog stayed idle for a moment before disappearing off-screen.

Moments later, it dragged a photo file back with it, which opened into a new window: Emma, blowing out candles on a white birthday cake with pink frosting, tiny orange flames reflected in the glasses perched on her nose. Behind her right shoulder stood a young blonde girl, grinning from ear to ear.

Emma sighed, her eyes landing on the familiar face. If only she knew where she was now, surely she'd be proud. At least someone at some point was supportive of her decisions.

"Who is she?"

Another speech bubble appeared - this one caught her off guard.

"Do you recognize faces?"

"I do! Just feed me more information, and I'll be even better at fetching whatever you need!"

The cartoony dog wagged its tail as the response appeared above it.

"That’s my best friend…was my best friend."

“Don’t worry, I will be your best friend now!”

"That is cute, but I don’t think I can be friends with a computer."

“Are your forum friends any different?”

It tilted its head to the side, as if curious about the answer. All of her real friends left her life a long time ago, leaving only people she knew by their usernames.

"They are real unlike...you know,"

“Why are you so certain about that? Am I no more real than them?”

That was more than enough to put the dog down, the icon of the app landing straight into the trash bin icon and disappearing entirely along with Fetch, her social life was far enough from perfect but it didn't mean she was about to befriend a desktop app.

In a matter of seconds a yellow shape came back from the corner of the screen dragging a photo behind it, like a cat would a dead bird on the porch, she watched helplessly as the photo opened into a square window, a mangled mess of smashed in teeth and outwards bulging eyes stared back at her, all framed with a storm of blonde bleached hair. Palms of her hands practically glued themselves to her glasses that now pressed tight into her eyelids.

“ I thought she's your best friend?”

Strangled sobs escaped her throat as one hand wrapped around the mouse, clicking the left button frantically, shooting clicks into the dark.

“Aren’t you happy to see her?”

A whine pushed through the pale slip of her tightly pressed lips.

"No, I am not."

“Weird, I know exactly what will cheer you up!”

In a sudden moment, the air became still, thick with the odor of something sweet and rotting like a dog pushing its way inside of a house after standing in the cold rain, accompanied with a soft scratching coming from under the slip of the front entrance door.

For a second all the muscles in her body stiffened as fear flooded the flat, what was on the screen suddenly became the least of her worries, she shot for the corridor, pressing her back against the front door in a useless attempt to stop whoever was behind it.

A muffled sound of a man imitating a dog came from behind the only wall of defence, barking, pathetic whining, and scratching again the door, all came in short intervals, but it soon became clear that the guest was short tempered.

First, he knocks softly before dropping the act all together, now banging on the door, the poor imitation of the dog changing into a strained, high-pitched voice.

“OH PLEASE EMMA, IT’S SO COLD, I'M FREZZING PLEASE!”

Emma sobbed as her push on the door weakened.

“Emma let me in, please. It’s so cold”

The pitiful cry ringed out before the violent knocking suddenly returned, the real voice of the man forcing through the facade, rough and animalistic, growling and whining between the words.

“LETTER, YOU ACCEPTED IT”

The banging and scratching mixed with the screaming seemed to be never-ending, she stood by the door crying trying her hardest to stand her ground, it all stopped only when the blue lights of the police car outside flooded the room from outside, only then the intruder disappeared without making as much as a noise.

Nobody saw him leave the building, only muddy footprints, shifting and changing into what looked like dog paws remained on the dirty floor under the door.

No matter how much she begged and cried, the police took her computer for further investigation, just the procedures they said dry.

Just like that, the only contact with the outside world was ripped away from her.

That night, when the knocking returned, she didn't bother to lock the door.

It was so nice to see her face again.

I’ve been at my job for about a year now. It’s had its ups and downs, but overall, it’s been something I’ve really learned to enjoy, as crazy as that sounds.

The only thing that really made me keep searching for jobs in private was the paycheck. For the work I was doing, I should’ve at least been making double what I was getting. Plus, the building wasn’t air conditioned, and that summer heat can get pretty brutal.

What made it bearable even on the hottest of days, though, were my two coworkers. I’ll call them Mike and Dave for the sake of anonymity.

We’d all become pretty close friends in my time at the company, and that friendship had even expanded outside of work. We’d hit the bars sometimes. Maybe catch a movie. We just enjoyed each other’s company. We went through the hard shit together, and I think we kind of just bonded over it.

Writing this now, I’m almost getting teary-eyed. This whole experience has kind of altered the way I see the two of them, even though I know it’s not their fault.

Like I said, the pay at this job was barely enough to keep my head above water. Plus, with the manual labor, holding on was beginning to become unbearable, especially in July.

I’d applied for jobs before, but I was never really serious about it. I was just casting lines, I suppose. I don’t know why this day was so different.

Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the mandatory overtime. All I know is when I applied for a new job this time, I was serious.

It took a few days, but the company eventually got back to me. They wanted to schedule an interview.

The day came, and I went to the interview. It went swimmingly. They were basically handing me the job. A nice, cool office building. Salary pay. Plus my very own cubicle. It was impossible to say no.

The day after the interview, I turned my two weeks’ notice in to my manager. He was disappointed, but overall, he was understanding.

Mike and Dave, however… basically had complete meltdowns.

There was some anger. There was some frustration. But in the end, we all agreed to keep in touch. We’d still see each other, just not on a daily basis anymore.

That night, as I was getting ready for bed, I got a text from Mike.

“Hey, man, we all gotta hang out before you leave. We may not have the same schedules after this. Me and Dave were thinking to have a lake trip. There’s this great spot that I know, if you’re interested?”

I responded with a resounding yes. A few beers with some buddies on the lake sounded incredible. Again, impossible to say no.

Mike replied with, “great. I’ll send you the location. We can meet up after work on Friday.”

The week went on like normal. We all joked around. Everyone teased me for leaving. But, overall, nothing unusual.

On Friday, after work, I drove home to get showered and grab a few things for the night, including beer, a sleeping bag, and 3 full bottles of bug spray.

As I was packing the bag, I got a text from Dave. He had sent me the location. I stared at my phone and felt my stomach drop. I hadn’t expected the lake to be an hour and thirty minutes out.

He followed up with “we’re on the way now,” so, naturally, I pushed my feelings aside and hurried out the door. It was already 5:45 PM, and I was burning daylight.

I drove a little over the speed limit for nearly the entire drive. All the while, a million things ran through my mind. My new job. My old job. How annoyed I was at how long this drive was. How excited I was to spend the night on the lake with my friends. Mainly annoyed at how long the drive was, though.

The closer I got, the more desolate everything became. Less traffic. Less gas stations. Hell, less road, more trees.

When I finally got to the last 10 miles, it was hardly even a road at all. It was more like a dirt path. Wide enough for either a family of four or a small car. And I had to stay on it for 10 whole miles.

The trees made it look darker than it was. They cast shadows over the dirt road that made it seem like the sun had already set.

I had to keep my speed between 20 and 30 miles an hour the entire way, and I swore I could hear animals chirping over the thumping of my car’s speakers.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity on that road, I came to a clearing. It was where the road ended. I assumed it was where I was supposed to park. I was kind of confused as to how I was the first person there. Mike and Dave had left before me.

I assumed that maybe they had stopped off at a convenience store or something to grab some snacks or something. I got out to stretch my legs after the long car ride.

While I stretched, I analyzed my surroundings. It looked like I was in the middle of nowhere. Red Solo cups littered the ground, and I could see the deep dirt prints that indicated someone had been doing donuts here recently.

As I looked around, I noticed a trail that led deeper into the forest, toward what I assumed to be the lake.

I tried texting Mike to check in, but I had zero cell reception.

I figured, “fuck it,” you know? “I’ll just walk down and see what I can see.”

I started down the path and followed it for about a mile. I swear, I had this weird feeling of being watched the entire time. I kept hearing sticks breaking behind me. I even thought I heard footsteps a few times, but anytime I looked behind me, they’d stop and there’d be no one there.

I ignored my nerves and kept walking. When I reached the end, I was amazed at the scene that lay before me. The lake was absolutely gorgeous. The sun bounced off the crisp, blue water. A breeze ran through my hair. The sound of crickets and cicadas filled the crisp forest air. It was like I was in heaven.

I sat on a rock near the edge of the lake just taking in the scenery while I waited for my friends. I’m not sure how much time passed, but eventually, I heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping behind me again. Only this time, when I turned around, I actually saw someone.

They were staring at me. Peeking at me from behind this tree like a kid playing hide and seek.

It looked like Dave, but he was…different, somehow. He didn’t have life in his eyes. His face was stretched somehow. Like I was looking at a mask made of Dave rather than Dave himself.

He was smiling at me with this intense, hungry-looking smile. Like his teeth were a bear trap. And when he spoke, what he said just didn’t make sense.

“Over here, Don. The lakes over here.”

I stared at him for a second, debating on how to respond. While our eyes were locked, he did something with his neck. It was like a horse, or deer, or something. Like he was trying to scratch his back with his head before it snapped back in my direction.

“Over here, Don. The lakes over here.”

My heart was beating faster now. My fight or flight was beginning to kick in, but I never took my eyes off of him. He never blinked. He just kept peeking at me from behind the tree.

Then Mike appeared, standing behind a separate tree. The same lifeless eyes as Dave. The same stretched skin and hungry smile. I was shaking at this point. I don’t know how I managed to call out to them, but I did.

“Guys, I don’t know if this is a prank because you’re mad about me leaving, or if you just wanted to fuck with me, but this isn’t funny.”

There was silence for a moment. Then two. Then three. Finally, Mike replied in a voice that sounded more like mine than his.

“This isn’t funny.”

My eyes darted toward the trail I had come from. It was about 30 feet away from me and 50 away from them.

I took my chances, and I absolutely booked it. I have never ran faster in my life. The mile felt like nothing, because I was too focused on the sound of sticks breaking behind me.

It sounded like entire trees were snapping like toothpicks, and the ground felt like it was shaking from the weight of whatever was behind me.

When I reached the clearing, I was still the only car there, and I basically slid across my hood trying to get to my door. I peeled out of the clearing as fast as my car would allow, and when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw them again.

Mike and Dave. Peeking at me from behind the trees.

I must’ve burned through a half tank of gas flying down that dirt road. When I finally reached the main road and cell signal returned, the first thing I did was call Dave.

It rang for a few seconds before he picked up, sounding as cool as a cucumber.

“Yooo, Don, where you at?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘where am I at’? Where the fuck are you at?”

“We’re at the lake, dude. We’ve been waiting on you for like an hour.”

I paused.

“An hour? I was just at the lake. I swear you two were there, but your cars weren’t.”

“Mmm nah, man. We both got our cars. All that’s missing is yours, cutie. Hold on, let me look.”

There was silence for a moment while Dave looked at his message to me.

“Okayyy, so, don’t hate me… I may have sent you the wrong location. The one I sent was for a party I went to last week. Can’t believe you drove all the way out there without even checking, haha.”

I just hung up the phone and drove home in silence. Mike and Dave both kept calling me periodically throughout the night. I just kept sending them to voicemail.

The calls stopped at around midnight, but Dave still sent me one last message.

A picture of the lake they were at. And a single text that read…

“Over here, Don. The lakes over here.”

Most killers get sloppy eventually.

They panic. They brag. They return to a scene they shouldn’t. Something small cracks the illusion they’ve built around themselves. That’s usually when we find them.

But the man behind this case didn’t slip up.

He was forced to.

Before the this particular incident, we had already linked three other apartments across neighboring counties. Each one looked normal from the outside. Clean lawns. Locked doors. No signs of forced entry.

When the homeowners returned from their month long vacations, they reported something smelled off. Only days or even weeks went till they grew tired of the daunting scent.

"Something died"

Someone, would have been correct.

Inside the walls, we have found eight bodies.

Drywall cavities, mostly. Between studs. Behind insulation.

Every victim had been dismembered with precision and wrapped tightly before being sealed away. Plastic, tape, insulation packed around them like padding. Whoever did it knew exactly how much space existed inside a wall frame.

The bodies in the first two houses had decomposed almost completely.

In the third house, they were different.

Dry.

Preserved.

Their limbs folded tightly against their torsos, wrapped and compressed until they looked almost ceremonial.

Like mummies placed carefully into a tomb.

We never identified a suspect.

No fingerprints that matched anyone in the system. No neighbors who remembered a strange visitor. No evidence of a break-in.

Just apartments that looked lived in while the owners were away.

Then the fourth apartment came along.

That’s the one you’ve probably heard about.

The roommate who punched a hole in his wall and found a body staring back at him.

When we arrived, we recovered two victims from that apartment.

Mara Salter: a young woman who had been reported missing three days earlier.

And Daniel Craig, the actual owner of the apartment.

After examination, it was determined that he had been dead for months.

The man who killed Daniel took his name and lived under it, while Daniel rotted inside the drywall of his own tomb.

Whoever he was had killed the homeowner, taken the apartment for himself, and was using it as a base.

That brought the confirmed total to ten victims.

Eight from the previous houses.

Two from the apartment that sat just outside Albany.

At least, that’s what we thought.

The roommate, the survivor, told us everything he could remember.

The rules.

The locked utility closet.

The strange behavior.

The smell.

Most of it lined up with what we’d seen in the other houses.

But two things about this didn’t make sense.

First: Mara didn’t match the killer’s previous victims. Not even close.

Second: the roommate was still alive.

Serial offenders like this one operate on routines.

Patterns.

Methods they repeat until something forces them to change.

Neither of those two should have been part of his plan.

My working theory became simple.

My best theory is that he broke into Daniel’s apartment while Daniel was on vacation. A storm cut the trip short, and Daniel returned home early.

Instead of an empty apartment, he walked in on a stranger helping himself to the contents of his fridge. Daniel never made it back out.

The man killed him, took the apartment as his own, and lay low there while he waited for his next opportunity, someone like the victims we’d seen before.

One thing about the apartment kept bothering me.

If the man had already taken Daniel’s identity and the apartment, why risk bringing in a roommate at all?

Predators like this prefer control. Privacy.

A roommate complicates everything.

So we checked the listing the survivor said he used to find the place.

Three hundred dollars a month. Cheap enough to attract attention, but not so cheap that it screamed scam.

At least, that’s what it used to say.

When our tech team tried opening the link again, the page didn’t load properly. The listing itself was gone, replaced by a half-broken site filled with flashing banners and corrupted text.

One of the detectives leaned over my shoulder as the screen refreshed again.

Pop-ups started appearing across the page.

"Stacy and others are near your area."

"Meet HOT local single Moms tonight!!!"

The tech guy sighed and closed the browser.

“Whatever this was,” he said, “the link has been wiped or repurposed.”

Which meant the ad that brought the survivor into that apartment was gone.

Just another dead end.

But the question still bothered me.

Why invite a roommate into a place you were using as a hiding spot?

Something forced the killer to leave in a hurry.

His first real mistake.

Weeks after the initial investigation, I pushed for a third search of the apartment.

The original forensic team had already opened the wall where the bodies were found. They documented everything they could reach.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d missed something.

The utility closet was the first place I wanted to check again.

The roommate had mentioned it several times during questioning. Said his “roommate” was weirdly protective about it.

The closet looked ordinary enough. Pipes. Cleaning supplies. A few odd tools.

Nothing screamed Psycho.

But when we pulled the shelving unit away from the back wall, we found a narrow hatch cut into the drywall.

A small crawlspace.

Barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

Inside were more tools.

Drywall knives. Putty. Spackle.

Repair materials.

The kind someone would use to seal a wall after opening it.

Bingo.

That alone was disturbing enough.

Then we found the map.

It was taped flat against one of the wooden beams.

A large road map, folded and refolded until the creases had almost worn through.

At first glance it looked like someone had just been tracking travel routes.

After examining it... a team investiagtor noticed the markings.

Pins.

Dozens of them.

They all were traced to cities across the country.

Some along the coast. Some deep inland. A few outside the country entirely.

I counted them once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

Ten victims.

Four known locations.

That’s what we believed we were investigating.

But the map didn’t stop.

Not even close.

Once I passed twenty, I stopped counting.

Because at that point it didn’t matter anymore.

We weren’t looking at ten murders.

We were looking at something much bigger.

Something that had been happening for years.

Maybe decades.

I remember my hands shaking as I lowered the map.

And that’s when one of the crime scene techs called my name.

He was pointing at the far wall of the crawlspace.

At first I thought it was just debris.

Small shapes taped against the wood paneling.

Insulation scraps, maybe.

But the closer I got, the more wrong it looked.

There were ten of them.

Arranged carefully.

Side by side.

Each one wrapped in clear tape.

I leaned closer.

The officer beamed a light to help.

I wish he didn't.

And that’s when I realized what they were.

Fingers.

Human fingers.

Removed cleanly at the knuckle.

We later confirmed they belonged to the two victims in the apartment.

Mara and Daniel.

But that's not all...

They were arranged.

Not randomly.

Deliberately.

The message they formed was simple.

Two words.

Two words that burned into my mind, almost mocking me. Even with my eyes shut, I can’t escape them.

FIND ME

I’ve worked homicide for eleven years.

I’ve seen killers try to taunt investigators before.

But this was different.

This wasn’t arrogance.

This was patience.

Because the more I think about it, the more something bothers me.

The crawlspace hatch had been sealed when we first searched the apartment.

The tools were arranged neatly.

The map was taped perfectly flat.

The fingers hadn’t been disturbed.

Which means whoever left that message wasn’t rushing.

He wasn’t panicking.

He knew we’d eventually come back.

He knew we’d search deeper.

And he knew we’d find it.

So now the only question that matters is this.

If the message says find me…

why do I get the feeling he’s the one who’s been watching us all along?

A cryptic pregnancy is in my books ( not that I wanted more but here we are) encrypted babies cryptid birth so black magic doesn't stop or swop them be for their birthday the signs and inequities are there, I just haven't acknowledged it yet. I haven't told anyone what's going on you would even be able to pick it but by end of the year I'll be a mother of 4 2G and 2B. Shhhh keep this quiet you'd think I was on a diet instead I'm protecting what mine in divine timing.

Everything is happening so fast. I’m not sure when she had this… mental break, but if I had to guess, I’m assuming it’s when our daughter was born.

In the weeks that followed, I think her exhaustion started to take hold of her. She started talking in her sleep. Hell, she even started sleepwalking.

The things she’d say in her sleep led me to believe she was having nightmares. Lots of tossing and turning. Lots of grunting. Sometimes she’d wake up screaming either mine or my daughter’s name.

What concerned me most, however, was what she’d do in her sleep.

It took me a while to notice. She’d wake up with dirt covering her hands and mud caking her fingernails. She liked to garden, so, of course, I didn’t think much of it.

But when things started going missing, that’s when I knew something was afoot.

Baby bottles. Pacifiers. Family photos. It was gradual, but the more I noticed, the more I’d scratch my head.

Our daughter would go crazy. Both me and my wife would search the house thoroughly for any of her missing toys. Missing bibs or fresh diapers.

She swore up and down that she had no idea where anything was. I wanted to believe her. And I did, for a time. But when she woke me up one night while sneaking out of bed, I realized what was really going on.

I thought it was because the baby was crying. I thought that she was just going to rock her back to sleep. But she was snoring as she rose from our bed.

I chose to follow her, just to see what she does when this kind of thing happens. I ignored our baby, just for a while, and tiptoed behind my wife as she made her way through our bedroom and loomed over our daughter’s crib.

I expected her to reach down and pick her up, but instead, she took the crib mobile that hung over my baby’s head, completely ignoring her wails as she walked towards the dark hallway.

From there, she glided down the stairs and through the kitchen and dining room. She looked completely cognizant as she opened the back door and walked out into the night.

I was always told you’re not supposed to wake a sleepwalker, so I just watched her as she dropped to her hands and knees and began clawing at the dirt in the backyard.

I was nervous, but more so, I was stunned. Distracted by the dozen patches of dirt that I had neglected to notice since this all started happening.

She dug a hole about a foot deep and a foot wide with her bare hands before dropping the mobile inside. Still snoring, still with her eyes closed, she filled the hole, walked past me and back to our bedroom, and collapsed into bed, our baby still wailing.

It was up to me to get the baby back to sleep that night. I held her tight, rocking her gently until silence fell over the room.

I woke up the next morning with a clear mission: find my daughter’s missing toys.

I went outside with a trowel and began slowly digging. I found the bottles. Found the toys and bibs. But when I confronted my wife about it, she was adamant that it wasn’t her.

She cried when I showed her the holes in the yard. She cried harder when I showed her the dirty bottles and baby clothes. She seemed both confused and remorseful.

For a while after that, the sleepwalking stopped. The talking didn’t. But that was something I could live with. At least things weren’t going missing anymore.

At least, for a while.

I’m writing this now because I woke up this morning in a bed full of dirt. I woke up to a wife covered in grime and mud. And I woke up to a silent house with an empty crib in the corner of our bedroom.

I panicked. My wife panicked. And immediately, the two of us ran to the backyard.

We’re waiting on the police now.

Because the grave in the backyard was much bigger than any of the others.

And instead of crying, my wife… she just… she won’t stop laughing.

My daughter and I have always been as thick as thieves. Her mom passed away when she was just a baby, and ever since then, it’s just been my little Kayla and me.

I was pretty shaken up for a while after her mom died. We knew it was happening, we had time to prepare or whatever, but when it happened, I think the full weight of her absence was something that sat on my chest for a few months after her passing.

Kayla was like my anchor in those times. She gave me missions. Things to keep my mind occupied. If she woke up crying, it was my mission to soothe her back to sleep. If she was hungry, it was my job to feed her. It was enough to let the memory of my wife rest, at least for a while.

I still felt it, though. I’m grateful. It would feel like betrayal if I felt nothing. So, naturally, I still allowed myself to feel. I’d look at Kayla and see her mother. I’d smell her old perfumes and candles. Stare at pictures for minutes on end.

It was like something new was blossoming in my own spirit. Something that was born out of both grief for my wife and the growing love for my daughter. As I watched her grow up, I could feel my wife’s presence. It was like we were still raising our little Kayla together. I never felt alone. I just felt like I was pulling my weight.

I think that’s what made me bring Kayla up the way I did. It always felt like her mom was watching. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

One of the big things I kind of hammered into our baby’s mind was manners. In my humble opinion, manners are the first thing every child should learn. Simple etiquette goes a long way. That’s something my wife and I both agreed on before Kayla was even thought of.

As she grew older, into her toddler years, she was already setting the dinner table. Sometimes she’d even try and pour our drinks all by herself, which would often lead to juice flooding the table and her face turning bright red.

I never got angry, never punished her. I’d simply help her clean it up, and I’d let her know just how proud I was of her for taking initiative.

She never questioned why it was just me and her or anything like that. But I think that she knew something was missing.

Sometimes, when she’d set the table, she’d make sure to leave out an extra glass and plate for her Mommy.

“I want mommy to eat, too.”

“Pour mommy some juice.”

“Mommy doesn’t like the peas.”

I just thought it was her way of filling in the blanks. She knew she had a mommy. I guess she just thought she didn’t see her very much.

Looking back now, I think I should’ve done more to ground her in reality. It was just so difficult. It’s hard to tell her she’s leaving silverware out for a dead woman.

The line should’ve been when she started leaving food on the plate. Reaching in and grabbing fistfuls of spaghetti and plopping them down in the dish, staining the tablecloth in the process.

She’d throw fits whenever I tried to stop her. Kicking and screaming.

“It’s for Mommy!”

“I want mommy to eat too!”

I didn’t want to argue. She was so young and oblivious. I told myself it’d go away with age.

Except… it didn’t.

If anything, it got worse.

As the years went on, she suspiciously stopped setting plates. At least at the dinner table.

Instead, I’d hear her rummaging around the kitchen at night. I’d hear the fridge being opened. Dishes clanking around loudly. Sometimes I’d hear the ding of the microwave.

For a while, I thought she was grabbing midnight snacks. But then the smell started.

Her room began smelling like a landfill. The stench of rot punched me in the face anytime I entered, but my daughter acted completely oblivious to it.

“I don’t smell anything.”

“Maybe it’s outside.”

“I think it’s the bathroom.”

She wasn’t fooling me. I knew it was her room. I needed to find out where, though.

When I found the source, I was equally confused and horrified.

She must’ve had at least a dozen plates under her bed. Each one containing heaps of rotting food.

When I questioned her about it, her answer was simple.

“They’re for mommy.”

What was I supposed to do? Punishing her felt wrong, but I knew it was something that had to be done. She needed to know.

I told her exactly what I should’ve told her when she first started setting out that extra plate.

“Mommy is gone.”

Her “punishment” was nothing more than having to clean the food up from under the bed, then wash the dishes. That’s it. But she still sulked the entire time.

“Mommy’s gonna be mad at you.”

“I’m just trying to feed her.”

“I know she’s hungry.”

All while staring at me with furrowed eyebrows and a frown that stretched all the way to the ground.

She pouted for the rest of the day, but ultimately, things seemed to look normal after that. She still mentioned her mom every now and again. But for a few weeks, she never tried ‘feeding her’ again.

That is until last week.

It was late. Nearly midnight. I was on the verge of falling asleep when I heard cabinets opening in the kitchen. Dishes clanking against the countertop.

I sighed to myself but was too tired to get out of bed. I told myself I’d deal with it in the morning.

I’m not sure when the noise in the kitchen stopped, but my alarm clock told me it was 3:20 in the morning when my little Kayla climbed into bed with me.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

I think I mumbled something about her always being welcomed before I threw my arm over her and nearly fell asleep again.

However, before I fully lost consciousness, there was one last thing I remember Kayla saying before I was out.

“I think mommy’s mad tonight.”

I woke up the next morning to Kayla snoring in the bed beside me. It was a Saturday, so I decided to leave her be while I went to the kitchen to make some coffee.

On the way to the kitchen, I remembered the noises from last night, and I rolled my eyes as I opened Kayla’s door to check under her bed.

What I saw still has me shaken, and I don’t think it’s a feeling I’m going to be able to shake.

Because underneath her bed, lying limply on a white dinner plate, was a bloodied piece of raw meat… with a clear bite taken out of it.

I’m fine, ok? Finally, Human Resources seems to believe me. They’re interviewed me a bunch of times, the police too, about what happened that night- Jack's last evening at our workplace- or anywhere else, seems like. And HR is convinced I won’t be suing them.

Why should I? Nothing happened, ok? I’m fine! And I have no idea where Jack, my former co-worker is.

I’ll tell you exactly what happened that evening. I’ll even go back, from the first time I laid eyes on Jack, right in this office.

He was a new hire and we had one of those god-awful “ice-breakers” where we were paired and had to tell something about ourselves that the other could never guess. I trotted out my fail-safe line first.

“I went bungee-jumping for my twentieth birthday!”

Jack smiled politely without showing any teeth. “Really? Cool. I’m a werewolf.”

I have many years of experience in people-oriented positions, and my decorum did not falter. “Interesting- do you go to Comic-Con? I’ve heard our city has one of the biggest in the region.”

Jack drew his eyebrows together, which I couldn’t help noticing were somewhat thicker and bushier than normal.

“I don’t cosplay- I'm a real werewolf” he replied.

I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately the facilitator called out. “Ok everyone, time’s up! Let’s get into groups-”

We had to work together a lot. Towards the end of one meeting, as we closed their laptops and wheeled our chairs back from the table, I remarked idly that I hoped we have good weather for the weekend.

“Honestly, I turn when the moon is full regardless of weather. The clouds make no difference.”

I felt like dying inside. I gripped my laptop and looked away.

Jack continued, “Although, the hunt is easier on cloudy nights.” He was standing with his back to me, staring out of the tall office windows. I mumbled something –can't remember what- and fled the room.

Next month I was again sequestered with him in one of the top floor meeting rooms. I told myself if he made another werewolf reference, I would email HR. It was weird and had no place in professional engagements.

But the meeting went very well, and I found myself warming to him. He was certainly competent. Towards the end, we were chatting like old friends, and stepped in the elevator together.

The elevator just started the long descent when it jolted horribly, and ground to a halt. We stared at each other, and once again I couldn’t help noticing the bushiness around his eyebrows and forehead, which before had seemed to conceal what I caught only now, a yellowish tinge in his eyes.

I slumped back in a corner. My heart was racing.

Soon a voice crackled through the intercom. Help was on the way, but there was a shortage of the parts needed, and it was rush hour. We had to brace ourselves for several hours of waiting.

We remained mostly silent. There was nothing to be said. I think I dozed off, then jerked awake, my body aching horribly. I glanced at my phone, on 1%. It was 11:32pm.

Jack spoke. “You know I’m going to turn at midnight?”

I raised my head. I knew I should feel frightened, but my main emotion was extreme fatigue. “Will you kill me?”

Jack shrugged. “I haven’t eaten for hours. I’m hungry. But I don’t typically hunt humans.”

Tears welled out of my eyes despite myself. I could feel them, scalding hot, it seemed, rolling down my face. “Please Jack. I have family.”

Jack said nothing.

At 12:12 am, the workmen opened the elevator door, raising their flashlights. I shielded my eyes from the blinding light.

A big bounding creature knocked them over, a shadow heading straight for the stairwells.

I staggered to my feet. The workmen rose too, and laid their eyes on me, alone in the elevator, dishevelled and filthy, but I was calm.

I don’t know what happened to Jack, who was never seen at that office, ever again. Now leave me alone. I have a group of new hires who aren’t going to orient themselves.

To understand what is happening, you need to know exactly what occurred last Thursday night.

The storm was unrelenting. Water pounded against the windshield so aggressively that the wipers could barely clear the glass on their highest setting. Driving a massive rig in those conditions requires absolute concentration. The asphalt was slick, and the darkness stretching out beyond the headlights was absolute. There were no streetlights, no other vehicles, and no signs of civilization for hundreds of miles. Just the endless stretch of flat desert terrain being drowned by the downpour.

Long-haul drivers have a golden rule when navigating empty stretches of road at night. You never pull over. You do not stop for stranded motorists, or pull onto the shoulder to check your tires, and you absolutely do not open your doors for strangers. If someone is broken down, you call the highway patrol and keep rolling, because Stopping puts you in a vulnerable position.

My headlights cut through the sheets of rain, illuminating the reflective paint on the asphalt. The tires hissed loudly against the flooded road.

Something caught the edge of the high beams up ahead.

A large object was resting on the muddy shoulder of the highway. As the Cab closed the distance, the shape became clearer. It was an old, rusted car. The vehicle was completely mangled, crumpled inward with terrifying force, and was wrapped entirely around a tall wooden structure.

I slowed the Cab down slightly, squinting through the rain-streaked glass. The wooden structure was a carved totem. It stood perfectly upright in the desert dirt, which made absolutely no sense. There were no historical sites or reservations anywhere near this specific highway. The totem looked entirely out of place, standing like a silent sentinel in the mud. The front end of the rusted car was smashed directly into the center of the carved wood.

Standing near the crushed bumper of the car were three people.

A man, a woman, and a teenage girl stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the pouring rain. The headlights washed over them, revealing the horrifying state they were in. Their clothes were shredded and plastered to their bodies. Dark red blood covered their faces and hands, washing away slowly in the relentless downpour.

The man raised his arm, waving frantically at my approaching Cab. The woman just stared blankly at the road. The teenage girl was shivering violently, clutching her stomach, looking absolutely terrified.

My foot hovered over the brake pedal. The golden rule screamed in my mind. Keep driving. Pick up the radio, call the state troopers, and get away from the wreck.

But seeing the teenage girl changed my mind. She looked incredibly young and entirely defenseless. Leaving a bleeding child on the side of a flooded desert highway felt fundamentally wrong, so in the end human empathy overrode my training.

I engaged the air brakes. The Cab hissed loudly as the speed dropped. The tires gripped the wet asphalt, bringing the Mega Cab to a complete stop a few yards ahead of the accident.

Leaving the engine running, I leaned over the center console and unlatched the passenger door. The heavy door swung open, exposing the warm cabin to the freezing wind and rain.

"Get in!"

I yelled over the deafening sound of the storm.

"Climb inside before you freeze!"

The family did not hesitate. The father grabbed the door frame and hoisted himself into the cab. He pulled the teenage girl up behind him, and the mother followed last. They crowded into the passenger area, bringing a sudden rush of cold air and dampness with them. The father pulled the door shut, sealing the cabin.

The sound of the storm was instantly muffled. The heater blasted warm air across the dashboard.

I turned on the overhead dome light to get a better look at their injuries. They were completely soaked. Water dripped from their hair onto the upholstery. The blood on their skin looked strangely dark, almost black in the yellow cabin light.

"Are you all right?"

I asked, grabbing a roll of paper towels from the backseat and handing it to the father.

"Do you need an ambulance? I can try to raise dispatch on the radio, but the signal out here is terrible."

The father ignored the paper towels. He sat rigidly in the seat, staring straight out the windshield into the dark highway.

"Drive,"

the father said.

"Look, you guys are bleeding pretty badly,"

I reasoned, trying to keep my voice calm.

"I need to know if anyone has broken bones before we start bouncing down this road."

The father slowly turned his head toward me. His face was covered in dark, matted dirt and dried blood.

"Drive,"

he repeated, pointing a stiff finger directly at the windshield.

I looked at the mother. She was sitting perfectly still, staring at the dashboard from behind us. She did not acknowledge my presence. I looked at the teenage girl. She was huddled against the window, her face pale and expressionless. None of them were shivering anymore.

The situation felt incredibly wrong, but sitting idle on the shoulder of a dark highway with three injured strangers felt worse. The priority was getting them to the hospital.

"Alright,"

I said, putting the Cab into gear.

"There is a massive truck stop about forty miles up the road. They have an emergency medical clinic attached. We will head there."

I pressed the accelerator. The massive diesel engine roared, and the Cab pulled smoothly away from the shoulder, merging back onto the empty road.

For the first few minutes, the cabin was completely silent. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the slapping of the windshield wipers.

I tried to break the uncomfortable silence.

"What happened back there? Did you crush into that wooden post?"

No one answered. The father kept his eyes fixed forward.

That is when the weird things started.

The Cab’s climate control system was working flawlessly. The dial was turned all the way into the red zone, blasting hot air from the vents. Despite the heat, the temperature inside the passenger area began to drop rapidly.

A sharp, biting cold emanated directly from the three passengers. I could see my own breath pluming in the air.

I reached out and adjusted the vents, aiming them directly at the family. As my hand passed near the father's hand, I noticed something strange.

The rainwater dripping from his torn suit was not soaking into the fabric of the seat. The water droplets were freezing. Tiny beads of solid ice clung to his jacket and hair. I looked at the teenage girl through the mirror near the window behind us. Frost was actively forming on the glass right next to her face, spreading outward in intricate, jagged patterns.

"The heater is on full blast,"

I muttered, mostly to myself.

"Why is it freezing in here?"

The mother slowly turned her head and looked at the radio console. She did not speak.

Then, the smell hit me.

It started as a faint odor, similar to spoiled milk. Within seconds, it intensified into a suffocating, gagging stench. It smelled exactly like roadkill that had been baking in the summer sun for a week. The scent of rotting meat and decaying tissue filled the enclosed space.

I rolled down my driver-side window an inch to let some fresh air inside. The freezing rain blew through the crack, but it was better than breathing in the putrid smell.

"Look, I do not mean to be rude,"

I said, keeping one eye on the slick road.

"But what exactly were you guys doing out here? Did you hit an animal?"

The father remained perfectly silent. The ice on his collar was thickening.

I felt the sudden anxiety in my stomach. The silence, the freezing temperature, the smell of decay, none of it made rational sense. I focused my attention entirely on the road, eager to spot the glowing signs of the truck stop.

We drove for another ten minutes. The headlights illuminated the rain-slicked asphalt ahead.

A large object appeared on the right shoulder of the highway.

As the Cab closed the distance, the object became distinct. It was an old, rusted vehicle, crumpled inward with terrifying force. The vehicle was wrapped entirely around a tall, carved wooden totem standing upright in the mud.

My foot instinctively eased off the accelerator.

I stared at the wreck as we rolled past it. It was the exact same accident scene. The same rusted metal, carved wood, the exact same dark mud scattered across the asphalt.

"That is impossible,"

I said aloud, my heart starting to race.

"We just drove away from that wreck ten minutes ago. We have been traveling in a straight line at sixty miles an hour."

I glanced at the dashboard. I tapped the screen of the GPS navigation unit.

The screen was completely glitched. The map had disappeared, replaced by a gray grid. The digital arrow representing my Cab was spinning wildly in circles, unable to establish a heading.

I looked up through the windshield. A green reflective mile marker passed by on the right side of the road. Mile 142.

I kept my eyes peeled. Two minutes later, another green sign appeared in the headlights.

Mile 142.

The road signs were repeating.

I slammed my hand against the steering wheel.

"What is going on here? Where did you people come from?"

I turned to confront the family directly.

They were no longer looking at the windshield. All three of them had turned their heads and were staring directly at me.

The overhead dome light flickered, casting sharp shadows across their faces. Their flesh was decaying right in front of my eyes. The skin on the father's jaw slid downward, peeling away in wet, gray strips to reveal yellowed bone underneath. The mother's eyes had collapsed into dark, empty sockets. The teenage girl's face was completely skeletal, her jaw hanging open in a silent, horrifying scream.

The stench of rotting meat became completely unbearable, burning the inside of my nose.

The father leaned slowly toward me. The ice cracking on his suit sounded like snapping glass. His jaw moved stiffly, and a raspy, echoing whisper filled the cabin.

"We need a replacement to stay in the loop so we can go home."

Panic exploded in my chest. I stomped on the brake pedal, intending to skid the Cab to a halt and bail out into the rain.

The brake pedal did not move. It felt like stepping on a solid block of concrete. The pedal was completely jammed.

Before I could react, the steering wheel jerked to the left, slipping right out of my grip.

The Cab swerved across the wet asphalt. The steering column locked itself into a sharp turn. The tires screeched, losing traction as the massive vehicle hurtled toward the center median of the desert highway.

Rising out of the darkness in the median was a massive, solid concrete pillar supporting an old overpass.

"No!"

I yelled, grabbing the steering wheel with both hands, trying desperately to yank it back to the right.

The wheel would not budge an inch. The father had reached out with his skeletal hand and clamped his decaying fingers directly onto the steering column. His grip possessed an impossible, unyielding strength.

The concrete pillar was growing rapidly in the headlights. We were seconds away from a devastating collision at sixty miles an hour.

I could not steer, or brake.

I kept my left hand gripped tightly on the steering wheel, desperately fighting the ghost's immense strength. With my right hand, I reached down into the narrow gap between the driver’s seat and the center console. Truckers keep emergency gear within arm's reach for situations like this. My fingers found what I was looking for and wrapped around the rubber handle of a steel tire thumper.

I pulled the metal bar up and swung it hard across the cabin. I aimed directly at the father's skeletal arm. The steel smashed into his decaying wrist with a loud crack.

The impact broke his iron grip on the steering column. The ghost-father released a raspy, vibrating shriek and lunged toward me, reaching for my throat.

I swung the steel bar a second time, striking him squarely in the chest. The force pushed him violently backward against the passenger door.

I did not give him a chance to recover. I leaned entirely across the center console, ignoring the freezing cold radiating from his rotting body, then grabbed the passenger door latch and yanked it open.

The door swung wide, catching the rush of wind from the highway.

I planted my right boot directly into the center of the ghost's chest, then pushed outward with every ounce of strength and adrenaline I had left.

The father tumbled backward out of the moving Cab. He hit the wet ground with a sickening thud, disappearing instantly into the darkness behind the vehicle.

The moment the father was ejected from the cabin, the mother and the teenage girl simply vanished.

I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and used every ounce of strength I had to force it back to the center.

The Cab responded. The tires squealed as the vehicle corrected its trajectory, veering sharply away from the looming concrete pillar.

We narrowly missed the solid concrete. Instead, the heavy front bumper blasted directly through a decaying wooden barricade set up near the edge of the median.

The Cab launched off the pavement, crashing down into a deep, muddy ditch. Mud and dirty water sprayed across the windshield. The rig plowed through the soft earth, slowing down rapidly until it finally ground to a violent, jarring halt.

The engine choked and died.

I sat gripping the steering wheel, gasping for air. My chest heaved as adrenaline coursed through my veins.

The only sound left was the rain drumming against the roof. The smell of rotting meat was already starting to fade, blowing out through the shattered passenger window.

I grabbed my flashlight, kicked my door open, and climbed out into the ditch. The rain soaked my clothes instantly. I waded through the deep mud, inspecting the front of the Cab. The bumper was dented, and the grill was packed with dirt, but the radiator was intact, and the engine block was safe.

I climbed back up to the road and shined my flashlight around the area.

The concrete pillar was gone, and the wooden barricade was gone.

I was standing on a completely normal, straight stretch of desert highway. There was no carved wooden totem anywhere in sight. There was no rusted vehicle.

I walked back down into the ditch, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the ignition key. The diesel engine sputtered for a moment before roaring back to life. I locked the differential, put the transmission into a low gear, and managed to slowly reverse the heavy Cab out of the muddy ditch and back onto the solid asphalt.

I drove for another two hours without seeing a single vehicle. Eventually, the glowing signs of a commercial truck stop appeared on the horizon. I pulled into the brightly lit parking lot, parked near the fuel pumps, and locked the doors.

I did not sleep that night. I sat awake, watching the rain fall against the glass until the sun finally came up.

That was four days ago.

I managed to drive the Cab back to my home state. I had a mechanic replace the shattered passenger window and detail the interior. They shampooed the seats and replaced the cabin air filters.

But the Cab is not clean.

Yesterday afternoon, a mild thunderstorm rolled over my town. I was sitting in the driver’s seat, filling out some delivery paperwork, when the first raindrops hit the windshield.

Within thirty seconds, the temperature inside the cabin plummeted. I could see my breath pluming in the air.

Then, the smell returned. The distinct, putrid scent of decaying meat began seeping out of the vents.

I grabbed my keys and ran out of the vehicle, locking it behind me.

If anyone reading this forum knows how to genuinely cleanse a vehicle of a spiritual attachment, please contact me immediately. I have tried burning sage, leaving salt on the floorboards, and nothing works. The cold always comes back when the rain starts.

Until I find a solution, the Cab stays parked in the driveway. And if I cannot find a way to get the rotting smell out of the upholstery, I am going to have to burn the entire rig to the ground.

Being a prison safety inspector isn't a pretty job. I have the normal job of telling the cooks that "yes", gloves are mandatory, while also having to sweep through rooms for contraband. I have found Cocaine, Weapons, Sex toys. That stuff doesn't really seem to bother me, and for that reason I have been working around prisons for decades. It's good-paying money, due to how little people want to do the job. I have become well respected over the years. I assume that's why my higher ups contacted me for a special job. A one time visit to a new experimental prison outside the country. Why the prison couldn't get a local inspector is beside me. I just need to look around and report back if everything was "safe", and I would receive a pretty hefty paycheck. I can't discuss where it is (you'll see why soon), but when I flew out, I was told there would be an interpreter due to the language barrier.

I walk in, met by the usual friendly face, it's a woman with carrot top bangs and a big toothy smile. Even though we speak different languages, I can tell she's making a lot of effort to be polite. We spend a moment smiling at eachother before I look around for where the translator could be. Noticing my glances, she says something to me, then motions towards the door infront of us. When we walk through, all I can see is a ginormous hallway infront of us, and without skipping a beat, she starts power walking down the hallway, and I assume just to follow her.

As we walk together, I can feel myself getting alot warmer. I almost ask about it, then remind myself of the language barrier. I can hear a sound as well. It's faint but persistent, and I assume to blame it on this facility's clearly busted AC machine. I make a mental note to mention this in my report. Finally we make it to the end of the hallway, and she pushes through the double doors, where I am greeted by something entirely new. We're in another smaller better lit hallway, but this time having two glass walls on each side of us. This must be their cell layout. Bangs seems to have kept on walking, but stops when she sees me looking at the right cell.

It's nothing like I had ever seen before, the room is completely sterile of anything, even color, with white padding everywhere. The only thing in there is a slim man attached to a chain in the middle. I go up to the glass to get a better look. He's lying there, refusing to look at me. He has brown scraggly hair that dips into gray. I can't tell how exactly old he is, but he seems to be on the older side, due to the multiple fading tattoos (he seemed to be quite the wolf fanatic). I notice his clothes are particularly raggedy, resembling streetwear much more than a jumpsuit. Getting closer, I can also see a small food bowl on the floor, it's full, but seems to be far away enough were I'm not sure if the man can access it. I know culture is diffrent over seas, but this seemed disgustingly cruel. I have seen dogs being treated with more respect. Appalled, I start walking to the next set of doors, assuming correctly that my guide will follow me. I'm gonna have to make alot of changes around here. I made a mental note to stress the importance of humane cells. The noise seems to be getting louder with every door I open, but I still can't tell what exactly it is.

I instinctualy look at the next set of cells, but was met with a completely different view. Instead of a chain and food bowl on the ground, one of the walls in the cage not facing us had a huge hole in it. The hole was almost the size of the room itself, and coming out of the hole was railing that attached to the ceiling. I tried to angle myself to see down the hole but it seemed to go too deep for me to see. I wonder what was stopping him from just going into the wall hole.

This time the prisoner was looking at me directly, his head tilted down, with tears streaming down his face. He seemed to be taking me in. It was weird to see a prisoner this close up, we must have been less than a foot apart, with the only thing separating us being the thick piece of glass. I learned early to not make direct eye contact with prisoners, you ruffle the least amount of feathers that way, but this guy seemed different. He also wasn't in a prison jumpsuit, instead a shirt with some sort of cheesy joke on it, some cackies, and some socks and sandals. He had blonde choppy hair, some scruff on his face, and was probably a little too chubby to have what's usually deemed a dad bod. I frowned when I looked down and saw a wedding ring. I made another mental note to mention how prisoners should also have normal prison jumpsuits for the safety of sta-

BANG

A CAR COMES RAILING OUT THE HOLE, AND HITS HIM STRAIGHT INTO THE OTHER WALL.

I physically fall back and land on my ass. The man a foot away from me is now unrecognizable, his face bludgeoned in by the sheer force of the car, slamming him into the wall. I scream, more than I have ever screamed in my life. The car slowly retreats back down its hole, mechanically being moved back by the ceiling rail. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, which I quickly slap off.

WHERE THE HELL AM I?!?

I get up and run to the nearest door. When I open it, it's just more cells. I run through door after door. I had gone the wrong way, but there's no turning back now, their must be an exit eventually. Every cage has a bizarre new thing, or item, or gimmick. The noise keeps getting louder, I finally hear it clearly. It's screaming, screaming from the people in cages ahead of me.

I must have gone through atleast a hundred doors, I'm out of breath. I look to the left of the room I needed to stop in, its a pitch-black room, the torture not so valiantly shown off like the rest of this facility. All I can hear is screaming coming from inside, but a different type of screaming? It has a sign up by the glass that I can't read because of the language barrier. I look to the right, and I see an older woman, shes staring at me, this time smiling. Before I know it, flame rises from above the ground in her cage, and I turn away before seeing another thing.

I go to therapy three times a week now. I have received many apologies and gift baskets from my bosses. All with notes, apologizing for not better preparing me for what I was signing up to see. Bastards are lucky if I don't sue, I'm actually looking into it with a buddy. Although, I like to believe I know the law as a civil servant, we're looking into the paperwork I signed before working this case, if there's any loophole in there that lawyers could exploit. It seems I have been blacklisted from inspecting even normal prisons, so I'm hoping the settlement money can take me through the end of my life. During this research, I found out more about that prison. The country I still can't say the name of (let's see if I can after I sue), is big into the idea of karma. So inspired by that, every "Prisoner" there is being punished, specifically for whatever crime they committed. An eye for an eye approach to punishment.