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?”

This is a backwards horror story being told through a x feed.

They even got some of the titles and thumbnails scrambled

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.

There was one where a couple goes to a parents cabin and the wife gets possessed. Some natives try to help and at the end after they think they fixed it she reveals she's still evil.

Who makes the cover art and thumbnails or if they are Ai what is the style used? I love them with the rich colors and dark themes!!!

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.”

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 moved to California to escape. Escape what, exactly? I’m not so sure. I just thought that this was what I needed. To get away from my hometown in Georgia and start fresh with beaches and palm trees.

I’ve spent the last 3 years of my life here. I’ve grown to adore the culture. Adore the graffiti. The street performers. Hell, I’ll say it: I grew to enjoy the weed.

Above all else, however, the thing that seemed to have been my missing puzzle piece was walking on the beach. Coming from nothing but woods and small towns, the sprawling beaches on the west coast have become my sanctuary.

Every evening, I’ve made a habit out of taking long walks up and down the shoreline. Watching the waves crash. Watching the foam rise. Letting my thoughts run free. Dare I say, this is where I found myself.

However, this is also where I’ve found my ultimate demise. I know that death is approaching. I know there’s nothing I can do to stop it. And with each passing hour, I regret my decision to come here more and more.

See, everything happened last night. It had been just like any other. I’d punched out at work. Had a little bit of a gym session and some Chipotle. And to finish off the evening, I began my nightly walk.

I felt the sand beneath my toes. Felt the brisk California wind in my hair. I thought about life. Life here. Life in Georgia. I began comparing the two.

Lost in deep thought, I hardly noticed as the sun sank deeper and deeper over the horizon. I paid no mind to the ever-increasing vacancy of the shore. All I was concerned with…was putting one foot in front of the other.

Step. Step. Step.

Step. Step. Step.

Step. Step. Crack.

A searing pain shot through my body from my right heel. I yelped, my foot shooting up in the air.

I analyzed my foot and noticed blood beginning to drip from a puncture wound. The pain felt hot, but my foot itself felt cold. Increasingly cold.

The cracking noise from whatever I stepped on led me to believe that it had been a shard of glass. A broken beer bottle that had been left on the beach. Maybe something had washed up on shore. Anything to rationalize.

I glanced down and noticed a thin, metallic object partially buried beneath the sand. It glistened in the light of the moon, and drops of my blood dripped from its pointy tip and onto the sand.

Trying not to panic, I held my injured foot in one hand and crouched down to pick up the object with the other.

It felt…cold. Frozen, in fact. It wasn’t until I got a good look at it in the palm of my hand that I realized what it was.

It wasn’t metallic at all. It was nearly transparent. What I assumed to be metal was nothing more than the moonlight reflecting off of what I could now see was a bloody ice crystal in my hand.

I was so amazed by what I was seeing that I hadn’t even noticed that my foot was going numb. It had been 95 degrees this day. The sand had to have reached at least 110. Yet, the crystal didn’t melt until I held it in my hand.

I watched as it began rapidly disappearing. Shrinking smaller and smaller, yet, it didn’t make my hand wet. It was like, I don’t know. It was almost as if it had disappeared into my pores. Evaporated into thin air, leaving no trace whatsoever.

Once it was gone, the pain and numbness in my foot began to dissipate. I looked down at where the wound had been to find it completely sealed up, leaving only dark blue streaks in its place.

I stood on it, and instead of feeling pain, I felt cold. Icy, subzero cold that encapsulated my entire foot.

I didn’t know what to make of it. The only thought in my mind was to get back to my car. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. Not yet. I wanted to see how I felt in the morning.

I walked back to my vehicle, attempting to suppress the urge to limp. With each step, it was like the cold was growing. It spiderwebbed throughout my foot and up my leg. It was like I felt a phantom sensation in my other foot. But I kept walking. Kept rationalizing.

The drive home was a blur. It was like I was in my body, but not. My mind wandered, but my focus never wavered. And that focus told me one thing:

Find a way to warm up.

I blasted the heater for the entire 20-minute drive to my apartment. I couldn’t stop shivering. My teeth clattered. I swore I was able to see my breath every time I exhaled.

The thing that made me feel as though I was on the brink of madness, however, was not the phantom chill. It was the voices. The completely alien voices that jumped around in my mind and made my head throb.

It sounded like nonsense. Like an ancient future language. I could not understand for the life of me.

I tried shaking the noise out of my ears. I tried listening to the radio. I tried listening to my own thoughts. But those voices and sounds… they just…they drowned everything else out.

By the time I reached the apartment, the voices had stopped. Not completely. They didn’t disappear. They just…receded. It was more a whisper now.

I was sweating profusely, and as I went to put my key in the door, I noticed just how blue my fingernails had become. They looked…dead, almost.

I tried showering. I turned the water to its hottest setting. Steam billowed above the shower curtain and fogged up the bathroom mirror, but my skin wouldn’t stop turning blue. It felt like river water in the dead of winter was flowing over my neck and shoulders.

I stayed under the water for almost an hour. The steam stopped flowing, but I felt all the same. Though I felt no relief from the hot water, it was like the voices knew that the temperature had dropped.

They began to cry out again in their alien language. Snot dripped from my nose. My teeth chattered louder than ever. All I needed was warmth.

Wrapping myself up in a blanket, I curled up in front of the open oven door, pulling my knees to my chest and attempting to stay warm.

I tossed and turned. It felt like I was laying on a massive cube of ice. The only purpose the oven served was to keep the voices at bay, and it served that purpose well.

The voices were dammed off, but I could still feel them scratching at the walls of my mind. The night was a mixture of trying to decipher them and keep myself from freezing to death.

I could only make out individual words. It was like the Library of Babel was being read to me by something within myself.

“Frozen.”

“Heat.”

“Flames.”

“Ocean.”

“Death.”

Some sounded like children. Some sounded like adults. Men. Women. They were all the same, yet so different.

The snot that dripped from my nose was beginning to freeze, even under the radiating light from the blazing oven. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. All I wanted was warmth.

I didn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t sleep that night.

The tears that dropped from my eyes rolled down my face before freezing and dropping to the floor with a ting and melting on the hot tiles.

I don’t remember what happened next. I don’t know if I’m dreaming or if reality is more nightmarish than anything my imagination could conjure.

All I know is I closed my eyes for no more than two seconds. When I opened them, I was back on the beach. Back in the same spot where I found the ice crystal.

I was nude. I was sweating. I was freezing. The beads of sweat that fell from my body landed on the ground as icicles as I stared out at the horizon.

The sun was slowly rising. Further and further above the sea. The only thing that pried my eyes away from the blazing sky was the sound of shifting sand beneath me.

I looked down to find my sweat burying itself deep in the sand. Wiggling its way underground in the form of sharp, jagged ice crystals.

I noticed beachgoers approaching the shore in the distance. Men and women out on their morning run. Families looking to secure a good spot early in the day. Umbrellas, beach towels, coolers full of drinks and snacks.

I cried icy tears. I cried because I knew what was coming. The voices told me. The temperature rose with each passing minute, and with it, so did the crescendo of voices in my head.

They told me I couldn’t stop it.

They told me they had tried.

I was the new host.

The first case of what was to become of California.

The sun is higher in the sky now. People are beginning to stare at me. Some look shocked. Some look amused. Others look utterly horrified.

The cold has spread. I feel it in my heart. I feel it in my stomach. I feel it in my brain. My breath is nothing more than fog. And though there’s not a cloud in the sky on this hot California morning, snow has begun to fall from my ears.

It’s coating my bright blue shoulders. It’s sprinkling around my icy feet. It’s like I’m becoming my own blizzard.

But, no matter how painful the frigid air against my lungs feels, I can’t help but feel warmth in my chest.

It’s ever so faint. Faint enough to barely be noticeable.

People are beginning to approach me. I can hear them calling out to me, but the voices in my head are drowning out the voices in the real world.

They’re telling me to sleep.

They’re slowing down my heart rate.

They’re providing warmth where no warmth exists.

All I want is to drift into slumber, and I can’t stop my body from lying down in the pile of snow that now surrounds me.

But I want to fight. I want desperately to warn the people who are both inches and miles away from me. Because if there’s one thing these voices have made clear, it’s that I can’t stop what’s coming.

They’re not warning me anymore. They’re mourning me.

Me and any poor soul that decides to stand in this snow.

Me and my girlfriend have been dating for a while now. Long enough for marriage to be considered. At least, it used to be considered. Now, I just have no idea.

We met when I was 20 and she was 19. We recently celebrated our 3rd anniversary with a night out on the town, grabbing a few drinks and sitting down at one of those nice, fancy restaurants we’d always wanted to visit.

Overall, the night was perfect. Candlelit dinner. Expensive wine. Typical romance with some great lovemaking to end the night. Little did I know, it would be the last normal night of our relationship.

I woke up the next morning with a sense of nostalgia. After the night we had, plus the idea of marriage floating around in my head, I decided I wanted to recollect together.

She had been in the shower while I lay in bed, and she stayed there long enough for me to decide to reminisce on my own. At first, I was just looking through old pictures on my phone. Our first date. Our first kiss. Our anniversary photos. I’m a memory guy, what can I say?

Anyway, as I kept scrolling, I remembered something. Back when she moved in, my girlfriend had brought a bunch of old pictures from when she was younger.

She kept them in our attic, and neither of us had ever thought to look through them together. I’d shown her my old pictures plenty of times, even the ones I was embarrassed of. If I’m being honest, I kinda got a little peeved when I realized she hadn’t returned the gesture.

I realize now that she wasn’t embarrassed by the photos. She was actually hiding them from me.

I climbed the ladder to the attic and shifted through a bunch of old boxes until I found the one that my girlfriend had brought with her all those months ago.

I blew the dust off the box and began sifting through the photos.

The ones on top were perfectly normal. Polaroids she’d taken back at her parents’ house. Some selfies with her and her girlfriends. The typical stuff.

However, as I dug deeper, I grew more and more concerned.

The Polaroids… stopped having color.

My girlfriend stayed the same, but the photographs began to look decades old. Some were of her propped up against a jukebox. Some were of her at civil rights protests. Hell, one was just her leaning up against the hood of an old muscle car from back in the day.

She seemed to be looking through me in every single photo. Each photo looked grainier than the last.

Her clothes changed. Her hair changed. Her style, as a whole, changed. Her face did not. It looked like she wasn’t aging at all.

I figured it was some kind of art thing. Some experimental stuff she was doing.

I wanted to believe that maybe she had just been using a different camera, but the numbers written on each picture were enough to make me second guess myself.

2000

1990

1980

1970

All the way to the last picture, with the numbers “1947” written across the bottom.

Part of me wanted to laugh, but another part of me was utterly terrified.

Not by the pictures themselves…

But by the birth certificate that dated back to August 9th, 1912.

As I stared at the date, my heart sank. Not by what I was seeing, but by the sound of the shower water stopping and the bathroom door opening slowly before my girlfriend’s voice sang out.

“Honey? You’re not looking at those old pictures, are you?”

Uploading on behalf of Dreadful Anecdotes, still unfairly shadowbanned.

I was watching the government soldiers walk through my street grabbing people old enough for what us citizens call: the Demon Run. The government never revealed the real name, saying it was classified. We got the name from seeing the bodies of the losers of the Demon Run. They looked to be mauled like inhumane, unearthly creatures. The scratch and bruises seemed to just miss nonlethal parts of the body making sure the victim had a painful death. The soldiers grabbed people by their wrists and pulled them into a black armored truck. A large muscular soldier saw me peeking out of my front door and walked up to me. They scanned me up and down then snatched my wrist. I tried to pull away but they wouldn't let go. I was dragged into the black armored car and pushed into a seat. The soldier pulled a strong seat belt-like strap over me. I struggled but failed to free myself. The muscular soldier and another nearby soldier shut the doors of the armored truck, sealing me and the nine people with me inside. The truck drove for about an hour to a government-controlled zone. During the drive many people inside the armored truck cried and screamed like someone could come save them. At the end of the drive the doors of the armored truck were opened, and we were taken out by the soldiers surrounding the truck. When I was grabbed, I was led out of the truck and into a metal chamber. The doors of the chamber opened outward with a mechanical creak. The soldier pulled me in with them. The doors shut, encasing us in a dark void. The floor below us sank slowly until it reached the basement level of an enclosed dome. The doors opened once again, and the soldier pushed me out. The doors slammed shut behind me and I heard the soldier elevate back to the surface. I turned away from the rising metal chamber and noticed the forest around me. A hidden speaker screeched and the voice of the president echoed through the forest saying, "The Runathon has begun. Our creatures of, well, motivation." The speakers then screeched again and then went into silence. As soon as the speakers went quiet, I heard the growls of the bloodthirsty demonic creatures closing in on me. I looked around and found a sharp stick. I picked it up and stood still trying to see if the creatures would go away. A pair of golden eyes peeked out of a bush. Then a second pair. Two large paws with razor sharp claws stomped out. Next, the head poked out. Four teeth dug out of the creature's mouth even though it was closed. The back legs stomped out then a tail spiked with sharp quills swooped out. The creature was about four feet long; it was a baby. I raised the stick up above my head preparing to strike. I took my last look at the creature, it was scared. I lowered the stick and reached out to it. A small wet nose sniffed my hand. It then looked up at me with its tail wagging. Then, it stopped and the creature ran back into the bush. Was I still scared of me? No, another monster double the size stood behind me. It punched on my back, pinning me down. Its claws tore my skin and blood dripped out. I kicked back, hitting the creature's ribs. It loosened slightly, being just enough to let me free myself. I slid out of the creature’s grasp and used the stick to stab it in one of its eyes. It screamed out in pain then fell down. Blood poured out of the eye as the creature’s breathing slowed to a stop. I smiled. Then frowned once the sound of two more creatures approaching finally reached me.

I’ve been on the force for about 5 years now. I’m not a veteran by any means, but I’m not necessarily a rookie either. I think I’ve earned my right to say I’ve seen some things.

A lot of homicides. Tons of domestic violence. Found the remains of missing children on 3 separate occasions, but that’s a story for another day.

No, no, the story I want to tell today started a few weeks ago.

I was out of town for a funeral, leaving my partner alone for a few days until I could get back to work.

In that time, I guess… I just… I don’t know what happened. He was here one day, gone the next. And the only evidence he left behind was body cam footage.

There was no body to retrieve the footage from, but, thankfully, all of that footage gets sent to our internal system. Sometimes cameras are destroyed, sometimes they malfunction, sometimes… the person wearing it is never seen again.

Unfortunately, it can take a few days before the footage is fully uploaded into our system. It becomes a game of patience. Waiting. Letting your imagination run wild.

We didn’t get to see that footage until my partner had already been missing for 3 days. He was already dead for all we knew. Maybe killed by someone he booked in the past. Maybe by some wannabe gangbanger with something to prove. Like I said, imaginations run wild.

When I got the call from my chief down at the station, he sounded more confused than anything. Not frantic. Not grief-stricken. Confused.

He told me they finally got the footage, but that’s all he said. Well, that, and for me to meet him down at the station.

I geared up and made my way downtown, anticipating what was on that footage the entire time. Why was the chief so scarce with the details?

I arrived at the station fully convinced that I was prepared for whatever showed up on that screen. When I walked in, the station was unusually empty. Unusually quiet.

The reason for the vacancy soon became apparent when I found nearly everybody in one room, gathered around a computer screen.

“We were waiting for you to show up,” my chief announced. “We couldn’t start without his partner present.”

I took my seat, gesturing for the chief to play the footage.

The first few moments were completely normal. My partner approached what seemed to be an abandoned warehouse. He didn’t speak into his walkie. He walked briskly, almost running.

According to the chief, nobody knew why he was there. There were no calls. No reports of dispatch. He was just… there… speed-walking into the building.

He seemed to know exactly where he was heading. He entered. Made a left. Made a right. Another left. Finally, he found himself standing at another door.

The only light came from my partner’s flashlight. The room was pitch black, but once he pushed the door open, we saw what true darkness looked like.

It was like his flashlight was a 2 dollar toy from the dollar store. The beam illuminated only what was in front of him. And what was in front of him just so happened to be… a staircase.

He began to descend with the same urgency in which he entered the building, but as time went on, his steps began to slow. Slower. And slower. And slower.

The footage went on for over three hours. He never once stopped descending. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the screen.

My chief fast-forwarded the footage. My partner just kept going. Kept steadily descending. It wasn’t until the timestamp reached 2 hours and 23 minutes that the footage began to change.

He started… stripping.

At first it was his belt. His gun, cuffs, taser, etc.

But then it was his shoes.

Then his socks…

Then his pants and underwear.

He never spoke a word. He just kept slowly undressing every 10 minutes or so as he descended further down the staircase.

As we watched, my chief instructed a few of my coworkers to go check out the warehouse.

They did as they were told as the rest of us continued watching.

The footage went on for another 40 minutes or so before my partner removed his vest, which included his body camera.

The camera captured one last sign of him as he continued descending, completely nude. Then we were left alone in the darkness.

My chief decided to check in on the boys he sent to that warehouse, but all they could tell him was that it was desolate and abandoned. No way in. No hidden door. No impossible staircase.

But I know they’re lying.

Either that or they didn’t do their job properly.

Because, as I’m writing this, I’m standing at that exact door my partner saw. Staring down at the seemingly endless dark staircase.

And even if it’s the last thing I do…

I will find him.

My grandfather used to have a saying. It wasn’t something that he’d say often, just enough for it to be ingrained in my memory. Enough for me to associate it with him.

It was something he’d say every time he came back from one of his hunting trips. Sometimes in passing, a few days after his return. Sometimes it’d be one of the first things he said as soon as he came back, like he’d been thinking about it for the entire trip back home.

He’d tell me he was “doing God’s work.”

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Just an old man, controlling wildlife populations and enjoying time in nature. I thought that it was just a phrase attached to the serenity he found out in those woods.

At his funeral, it was one of the things I said about him. In my eulogy for him, I told the dozens of attendees that my grandfather was a hardworking man. A man that cared deeply about his family. A man that had lived a long life full of experiences.

A man that was doing God’s work.

The phrase has been bouncing around more and more in my mind these days. Ever since I made my discovery. The discovery that changed my perspective of my grandfather ever so slightly. Just enough for me to become suspicious of what he really meant when he said it.

In case you’re not up to speed with my situation, my grandfather died recently.

While other family members were fighting over who got what, my inheritance was clear. Almost painstakingly.

His hunting cabin was now mine, as well as everything inside, including… his guest book.

The book with a list of names and dates. Dates that went as far back as 1960. The book with one name in particular that sparked this spiral that I keep falling deeper and deeper into.

His name was “David Clifford.”

It was a name I’d never heard before. A name that stuck with me enough to look into it when I left the cabin for the first time. A name of a man who had gone missing nearly 50 years ago… 3 days before his name was signed in my grandfather’s guest book.

It was only one of dozens of names. That’s the part that made me return to the cabin. I needed to know more. I needed that guest book.

I tried to rationalize. Tried to tell myself it was a coincidence. That maybe, just maybe, this David wasn’t the one who had gone missing.

However, the more I searched, the more red flags began to emerge. He was from the same region. He was around my grandfather’s age back then. But the one detail that stuck out to me was the simple fact that David Clifford… wasn’t a hunter.

He actually wasn’t much of anything. A low life. A con-man. A raging drunk, remembered only by his crimes and capers.

Needless to say, I was ready to find more. I couldn’t sleep for two days after my initial return from the cabin. I didn’t know where to go, who I should tell, if anybody. All I knew was there was something waiting to be uncovered in that guest book.

I didn’t intend on staying. I made the two-hour journey back to the cabin with one goal in mind: retrieve the book.

So that’s what I did. I ignored the beauty. I ignored the temptation to stay. The temptation to rest after the long drive. I grabbed the book and returned home in silent anticipation.

I couldn’t stop staring at the book the entire way home. It looked new, but old. The leather was cracked, but the pages were new.

Hardly able to contain myself, I pulled into my driveway, guest book tucked tightly under my arm as I ascended the steps to my front door.

I locked myself in my room. I laid the book out on the desk in front of me. I stared at it for a few moments, pondering its contents. With a deep breath, I slowly opened the book.

I can’t say I didn’t expect what I found. Each name belonged to a person who mysteriously vanished. Each entry was dated a few days after their initial disappearance. And, for the most part… each person had a colorful history.

Notorious women and children abusers.

Drug-addicted youths.

…Murderers…

Each Google search solidified the belief that my grandfather was not at all who I thought he was…

However, there were some entries that made me realize he wasn’t a force for good, either.

“McKenzie Love. December 8th, 1997. Endurance runner. Challenging to keep up.”

Mrs. Love was a kindergarten teacher. A former college cross-country athlete. She mysteriously disappeared December 3rd of 1997 and has yet to be found.

“Marcus Lambert. March 6th, 2001. Numbers guy. Couldn’t navigate the land.”

Lambert went missing February 28th, 2001. He was an accountant for a local bank. He left behind a wife and two children who searched valiantly, ultimately to no avail.

The more I read, the sicker I became. There were so many names, I began to feel overwhelmed and dizzy. Instead of putting the book away or calling authorities, I continued flipping.

Page after page. Not even reading. Just completely enthralled by the sheer volume of names.

Eventually, I found myself on the last page.

And that’s when I found something I had neglected to notice during my first visit to my grandfather’s old hunting cabin.

A message written on the inside of the back cover. A message… directed at me.

“God’s work is never finished.”

My mother stormed into my room, wearing her faded housecoat, her hair thrown up into a messy bun. Her face was twisted with her usual sour expression."Marina! Get up right now!" she barked loudly. "You’re going to be late!"I opened my eyes, yawned, and sat up on the edge of the mattress. Through the drawn curtains, I could feel the biting winter chill creeping in. My small frame shivered from the frost outside."Mom... why so early?" I muttered sleepily, barely keeping my eyes open. "There’s still about an hour and a half before school...""Get up already!" she snapped back, her voice calmer but still heavy with reproach. "By the time you eat, get dressed, and pack your textbooks, it will be time. Plus, you still have to walk there.""I’m coming, I’m coming..." I grumbled.I got out of bed and began making it — tucking the hard pillow and the sheets under the thick down blanket. I walked down the corridor into the kitchen and made myself some tea, reusing the teabag from my father's cup. We lived in deep poverty. My father drank away every single kopek he made, and my mother didn't care; she didn't even bother looking for a job. I slowly drank my tea, quickly washed the cup, and returned to my room to get dressed. I put on my strict school uniform: a white, ironed shirt, a red blazer with a neat collar, and a matching red skirt, followed by tights and shoes.I started brushing my hair, thinking about how to style it, but then gave up."Ah, whatever..." I muttered. I grabbed my backpack and put on my jacket — the cheapest one we could afford, so worn out it wouldn’t even zip up properly.I left the apartment and walked down the stairs slowly. The truth was, I wasn't going to school at all. I was heading to meet an acquaintance.To get to the train station, I had to walk through the woods. It was dark, pitch black, and deeply unsettling. A crow cawed somewhere above. Walking along the narrow path, I had to step over frozen tree stumps, and then... the frozen corpse of a pigeon."Ugh, damn it... why can't anyone clean up this horror?" I spat out in disgust.When I finally reached the station, I realized I had no idea where to go next. I sank onto a wooden bench, burying my face in my hands.That was when a man sat down right next to me. He looked to be around fifty, wearing a dirty grey trench coat, a battered old hat, and thick, brown-rimmed glasses. His blue eyes looked exhausted, and he smelled strongly of dampness. He looked highly suspicious.Taking a heavy breath, he spoke in a deceptively calm, gentle voice:"The weather is just dreadful today... My dear, if you don't mind me asking, what brings you out here at such an early hour?""Me?.." I sighed heavily. "I’m going to meet an acquaintance, but... I don't know how to get to the bus stop. You know, the one that goes to the square.""Oh, sweetheart..." He sighed heavily, his voice dragging out the words. "That bus on the schedule? They canceled it last month, don't you know? You’ll freeze out here, God forbid. It’s a dangerous time nowadays... the streets are full of hoodlums.""What?! Canceled?.. How can that be..." Looking down at the asphalt, I spoke with sudden sadness. "I thought I’d meet him there. Okay, I guess I’ll just go to school then..."The man smiled — a warm, yet strangely persistent smile."Now, now... don't be sad. I know the way there. Just behind those poplars, an empty car drives by. My acquaintance, Misha, works there... He won't even ask for a kopek, he’ll give you a ride. Come along, daughter, come along..." The old man made an inviting gesture with his hand."Really?.. Oh, what luck, thank you so much! I’ll owe you one," I said with sudden joy, my youthful naivety taking over.We walked for about half an hour. Suddenly, deep in the thickest part of the forest, the man stopped dead in his tracks."Why did you stop? Let's go... or did you forget the way?" I asked, looking at him with curiosity.Deep inside the isolated woods, the distant hum of the train station had completely died out. The silence became heavy, suffocating. I instinctively began to take a few slow steps backward, backpedaling away from him.The man didn't answer at first. He turned around slowly, adjusting his glasses on his nose. The movement didn't look natural; it was mechanical, freezing. Without the light of the station lamps, I finally saw his eyes. They looked enormous, glassy, and completely unblinking."No, I didn't forget..." he rasped. His voice had turned hollow and monotonous, completely losing its previous warmth. "We are on the spot. We have arrived."He carefully lowered his battered briefcase onto the dirty, frozen earth right between the roots of an old oak tree."But... what about the car?!" I cried out, panic and terror piercing my chest. I kept backing away, my breathing shattering into shallow gasps. My legs began to shake, turning to lead, and my face went pale with absolute terror. "Where is your friend's car?!"The man merely exhaled, but it was a satisfied, sickening sound — as if he was savoring her terror, tasting her final minutes. Slowly, deliberately, he began to pull on a pair of rough, grey working gloves."There is no car, sweetheart," he whispered softly. A repulsive, twisted smirk began to crawl across his pale lips. "And there is no Misha... But now, no one will disturb us."I had no time left to process the sheer horror of it. Everything happened in a split second, shattering any illusion of a "weak old man."Chikatilo lunged forward with sudden, terrifying, animalistic speed. The very first thing I felt was the smell — a sickening stench of stale sweat, cheap tobacco, dampness, and the sour, chemical odor of heart medicine. The smell instantly flooded my nose, choking the air right out of my lungs, stripping away any ability to scream.His hand, clad in the rough grey glove, grabbed my shoulder with an iron grip. His fingers dug painfully into my cheap school jacket."Quiet... quiet, girl... don't," he began to hiss.Andrei’s voice was no longer monotonous; it had dissolved into a feverish, manic whisper. All expression left his face, freezing into a lifeless, terrifying mask. His glasses slipped sideways on his nose, but he didn't even notice. I tried to thrash, to tear myself away, but he pinned me down with the sheer weight of his six-foot frame. Completely losing my footing, I felt the world collapse around me as frozen branches snapped with a sharp crack and the winter snow crunched beneath our boots.

My grandfather lived a long life. For the last 10 years of his life, a lot of us actually started making bets about when he’d die. It may sound macabre to some of you, but to us, it was all just a big joke.

He’d laugh just like we did, even making a few bets himself to add to the fun. Ultimately, though, none of us cashed out.

He lived to be 100 years old. His mind stayed young all the way to the very end, but it was still pretty devastating to watch his body become frail and brittle.

For the most part, my family more celebrated his life than mourned it. I mean, it’s difficult to feel shocked when someone whose age is in the triple digits dies.

We still missed him, though, of course. His stories, his laugh, his presence altogether.

The thing that I missed the most, though, was hearing about his hunting trips.

It became almost like a tradition, going over to visit him after he got back from a week out in the woods. He’d always make me some sweet tea and cook us up some of his famous fried chicken, and we’d sit for hours while he rambled about his hunt.

It was like talking about it was one of the greatest joys in his life. His eyes would get warm. He’d speak softly once he started, but as he continued, his old voice would grow louder, more theatrical as he enunciated specific events.

“One of the bastards almost got away.”

“Hunted ’em down all week.”

“Finally caught ’em. Got some nice steaks out of it, too.”

Every visit after these trips, he’d send me out with bags of meat. Steaks, chops, hell, even some beef jerky if he had some handy.

It was like our thing. Of all his grandchildren, I was the only one who cared to listen. It came as no surprise to me when he left me that cabin.

He always told me he would. Told me I was the only one who’d care enough to use it. When I got told it was officially mine, I just honestly couldn’t wait to see the thing.

He kept it so private. It was like his private place. Somewhere he could go to escape the noise. And he wanted to pass that on to me. Needless to say, I couldn’t have been happier.

On the drive to the cabin, I felt a sense of warmth in my soul as suburbia turned into sprawling acres of trees and wildlife. It was about a two-hour drive, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to see it. And when I did, my mouth fell open.

It. Was. Gorgeous.

Stained oak wood, a beautiful handcrafted porch swing, and a flowerbed that expanded across the length of the porch.

The cabin overlooked the river, was surrounded by nothing but trees, and the serenity of it made me realize why it meant so much to my grandfather.

The first thing I did was cook up some of his famous fried chicken. I enjoyed it along with a glass of sweet tea as I took in the beauty of the interior.

The hardwood floors were completely scuff-free. There seemed to be a deer head hanging on every wall. The smell was of pine and mountain air, and my favorite part, by far, was the fireplace. Well, that, and the fact that the cabin itself was remarkably clean.

I honestly wish I could’ve sat by a fire and just reminisced on life or whatever, but in the mid-summer heat, a fire would’ve been insanity.

So I just sat there, eating my chicken by an empty fireplace while I thought about my grandpa.

As I ate, I couldn’t help but notice a book that sat on the mantle above the fireplace.

I cocked my head at it. The spine didn’t have anything embroidered on it, but when I picked it up, I could see that it was a guest book.

Grandpa never mentioned hunting with anybody when he came up here, so automatically I knew something was strange.

I opened the book and, to my surprise, nearly every page had been filled.

“Mark DeSantis. January 6th, 1973 - stubborn bastard.”

“Emily Reyes. December 18th, 1976 - quick but not quick enough.”

“David Clifford. February 9th, 1980 - nearly reached the river.”

Each name contained a date. I don’t know why I didn’t think anything of it. I was curious, sure, but not as terrified as I should’ve been.

Even still, I carried that curiosity back home with me. Back to civilization. And back to cellular service.

The name “David Clifford” stuck with me for some reason. I could’ve sworn I had seen it before.

I looked it up, not knowing what to expect. But what I read has made me think of my grandfather a bit differently.

Because, apparently…

David Clifford went missing in Appalachia more than 46 years ago.

February 6th, 1980.

I remember one story where the narrator was stalking a girl, he snuck into her apartment and was hiding while watching her before he finally killed her at the end. Any clue?